RELIGION THE Only Happiness. A POEM. In a Letter to a Friend. Quid prius dicam solitis parentis Laudibus, qui res hominum, & Deorum, Qui mare, & terras, variisque, mundum Temperate, Horis? — Horace Licenced February 23th. 1693-94. LONDON, Printed by J. R. for Thomas Speed, at the Three Crowns near the Royal Exchange in Cornhill, MDCXCIV. The PREFACE. THIS Poem, when it was written first, was far from being designed for the Press; and only sent me by my Friend as a Private Letter. But on the perusal of it, I found somewhat in it that affected me extremely; which made me (thinking it might be beneficial to the Public) persuade him to let me have it Printed. This I say, only to free the Author from the imputation of Vanity, which perhaps some would be too apt to lay on him, had he published it himself, at a time, when we have many Good Poets, and most men are (or at least think themselves) tolerable Judges. It may be easily objected against such a Poem in general, that it is of no use; seeing there has been, already, so many Excellent Treatises in Prose, upon the same Subject. But the Answer is as obvious, for there are many, who have not the Patience to read them over, yet nevertheless will be drawn to a thing of this Nature, under the Notion of Diverting themselves. But I needed not to say this in its Defence, having before me so Excellent an Example set by the Ingenious Author of a late Poem, Entitled, An Anatomy of Atheism. As to this Essay in particular (if I may be allowed to give my Thoughts of it) I take it to be as Poetical as the Subject will bear; and much more Solid than the Poetry of our Age (the more's the Pity) is generally found to be; and I am very much deceived, if the Reader doth not find in it, the two main Ends of Poetry, Diversion, and Information. I shall say no more to its Advantage, but submit it to the Public, wishing, that every one who reads it, may find as much Benefit by it as I did for my own particular. ADVERTISEMENT. IN the Press, and will be speedily Published a Book Entitled Conversation in Heaven, Part 2d. being Sacramental Devotions, consisting of Meditations, and Prayers, Preparatory to a Worthy Receiving of the Holy Communion; as also Meditations and Prayers suited to the several Parts both of Administering and Receiving it. By Laurence Smith, LLD. Author of the First Part. Printed for Thomas Speed. RELIGION THE Only Happiness. In a Letter to a Friend. ENough my Friend, of Love and all its Cares, False wand'ring hopes, and true perplexing fears. I'll leave the Barren Soil, and try to gain A happier Isle, far distant in the main: In which alone, though Storms around it beat, My wearied Soul can find a safe retreat. She's quite fatigued by her rough treatment here, And by your help a fairer course would steer. Religion now be her ambitious Aim, A worthy Object of her growing Flame, And which alone deserves the Love, I paid To a mistaken Goddess I myself had made. Tell me, by what strange power I was deceived? How the false Story was by me believed? That Happiness could flow from Earthly Love, And those weak Flames not kindled from above. Which when they should beyond the Clouds aspire, And in our Souls produce a Sacred Fire, Grow flat and languid with a meaner Joy, In Childish Trifles Noble Souls employ, Which ne'er can Satisfy, and often Cloy. Yet this I'll grant, no Crimes our Passions are, While bounded in our Souls by a due Care; And 'tis, at least a part of Happiness, When bounteous Heaven our just desires doth bless. But when th' Impetuous Torrent, bears away Our Anxious Souls into the Stormy Sea, And no fair Banks can tempt us to the Coast, But that one point from whence our Bark is tossed; If, whilst just heavens but one request deny, We crossly slight what ever else w' enjoy: Then sure 'tis Sin, and we're ingrateful Fools, Base to our God, and false to our own Souls. Religion shows a happier path (if we Not vainly slight our own Felicity) Than all the false Delights of Sin produce, Those treacherous pleasures which so oft abuse Our easy Senses, and thus steal their way Through those false Guards which our weak Souls betray. They never dare attack the Nobler part With open Force, but slily gain the Heart. For soon before our unbribed Reason, all Their baffled Arguments with ease would fall. Reason would teach us, 'tis not Happiness, To have a short-lived and uncertain Bliss: A Joy so mean, without Variety It want so much as bare Diversion be. And oh how short are all the Joys of