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.

III.

BOOK III. SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

RELIQUIÆ JUVENILES.

REMNANTS OF TIME EMPLOYED, IN PROSE AND VERSE;

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418

HORÆ LYRICÆ.

POEMS, CHIEFLY OF THE LYRIC KIND; IN THREE BOOKS: SACRED TO DEVOTION AND PIETY—TO VIRTUE, HONOUR AND FRIENDSHIP— TO THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

------ Si non Uranie Lyram
Cœlestem cohibet, nec Polyhymnia
Humanum refugit tendere Barbiton.
Hor. Od. I. imitated.

Αθανατον μεν πρωτα Θεον, νομω ως διακειραι,
Τιμα, (και σεβου αυτον) επειθ' Ηρωας αγαυους,
Τους τε Καταχθονιους.
Pythag. Aur. Carm.

419

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

‘Regard the man, who, in seraphic lays,
‘And flowing numbers, sings his Maker's praise:
‘He needs invoke no fabled muse's art,
‘The heav'nly song comes genuine from his heart,
‘From that pure heart, which God has deign'd t'inspire
‘With holy raptures, and a sacred fire.
‘Thrice happy man! whose soul, and guiltless breast,
‘Are well prepar'd to lodge th'almighty guest!
‘'Tis he that lends thy tow'ring thoughts their wing,
‘And tunes thy lyre, when thou attempt'st to sing:
‘He to thy soul lets in celestial day,
‘Ev'n whilst imprison'd in this mortal clay.
‘By death's grim aspect thou art not alarm'd,
‘He, for thy sake, has death itself disarm'd;
‘Nor shall the grave o'er thee a vict'ry boast;
‘Her triumph in thy rising shall be lost,
‘When thou shalt join th'angelic choirs above,
‘In never-ending songs of praise and love.’

EUSEBIA.

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

I

‘To murmuring streams, in tender strains,
‘My pensive muse no more
‘Of love's enchanting force complains,
‘Along the flow'ry shore.

II

‘No more Mirtillo's fatal face
‘My quiet breast alarms;
‘His eyes, his air, and youthful grace,
‘Have lost their usual charms.

III

‘No gay Alexis in the grove
‘Shall be my future theme:
‘I burn with an immortal love,
‘And sing a purer flame.

IV

‘Seraphic heights I seem to gain,
‘And sacred transports feel,
‘While, WATTS, to thy celestial strain,
‘Surpris'd I listen still.

V

‘The gliding streams their course forbear,
‘When I thy lays repeat;
‘The bending forest lends an ear;
‘The birds their notes forget.

VI

‘With such a graceful harmony
‘Thy numbers still prolong;
‘And let remotest lands reply,
‘And echo to thy song;

VII

‘Far as the distant regions, where
‘The beauteous morning springs,
‘And scatters odours through the air,
‘From her resplendent wings;

VIII

‘Unto the new-found realms, which see
‘The latter sun arise,
‘When, with an easy progress, he
‘Rolls down the nether skies.’

PHILOMELA.

July, 1706.

TO DR. WATTS, On reading his Horæ Lyricæ.

‘Hail, heav'n-born muse! that with celestial flame,
‘And high seraphic numbers, durst attempt
‘To gain thy native skies. No common theme
‘Merits thy thought, self-conscious of a soul
‘Superior, though on earth detain'd a while;
‘Like some propitious angel that's design'd
‘A resident in this inferior orb,
‘To guide the wand'ring souls to heavenly bliss.

420

‘Thou seem'st; while thou their everlasting songs
‘Hast sung to mortal ears, and down to earth
‘Transfer'd the work of heaven; with thought sublime,
‘And high sonorous words, thou sweetly sing'st
‘To thy immortal lyre. Amaz'd, we view
‘The tow'ring height stupendous, while thou soar'st
‘Above the reach of vulgar eyes or thought,
‘Hymning th'eternal Father; as of old
‘When first th'Almighty from the dark abyss
‘Of everlasting night and silence call'd
‘The shining worlds with one creating word,
‘And rais'd from nothing all the heavenly hosts,
‘And with external glories fill'd the void,
‘Harmonious seraphs tun'd their golden harps,
‘And with their cheerful Hallelujahs bless'd
‘The bounteous Author of their happiness;
‘From orb to orb th'alternate music rang,
‘And from the chrystal arches of the sky
‘Reach'd our then glorious world, the native seat
‘Of the first happy pair, who join'd their songs
‘To the loud echoes of th'angelic choirs,
‘And fill'd with blissful hymns, terrestrial heaven,
‘The paradise of God where all delights
‘Abounded, and the pure ambrosial air,
‘Fann'd by mild zephyrs, breath'd eternal sweets,
‘Forbidding death and sorrow, and bestow'd
‘Fresh heavenly bloom, and gay immortal youth.

