The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. ::

The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D.

Containing, besides his Sermons, and Essays on miscellaneous subjects, several additional pieces, Selected from his Manuscripts by the Rev. Dr. Jennings, and the Rev. Dr. Doddridge, in 1753: to which are prefixed, memoirs of the life of the author, compiled by the Rev. George Burder. In six volumes

Watts, Isaac (1674-1748)

IV.

VOL. IV.

HORÆ LYRICÆ.

ON READING DR. WATTS'S POEMS SACRED TO PIETY AND DEVOTION.

TO DR. WATTS, On his Poems sacred to Devotion.

TO DR. WATTS, On reading his Horæ Lyricæ.

TO DR. WATTS, On his Divine Poems.

TO DR. WATTS, On the Fifth Edition of his Horæ Lyricæ.

BOOK I. SACRED TO DEVOTION AND PIETY.

II.

BOOK II. SACRED TO VIRTUE, HONOUR AND FRIENDSHIP.

TO HER MAJESTY.

PALINODIA.

TO JOHN LOCKE, ESQ.

TO JOHN SHUTE, ESQ. (NOW LORD BARRINGTON.)

TO MR. WILLIAM NOKES.

TO NATHANIEL GOULD, ESQ. (NOW SIR NATHANIEL GOULD.)

TO DR. THOMAS GIBSON.

False Greatness.

TO SARISSA.

TO MR. T. BRADBURY.

Strict Religion very rare.

TO MR. C. AND S. FLEETWOOD.

TO WILLIAM BLACKBOURN, ESQ.

True Monarchy.

True Courage.

TO THE MUCH HONOURED MR. THOMAS ROWE, THE DIRECTOR OF MY YOUTHFUL STUDIES.

TO THE REV. MR. BENONI ROWE.

TO THE REV. MR. JOHN HOWE.

The Disappointment and Relief.

The Hero's School of Morality.

Freedom.

On Mr. Locke's Annotations upon several Parts of the New Testament, left behind him at his Death.

True Riches.

The Adventurous Muse.

TO MR. NICHOLAS CLARK.

The Afflictions of a Friend.

The Reverse; or, the Comforts of a Friend.

TO THE RIGHT HON. JOHN LORD CUTS, At the Siege of Namur.

Burning several Poems of Ovid, Martial, Oldham, Dryden, &c.

TO MRS. B. BENDISH.

Few Happy Matches.

TO DAVID POLHILL, ESQ.

The celebrated Victory of the Poles over Osman, the Turkish Emperor, in the Dacian Battle.

The Indian Philosopher.

The happy Man.

TO DAVID POLHILL, ESQ.

To the Discontented and Unquiet.

TO JOHN HARTOPP, ESQ. (NOW SIR JOHN HARTOPP, BART.)

TO THOMAS GUNSTON, ESQ.

TO JOHN HARTOPP, ESQ. (NOW SIR JOHN HARTOPP, BART.)

TO MITIO, MY FRIEND.

ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, Just after Mr. Dryden. 1700.

AN EPIGRAM OF MARTIAL TO CIRINUS.

TO MRS. SINGER. (NOW MRS. ROWE.)

III.

BOOK III. SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

RELIQUIÆ JUVENILES.

REMNANTS OF TIME EMPLOYED, IN PROSE AND VERSE;

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TO MR. C. AND S. FLEETWOOD.

I.

Fleetwoods, young generous pair,
Despise the joys that fools pursue;
Bubbles are light and brittle too,
Born of the water and the air.
Try'd by a standard bold and just
Honour and gold and paint and dust;
How vile the last is and as vain the first?
Things that the crowd call great and brave,
With me how low their value's brought?
Titles and names, and life and breath,
Slaves to the wind and born for death;
The soul's the only thing we have
Worth an important thought.

II.

The soul! 'tis of th'immortal kind,
Nor form'd of fire, or earth, or wind,
Outlives the mouldring corpse, and leaves the globe behind.
In limbs of clay tho' she appears,
Array'd in rosy skin, and deck'd with ears and eyes,
The flesh is but the soul's disguise,
There's nothing in her frame 'kin to the dress she wears:
From all the laws of matter free,
From all we feel, and all we see,
She stands eternally distinct, and must for ever be.

III.

Rise then, my thoughts, on high,
Soar beyond all that's made to die;
Lo! on an awful throne
Sits the Creator and the Judge of souls,
Whirling the planets round the poles,
Winds off our threads of life, and brings our periods on.
Swift the approach, and solemn is the day,
When this immortal mind
Stript of the body's coarse array
To endless pain, or endless joy
Must be at once consign'd.

IV.

Think of the sands run down to waste,
We possess none of all the past,
None but the present is our own;
Grace is not plac'd within our pow'r,
'Tis but one short, one shining hour,
Bright and declining as a setting sun,
See the white minutes wing'd with haste;
The now that flies may be the last;
Seize the salvation ere 'tis past,
Nor mourn the blessing gone:

465

A thought's delay is ruin here,
A closing eye, a gasping breath
Shuts up the golden scene in death,
And drowns you in despair.

University of Virginia Library

TO MR. C. AND S. FLEETWOOD.

I.

II.

III.

IV.