Vice, For which we pay such a Prodigious Price? Our Souls Eternal Torments must endure, For those false Pleasures which our Sins procure. In a few hours the Gay Delusion's fled, By which poor Man is to Destruction led. Had we the brittle Thread of Destiny In our own hands, and could prolong our Day, To reach the Space which our Forefathers knew, Ere Luxury, and thence Diseases, grew: Nay could we spin it out to make it stretch To the last Limits Time itself shall reach: Come to its end it there must cease to be, Quite swallowed up in an Eternity. And what proportion has one grain of Sand, To the unnumbered Myriads on the Strand? Time's longest Date will not so much appear, If with Eternity you it compare. For Finites ne'er so much increased, will be But Finites still, and not Eternity. But how far short of this must we descend, If we to th' common rate of Life attend? Yet there has no Millennian State been tried, 'Tis rare one does a Century abide. How few, to what we call Old Age, arrive? How small a part of scanty time They live? Ask one, whose Crutches keep him from the Grave, If yet enough of Toilsome Life he have? If he'd resign th' Expiring Snuff unforced? Consent his parting Soul should be Divorced? Not yet, he cries, he hopes a while to live, That he may now his Misspent Time retrieve. He has not done his Work, and feign would stay; In all his Prayers he adds another Day. That Life is short which none can satisfy; And none (we find) are willing yet to die. (For that Poor Wretch who hasts Untimely Death, And who unasked throws back his hated Breath: 'Tis not that length of Life's a Burden Grown; Some mean Despair does urge him to be gone. He falsely says he's weary of his Life, He'll not quit that, if you'll remove his Grief.) And hence, my Friend, the Sinner must deduce Not a small part, unfit for his abuse. Childhood and Age he must of force resign, In one he knows not, t'other cannot sin. Childhood a Thousand soft Amusements has, Diverting Pleasures, Recreating Plays. With harmless Converse they their time beguile, Their Art's a moving Tear, and pleasing Smile; With these Endearments they their wishes gain; Whose Art is Innocence, need never sin. Soft are their Souls, and fitted to receive Any Impressions their Wise Tutors give. Here they're prepared for Virtue or for Vice, Which Rules can first their tender Souls possess. But till their Judgements with their Years are grown, And Good from Evil be distinctly known, They scarce are Subjects of a Law, which they Not know, or knowing, hardly could obey. Old Men have different Reasons to prevent Their sinning on, or sinning, their Content. Disease, and Pains, in various Shapes attend, Cough racks the Lungs, a Palsy shakes the Hand. Salt Watery Rheums do from their Eyes distil, And trickling down their Cheeks, the Furrows fill. Coldness contracts the Organs of the Ear, No longer they delightful Music hear. Their Smell and Taste are lost, their Feeling gone, And that they live, by their Complaints is known. The Stone and Colic on their Years attend, Memento's of their near approaching End. Yet these (preposterous Crime!) when Pleasing Vice Forsakes them, hug their Nauseous Avarice, And make their Bags the Idol of their Age, Worship their Gold, and so go off the Stage. Thus Youth and Manhood only, can enjoy Those Fatal Pleasures which their Souls destroy. Youth the Gay Spring of Pleasure and of Wit, The Senses lay their Tribute at her Feet. Th' Officious Mind too, seeks out other Charms, In Conversation, and in Arts, and Arms. But in our loser times, my friend, we see, Though Honour calls, yet from the Field they fly. And all their Study, and their boasted Arts, Are to betray unpractised Virgins Hearts. Their Conversations no less vicious grown; Female and Scandal are its chief Renown. Pleasure alone they make their Deity, Their Rules are Epicures Philosophy, And their dear Study is Variety. In Wine's and Woman's Orbs by turns they move, They first are Drunk, and then they practice Love. Wine the kind Comfort of our Grief and Cares, Allays our Sorrow, and dispels our Fears, And moderately used, it fills our Veins With generous Blood, and works to Manly Strams. But when abused, and taken to excess, It urges to the height of wickedness. Our Reason's lost, and we are hurried on To the last limits of Temptation. Women, 'tis true, at first were form fair, Gentle, and good (almost) as Angels are; And no mean part of that completed bliss, We mutually enjoyed in Paradise. But soon alas! she to destroy begun, Now every Woman is an Eve to Man. With gaudy Pleasures they our Paths do strew, And scatter tempting charms where ere we go. And we too freely yield ourselves to Vice, When charming Woman the sly Tempter is. But oh! how short, and fleeting are the joys, In which vain Youth his time and strength employs. How few the years; if on the whole we look! How great a part must from these few be took! 