‘Not so, alas! the vile apostate race,
‘Who in mad joys their brutal hours employ'd,
‘Assaulting with their impious blasphemies
‘The power supreme that gave 'em life and breath;
‘Incarnate fiends! outrageous they defy'd
‘Th'eternal thunder, and almighty wrath
‘Fearless provok'd, which all the other devils
‘Would dread to meet; remembering well the day
‘When driven from pure immortal seats above,
‘A fiery tempest hurl'd 'em down the skies,
‘And hung upon the rear, urging their fall
‘To the dark, deep, unfathomable gulph,
‘Where bound on sulph'rous lakes to glowing rocks
‘With adamantine chains, they wail their woes,
‘And know Jehovah great as well as good;
‘And fix'd for ever by eternal fate,
‘With horror find his arm omnipotent.

‘Prodigious madness! that the sacred muse,
‘First taught in heaven to mount immortal heights,
‘And trace the boundless glories of the sky,
‘Should now to ev'ry idol basely bow,
‘And curse the deity she once ador'd,
‘Erecting trophies to each sordid vice,
‘And celebrating the infernal praise
‘Of haughty Lucifer, the desperate foe
‘Of God and man, and winning every hour
‘New votaries to hell, while all the fiends
‘Hear these accursed lays, and thus outdone,
‘Raging they try to match the human race,
‘Redoubling all their hellish blasphemies,
‘And with loud curses rend the gloomy vault.

‘Ungrateful mortals! ah! too late you'll find
‘What 'tis to banter heav'n and laugh at hell;
‘To dress up vice in false delusive charms,
‘And with gay colours paint her hideous face,
‘Leading besotted souls thro' flow'ry paths,
‘In gaudy dreams, and vain fantastic joys,
‘To dismal scenes of everlasting woe;
‘When the great Judge shall rear his awful throne,
‘And raging flames surround the trembling globe,
‘While the loud thunders roar from pole to pole,
‘And the last trump awakes the sleeping dead;
‘And guilty souls to ghastly bodies driven,
‘Within those dire eternal prisons shut,
‘Expect their sad inexorable doom.
‘Say now, ye men of wit! What turn of thought
‘Will please you then! Alas, how dull and poor,
‘Ev'n to yourselves will your lewd flights appear!
‘How will you envy then the happy fate
‘Of idiots! and perhaps in vain you'll wish,
‘You'd been as very fools as once you thought
‘Others, for the sublimest wisdom scorn'd;
‘When pointed lightnings from the wrathful Judge
‘Shall singe your laurels, and the men
‘Who thought they flew so high, shall fall so low.

‘No more, my muse, of that tremendous thought,
‘Resume thy more delightful theme, and sing
‘Th'immortal man, that with immortal verse
‘Rivals the hymns of angels, and like them
‘Despises mortal critics idle rules:
‘While the celestial flame that warms thy soul
‘Inspires us, and with holy transports moves
‘Our labouring minds, and nobler scenes presents
‘Than all the pagan poets ever sung.
‘Homer or Virgil; and far sweeter notes
‘Than Horace ever taught his sounding lyre,
‘And purer far, tho' Martial's self might seem
‘A modest poet in our christian days.
‘May those forgotten and neglected lie,
‘No more let man be fond of fab'lous gods,
‘Nor heathen wit debauch one christian line,
‘While with the coarse and daubing paint we hide
‘The shining beauties of eternal truth,
‘That in her native dress appears most bright,
‘And charms the eyes of angels,—Oh! like thee
‘Let every nobler genius tune his voice
‘To subjects worthy of their tow'ring thoughts

421

‘Let HEAVEN and Anna then your tuneful art
‘Improve, and consecrate your deathless lays
‘To him who reigns above, and her who rules below.’