'tis no small part that Nature's self requires; Unless she's served our Pleasure quickly tires. And what's designed to give us happiness, Too long enjoyed affords us nothing less. The glutted sense is palled, and we despise, What now we sought with so much eagerness. Our Palates Vitiated, we refuse The Wine, which we so lately did abuse. And loathe the Woman was but now enjoyed, The sense is sated, th' appetite is cloyed: And we, at least must for a time abstain, If only to return to sin again. These intervals allowed, tho' we sin on, Till to a riper age and sense we're grown. Yet then, quite sated with joys of sense, A new degree of sinning we commence. Pride and Ambition now our Souls do sway, And sense that Ruled before, learns to obey. We grasp at Honour, with a sounding Fame, Vain Titles, and a celebrated Name. In Courts by bribes, and flattery, they raise Themselves to Dear bought Honour and Applause. Purchasing Grandeur, at the vast expense, Of Nobler Honesty, and Innocence. If higher Titles do a Blockhead grace, They'll cringe and bow before the Solemn Ass. Unasked his Panders, and his Pimps they'll be, Buffoons, or Jesters to his company. Nay more, if he'll befriend them to the King For a new place, or some fresh Honour bring; Their Wive's, or Sister's Modesty, shall be O base exchange! their lustful Patrons Fee. For that alone by them's accounted Vice, Which curbs Ambition, checks their growing Rise. Cit rolling in a lower Sphere, does move As he were influenced from those above. His Virtue, and his Soul, he prostitutes For sordid Gain, which ends all his disputes. And that of all Religions he will choose, Which crams his coffers, leaves his conscience Loose. He seeks all methods to be popular, Perhaps he gets the Scarlet gown, or Chair; But he'll strive hard, and hopes, at least, to gain Good-morrow Mr. Common-Council-Man. If at a shop the Sparks and Beaux appear, A handsome Wife shall sell her Husbands Ware. And these, beside the Ready gain is got, Will always for their civil C— old Vote. But oh! how vainly these poor Fools misspend Their Toilsome days, to gain a Vainer end; All that they Purchase at the mighty rate, Is but the empty Name of being Great. Great Fools indeed! whose Juster Infamy Shall last, when all their other Titles die. And all their Dear bought wealth, and envied Lands, Shall fall into some younger spend-thrift's hands. Who lavishly shall waste, what they to get, Run out their Souls in the Almighty's debt. And his profuseness spend on Wine, and Whores, What turned so many Widows out of Doors. His tears that at the funeral are shed; Are fumes of Wine that discompose his head, Wine, that was drank for joy the wretch is Dead. Thus in a small circumference, we see Sins Fatal pleasures brought to their Catastrophe. Their certain Shortness rende'rs them but mean, And their incertainty still much more Vain. Our Opportunity doth swiftly fly, And oft e'er that is gone, they glide away. Death often comes, and e'er the play is seen, With his dark curtain shuts the Gilded Scene. Hurrys away the Actors, ere they had done The pleasing parts, they ' expected as their own. And from Death's hand there's no security, The Young, and Old, do undistinguished Lie, The difference is, one May, tother Must die. Some but just entered on the Stage of life, Ere they to Manly age and strength arrive, (Whose innocence, we are apt to think, might save From that cold bed, the too impartial Grave.) Unheeding fall, and falling there they Lie, Making a part in this dire Tragedy. 