JOSEPH STANDEN.

April 17, 1706.

TO DR. WATTS, On his Divine Poems.

‘Say, human seraph, whence that charming force,
‘That flame! that soul! which animates each line;
‘And how it runs with such a graceful ease,
‘Loaded with pond'rous sense! Say, did not he
‘The lovely Jesus, who commands thy breast,
‘Inspire thee with himself? With Jesus dwells,
‘Knit in mysterious bands, the paraclete,
‘The breath of God, the everlasting source
‘Of love: And what is love in souls like thine,
‘But air, and incense to the poet's fire?
‘Should an expiring saint whose swimming eyes
‘Mingle the images of things about him,
‘But hear the least exalted of thy strains,
‘How greedily he'd drink the music in,
‘Thinking his heavenly convoy waited near!
‘So great a stress of powerful harmony,
‘Nature unable longer to sustain,
‘Would sink oppress'd with joy to endless rest.

‘Let none henceforth of Providence complain,
‘As if the world of spirits lay unknown,
‘Fenc'd round with black impenetrable night;
‘What tho' no shining angel darts from thence
‘With leave to publish things conceal'd from sense,
‘In language bright as theirs, we are here told,
‘When life its narrow round of years hath roll'd,
‘What 'tis employs the bless'd, what makes their bliss;
‘Songs such as WATTS's are, and love like his.

‘But then, dear Sir, be cautious how you use,
‘To transports so intensely rais'd your muse,
‘Lest, whilst th'ecstatic impulse you obey,
‘The soul leap out, and drop the duller clay.’

HENRY GROVE.

Sept. 4, 1706.

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

‘Sovereign of sacred verse, accept the lays
‘Of a young bard that dares attempt thy praise,
‘A muse, the meanest of the vocal throng,
‘New to the bays, nor equal to the song,
‘Fir'd with the growing glories of thy fame
‘Joins all her powers to celebrate thy name.

‘No vulgar themes thy pious muse engage,
‘No scenes of lust pollute thy sacred page.
‘You in majestic numbers mount the skies,
‘And meet descending angels as you rise,
‘Whose just applauses charm the crowded groves,
‘And Addison thy tuneful song approves.
‘Soft harmony and manly vigour join
‘To form the beauties of each sprightly line,
‘For every grace of every muse is thine.
‘Milton, immortal bard, divinely bright,
‘Conducts his fav'rite to the realms of light;
‘Where Raphael's lyre charms the celestial throng,
‘Delighted cherubs list'ning to the song:
‘From bliss to bliss the happy beings rove,
‘And taste the sweets of music and of love.
‘But when the softer scenes of life you paint,
‘And join the beauteous virgin to the saint,
‘When you describe how few the happy pairs,
‘Whose hearts united soften all their cares,
‘We see to whom the sweetest joys belong,
‘And Mira's beauties consecrate your song.
‘Fain the unnumber'd graces I would tell,
‘And on the pleasing theme for ever dwell;
‘But the muse faints, unequal to the flight,
‘And hears thy strains with wonder and delight.
‘When tombs of princes shall in ruins lie,
‘And all, but heaven-born piety, shall die,
‘When the last trumpet wakes the silent dead,
‘And each lascivious poet hides his head,
‘With thee shall thy divine Urania rise,
‘Crown'd with fresh laurels, to thy native skies:
‘Great How and Gouge shall hail thee on thy way,
‘And welcome thee to the bright realms of day,
‘Adapt thy tuneful notes to heavenly strings,
‘And join the Lyric Ode while some fair seraph sings.’

Sic spirat, sic optat Tui amantissimus, BRITANNICUS.

422

BOOK I. SACRED TO DEVOTION AND PIETY.

Worshipping with Fear.

I

Who dares attempt th'eternal name
With notes of mortal sound?
Dangers and glories guard the theme,
And spread despair around.

II

Destruction waits t'obey his frown,
And heav'n attends his smile:
A wreath of lightning arms his crown,
But love adorns it still.

III

Celestial King, our spirits lie,
Trembling beneath thy feet,
And wish, and cast a longing eye,
To reach thy lofty seat.

IV

When shall we see the great Unknown,
And in thy presence stand?
Reveal the splendors of thy throne,
But shield us with thy hand.