'tis not Youths pleasant Gallantry, or Wit, Can save them sinking in the dreaded Pit. But in the midst of their most Luscious joys, Death slyly comes, and those, and them, destroys. Nor can the Manly force of riper age, Resist the power of Death's impetuous rage. But they too must submit, they too must yield, As Death's sad Trophies, in his sable field. All fall alike, no age, nor no degree, Is safe from Death's insulting Tyranny. Where then are all our charming Pleasures gone, When We ourselves are lost and quite Undone? The Sparkling Wines no more our Palates please, Beauty, and Love, create no tenderness. We unaffected with their Charms remain, And never must enjoy their sweets again. But tho' Death should not us of them deprive, Mifortunes may attend us while we live. God oft see's good, in his wise providence, Some severe strokes on Sinners to dispense. To leave the Will, and take the power away, Yet scourge that Will, which seeks to disobey. There's one is not to Wealth and Honour born, Another had them, but they're from him torn. And here's a third, whose want and miseries, Flow from th' excess of some Expensive Vice. Others are torture, d by some sad Disease, Perhaps th' effect of their own Wickedness. How many various seeming accidents, Destroy our Joys, occasion discontents? We find one Disappointment yield more grief, Than's recompensed by all the Joys of life, And yet, how many do they meet withal, Who follow Vice at her delusive call? Besides, that grand Mistake of Happiness, What e'er they find, this they are sure to Miss. How few are satisfied with their own store, And cease t' extend their prayers to Heaven for more? As few are with their State of Life content, They feign would change, when changed, again repent. The Soldier murmurs at his toil and pains, And often wishes for the Merchant's gains; Whilst he regrets a loss he has sustained, And wishes, ere it went, he ' had purchased Land. The Country Squire is angry, his Estate Should waste so soon, to make his Lawyer Fat. Whose busy head wishes retired ease. Thus nothing thats our own, our minds can please. Thus Sins Uncertain Short-lived pleasures waste, In the enjoyment, but the sting will last. Religion yields a Solid, Lasting Bliss, A perfectly completed Happiness. Calms all the ' wild disorders of the Soul, Our headstrong Passions Mildly doth control. Informs the Mind, and give's it Light to see Its own lost State, and wretched Misery. Takes off the fair disguise from ugly Vice, Exposing to the Soul its Nakedness. Corrects the Will, and teaches it to move By earnest Wishes, and an ardent Love, To those blessed object, which alone can claim The full expressions of its highest Flame. And whate'er Storms we meet with from without, All's still within, there's not an anxious doubt, No whispering fear, that should disturb our ease, But all within's Serenity and Peace. Great Pilot Virtue, will our Vessel guide A steady Course, along the Rolling Tide, Between the fatal Rocks of black Despair, And Dismal Sands of Doubt, will gently steer, Tho' Winds without a mighty Tempest raise, And Gloomy Clouds obscure the Darkened Skies; Tho' Death do on the foaming Billows ride, That beat our harrassed bark on ev'ry side; Tho' fatal Omens hover in the Air, And not a Spark of Heavenly Light appear; Yet we're secured, at last our Port to gain, Through all the Threatening Dangers of the Main. And though the Voyage troublesome appear, 'Tis better venturing out than staying here. Where all the profit that our labours gain, Is Disappointment here, and future Pain. The only Fruits the Barren Soil of Vice Does ere produce, are certain Miseries. But in the Storm, our Souls are sure to find The blessed Content of a Religious Mind. That Virtue only makes us happy here, Is proved by giving the Souls Character. An Immaterial and Immortal Frame, A Noble Spark of the Eternal Flame. An uncompounded Essence, all Divine, All Bright, and Fair, till it was stained by Sin. And though its Primitive Beauty now is gone, And all its Glories, faded, pale, and wan; Tho' the Bright Image of our God's erased, And all its Moral Holiness defaced; Yet 'tis preserved by the almighty's hand, And will for ever be by him sustained. Judgement, the Souls bright Eye, receives, what ere The several Senses to the Mind confer, From those Ideas, various Reasons draws, Which, formed to Propositions, are its Laws. These, by an unknown power, sway the Will, Intending Good, but oft mistaking iii. (That is alas! one sad effect of Sin, To cloud the Soul, and leave a night within; Whence by the sad mistake of Objects, we Blind Homage pay to a false Deity. Hence our unbounded Vicious passions flow, Here our Misfortunes (their effects) we owe.) Our various Passions always are inclined, As different Objects press upon the Mind. To apprehended Good, the Will is Love, To Ill, it does our Violent Hatred move. As these are Past, or Present, or to Come, We in our Breasts give other Passions room. (Or else, perhaps the Passion is the same, Only distinguished by a different Name) They're Joy, or Grief, to present Good, or Ill, And if to come, them Hope, or Fear we style. When mixed, Doubt does our Harrassed Souls torment, And Jealousy provokes to Discontent. Pleasure from things agreeable does flow, We call it Happiness when lasting too. 