V

In thee what endless wonders meet!
What various glory shines!
The crossing rays too fiercely beat
Upon our fainting minds.

VI

Angels are lost in sweet surprise
If thou unveil thy grace;
And humble awe runs thro' the skies,
When wrath arrays thy face.

VII

When mercy joins with majesty
To spread their beams abroad,
Not all their fairest minds on high
Are shadows of a God.

VIII

Thy works the strongest seraph sings
In a too feeble strain,
And labours hard on all his strings
To reach thy thoughts in vain.

IX

Created powers, how weak they be!
How short our praises fall!
So much a-kin to nothing we,
And thou th'eternal All.

Asking Leave to Sing.

I

Yet, mighty God, indulge my tongue,
Nor let thy thunders roar,
Whilst the young notes and vent'rous song
To worlds of glory soar.

II

If thou my darling flight forbid
The muse folds up her wings;
Or at thy word her slender reed
Attempts almighty things.

III

Her slender reed inspir'd by thee
Bids a new Eden grow,
With blooming life on every tree,
And spreads a heav'n below.

IV

She mocks the trumpet's loud alarms
Fill'd with thy dreadful breath;
And calls th'angelic hosts to arms,
To give the nations death.

V

But when she tastes her Saviour's love,
And feels the rapture strong,
Scarce the divinest harp above
Aims at a sweeter song.

424

Divine Judgments.

I.

Not from the dust my sorrows spring,
Nor drop my comforts from the lower skies:
Let all the baneful planets shed
Their mingled curses on my head,
How vain their curses, if th'eternal King
Look thro' the clouds and bless me with his eyes.
Creatures with all their boasted sway
Are but his slaves, and must obey;
They wait their orders from above,
And execute his word, the vengeance, or the love.

II.

'Tis by a warrant from his hand
The gentler gales are bound to sleep:
The north wind blusters, and assumes command
Over the desart and the deep;
Old Boreas with his freezing pow'rs
Turns the earth iron, makes the ocean glass,
Arrests the dancing riv'lets as they pass,
And chains them moveless to their shores;
The grazing ox lows to the gelid skies,
Walks o'er the marble meads with withering eyes,
Walks o'er the solid lakes, snuffs up the wind, and dies.

III.

Fly to the polar world, my song,
And mourn the pilgrims there, (a wretched throng!)
Seiz'd and bound in rigid chains,
A troop of statues on the Russian plains,
And life stands frozen in the purple veins.
Atheist, forbear; no more blaspheme:
God has a thousand terrors in his name,
A thousand armies at command,
Waiting the signal of his hand,
And magazines of frost, and magazines of flame.
Dress thee in steel to meet his wrath;
His sharp artillery from the north
Shall pierce thee to the soul, and shake thy mortal frame.
Sublime on winter's rugged wings
He rides in arms along the sky,
And scatters fate on swains and kings;
And flocks and herds, and nations die;
While impious lips, profanely bold,
Grow pale; and, quivering at his dreadful cold,
Give their own blasphemies the lie.

IV.

The mischiefs that infest the earth,
When the hot dog-star fires the realms on high,
Drought and disease, and cruel dearth,
Are but the flashes of a wrathful eye
From the incens'd divinity.
In vain our parching palates thirst,
For vital food in vain we cry,
And pant for vital breath;
The verdant fields are burnt to dust,
The sun has drunk the channels dry,
And all the air is death.
Ye scourges of our Maker's rod,
'Tis at his dread command, at his imperial nod
You deal your various plagues abroad.

V.

Hail, whirlwinds, hurricanes and floods
That all the leafy standards strip,
And bear down with a mighty sweep
The riches of the fields, and honours of the wood;
Storms, that ravage o'er the deep,
And bury millions in the waves;
Earthquakes, that in midnight-sleep
Turn cities into heaps, and make our beds our graves?
While you dispense your mortal harms,
'Tis the Creator's voice that sounds your loud alarms,
When guilt with louder cries provokes a God to arms.

VI.

O for a message from above
To bear my spirits up!
Some pledge of my Creator's love
To calm my terrors, and support my hope!
Let waves and thunders mix and roar,
Be thou my God, and the whole world is mine:
While thou art sov'reign, I'm secure;
I shall be rich till thou art poor;
For all I fear, and all I wish, heav'n, earth and hell are thine.