'Tis but th' imperfect Shadow of a Bliss That fades, or cloys, such are the Fruits of Vice, Which under specious Names the sense amuse; But the design is only to abuse. Base Avarice, Good-Husbandry we style, The Prodigal, a Generous Soul doth fill. The Lustful satire a kind Lover is; The ugly Name of Whore's softened to Miss; The Brutish Drunkards, Bon Companions are; The Scoffing Atheist, Witty Debonair. Thus Vice by Skulking in the fair Disguise Of Virtue, does her greater worth confess. Virtue the Solid Beauty of the Mind! Whence we alone true satisfaction find. Virtue does Nobler Pleasures for us choose, Does greater thoughts into our Souls infuse. A God's proposed the Object of our Love, To whom our strongest Passions ought to move; Whose Goodness equals his Omnipotence, Whose Attributes, and Essence, are immense. And who alone our craving Souls supplies, With the full streams of perfect Happiness; Ne'er ceasing Streams, whose endless Flux, shall vie With the duration of Eternity. O what are all the Joys of Vice, that they Should our weak Souls to Misery betray? When Virtue stands with all her brighter Charms, And Woos us to be Happy in her Arms. Without Disguise she does herself Display, All soft and Charming, Beautiful and Gay. No anxious Cares are lodged within her Breast, No Doubts or Fears disturb her Sacred rest, And all that love her are completely blest. A Virtuous Mind slights all the Baits of Sense, Denies them their precarious influence, Repels the fond assaults of Baffled Vice, Doth both her Charms and Menaces Despise, Neither Deluded by her proffered Joy, Nor Frighted, though she threaten to Destroy. Not all the Racking Tortures, Men or Hell Could e'er invent, or make poor Wretches feel, Can once make Virtue be by him refused, Who once resolv'dly had her Cause espoused. She has the Art in Torments to support, And make pale Death and griping Pain our Sport. Can unseen Cordials to the mind present, When the excessive Torture makes her faint. How many have for their Religion Died? How many more are ready still to bleed? The first that ever trod the paths of Death, In virtue's Service lost his Well-spent breath Since, ev'ry Age, and Clime, has been supplied With noble Souls, that for her sake have Died: Not always single to destruction led, Thousands together by the Great have bled, Those, killed with ease, and kindly knocked o'th' head. (The Tender Mercies of this Impious World We feel, when Gently into tother hurled) Others have a severer Fortune found, Been first Abused, and Mocked, and Scourged, and Bound, And then have all the various Torments tried, Which Rage could find, by Cruel Wit supplied. 'Twould chill my Blood with Horror, should I tell By what strange Deaths the Primitive Christians fell: Or the Mad D' Alva's Hellish Cruelties, Or Paris' more fresh Barbarities. Hibernia's yet more Perfect Wickedness, Or the Wild Fury of our Mary's Days. And all this wretched Inhumanity, These horrid Scenes of Barbarous Cruelty, Were levelled only against Piety. Their Consecrated Poisons reach the Throne, And their mean rage will pull a Cottage down. Their Brutish Malice is not to be stayed, By all the softness of a tender Maid. Her Prayers, and Vows, and Tears, are all in Vain, Her Honour, and her Blood, the Altars slain. No Pity Infants softer Smiles can move, (All Passion's banished that's allied to Love.) They're ravished from their Dying Mother's Breast, And headlong hurled into Eternal rest. Old Age, by a Malicious Compliment, In mere Good will to t'other World is sent. All these (my Friend) these wretched Miseries, Flow from the enmity of Cursed Vice. And yet Religious Votaries do choose; Themselves in all these Dangers to expose, (Supported by assistances within) Before the Shame Delights of Tempting Sin. They know there is a near, approaching hour When God shall come to judge the World with Power In flaming Wrath His Vengeance to repay, On all who did not his Just Laws obey. Then shall their Cause at his great Bar be heard, And to the World their Innocence be cleared. And those poor Wretches who condemned them here, Shall have a much more dreadful Sentence there. Eternal Torments shall they're Portion be, And never ending, Perfect, Misery. Whilst those blessed Souls, shall mount to Happiness, Beyond what Heart can think, or tongue express. Freed from their Pains and Grief, their Cares and Fears, Their Hearts no Sorrows know, their Eyes no Tears. But an Eternal Joy their Heads shall Crown, Where no disturbing Thoughts, no Doubts are known. No hovering Clouds obscure the Immortal Bliss, No Sullied Minute stains their Happiness. But ah my Dazzled Muse is rise too high, She Flags, and flutters in the bordering Sky. And yet would feign a little longer stay, To view the brightness of the Eternal Day. She feign would bring you some Descriptions down, And make those blessed Abodes a little known. But all her Notions so confused are, She knows not to begin, or how, or where. But pardon my Defects, and as I can, I'll try to meet the Heavens with my Span. In those Eternal Fields of Sacred Light, Always Serene and Calm, all Fair and Bright, Watered by Rivers of Immortal Bliss, On whose Fair Banks dwells Everlasting Peace. What ever Happiness a God can give, What ever Joy our Souls can Then receive, (Such Joys, as the Eternal Son of God, Could purchase for us with his Sacred Blood) Shall all be ours. There we (my Friend) shall see The Glory of th' Almighty Majesty, Not by faint Glimpses as he Here is known But by a steady View o'th' Holy One. Here what we learn we argue from below What from his Works and Holy Word we know; But there (my Dear) from what in God we see, His Goodness, Wisdom, and his Purity. What e'er we knew of his great Works, while Here, In a far greater Lustre will appear. And those dark Methods, we could scarce discern The Reason of, we there shall fully Learn; How Just! how Righteous all his dealings are! That not his Wisdom, but our Reasons err. Our Glorified Redeemer we shall see, There crowned with Honour, and with Majesty. He, that to save our Souls from endless Woe, So many Miseries did undergo; And in our Natures paid the Mighty Price, Which set us free, and bought Eternal Bliss; Now seated on his Mediatorial Throne, From thence on us dispensing Blessing's down; Shall to his then most Perfect Body be United Head, to all Eternity. There you and I (my Friend) again shall meet, And with more perfect Love each other greet. Both shall contribute to that happy Rest, And to the Joyful Number of the Blessed. For there (my Dear) each Saint shall be a Friend, And all Perfections shall our Love attend. And by the Power of Friendship in our heart, His Blessedness each shall to th' whole impart. And all the numerous Blessings of the whole, Shall be contracted in each single Soul. The Happy Angels who for us have done So much while Here, shall There by us be known; Where we shall join, and help them Celebrate, Their Praises to the Infinitely Great. And all these boundless Joys possessed shall be, Through the vast Circle of Eternity. Though Rolling Ages follow Ages on, And distant Years succeeding those are gone, Our Joys shall ever last, be fresh, and but begun. FINIS. Books Printed for, and Sold by Thomas Speed, at the Three Crowns near the Royal Exchange in Cornhill, 1694. THirty Six Sermons, viz. 16 Ad Aulam. 6 Ad Clerum. 6 Ad Magistratum. 8 Ad Populum. With a large Preface. By the Right Reverend Father in God, Robert Sanderson, late Lord Bishop of Lincoln: The Eighth Edition, corrected and amended. Whereunto is now added the Life of the Reverend and Learned Author. Written by Isaac Walton Folio. Price 15 s. Conversation in Heaven: Part the First, Being Devotions; consisting of Meditations and Prayers, on several considerable Subjects in Practical Divinity. Written for the Raising the Decayed Spirit of Piety. By Laurence Smith, LL. D. Fellow of St. John's College in Oxford, 12mo. Price Two Shillings. A Sermon at the Funeral of the Reverend Mr. Thomas Grey, late Vicar of Dedham in Essex; preached in the Parish-Church of, Dedham, Feb. 2. 1691-92. With a short Account of his Life. By Joseph powel. A. M. Rector of St. Mary on the Wall, in Colchester. Price 6 d. An Anatomy of Atheism: A Poem by a Person of Quality. 4to. Price Six pence. Religion the only Happiness, a Poem, in a Letter to a Friend, 4to. price Six pence. The Loyal and Impartial Satirist, containing Eight Miscellany Poems: 4to. price Six pence. Lusus Amatorius: Sive Musaei Poema de Herone & Leandro, E Graec â in Latinam Linguam Translatum. Cui Aliae (tres scilicet) accedunt Nugae Poeticae. Authore C. B. è Coll. Di. Jo. Bapt. 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