Earth and Heaven.

I.

Hast thou not seen, impatient boy?
Hast thou not read the solemn truth,
That gray experience writes for giddy youth
On every mortal joy?
‘Pleasure must be dash'd with pain:’
And yet with heedless haste,
The thirsty boy repeats the taste,
Nor hearkens to despair, but tries the bowl again,
The rills of pleasure never run sincere;
(Earth has no unpolluted spring)
From the curs'd soil some dang'rous taint they bear;
So roses grow on thorns, and honey wears a sting.

II.

In vain we seek a heaven below the sky;
The world has false, but flatt'ring charms;
Its distant joys shew big in our esteem,
But lessen still as they draw near the eye;
In our embrace the visions die,
And when we grasp the airy forms
We lose the pleasing dream.

425

III.

Earth, with her scenes of gay delight,
Is but a landscape rudely drawn,
With glaring colours and false light;
Distance commends it to the sight,
For fools to gaze upon;
But bring the nauseous daubing nigh,
Coarse and confus'd the hideous figures lie,
Dissolve the pleasure, and offend the eye.

IV.

Look up, my soul, pant tow'rd th'eternal hills;
Those heav'ns are fairer than they seem;
There pleasures all sincere glide on in crystal rills,
There not a dreg of guilt defiles,
Nor grief disturbs the stream.
That Canaan knows no noxious thing,
No cursed soil, no tainted spring,
Nor roses grow on thorns, nor honey wears a sting.

Felicity Above.

I

No, 'tis in vain to seek for bliss;
For bliss can ne'er be found
Till we arrive where Jesus is,
And tread on heav'nly ground.

II

There's nothing round these painted skies,
Or round this dusty clod;
Nothing, my soul, that's worth thy joys,
Or lovely as thy God.

III

'Tis heav'n on earth to taste his love,
To feel his quick'ning grace;
And all the heav'n I hope above
Is but to see his face.

IV

Why move my years in slow delay?
O God of ages! why?
Let the spheres cleave, and mark my way
To the superior sky.

V

Dear sov'reign, break these vital strings
That bind me to my clay;
Take me, Uriel, on thy wings,
And stretch and soar away.

God's Dominion and Decrees.

I

Keep silence, all created things,
And wait your Maker's nod:
The muse stands trembling while she sings
The honours of her God.

II

Life, death, and hell, and worlds unknown
Hang on his firm decree:
He sits on no precarious throne,
Nor borrows leave to be.

III

Th'almighty voice bid ancient night
Her endless realms resign,
And lo, ten thousand globes of light
In fields of azure shine.

IV

Now wisdom with superior sway
Guides the vast moving frame,
Whilst all the ranks of beings pay
Deep rev'rence to his name.

V

He spake: The sun obedient stood,
And held the falling day:
Old Jordan backward drives his flood,
And disappoints the sea.

VI

Lord of the armies of the sky,
He marshals all the stars;
Red comets lift their banners high,
And wide proclaim his wars.

VII

Chain'd to his throne a volume lies,
With all the fates of men,
With every angel's form and size
Drawn by th'eternal pen.

VIII

His providence unfolds the book,
And makes his counsels shine:
Each opening leaf, and every stroke,
Fulfils some deep design.

IX

Here he exalts neglected worms
To sceptres and a crown;
Anon the following page he turns,
And treads the monarchs down.

X

Not Gabriel asks the reason why,
Nor God the reason gives;
Nor dares the favourite-angel pry
Between the folded leaves.

XI

My God, I never long'd to see
My fate with curious eyes,
What gloomy lines are writ for me,
Or what bright scenes shall rise.

XII

In thy fair book of life and grace
May I but find my name,
Recorded in some humble place
Beneath my Lord the Lamb.

Self-Consecration.

I

It grieves me, Lord, it grieves me sore,
That I have liv'd to thee no more,
And wasted half my days;
My inward pow'rs shall burn and flame
With zeal and passion for thy name,
I would not speak, but for my God, nor move, but to his praise.

426

II

What are my eyes but aids to see
The glories of the deity
Inscrib'd with beams of light
On flow'rs and stars? Lord, I behold
The shining azure, green and gold;
But when I try to read thy name, a dimness veils my sight.

III

Mine ears are rais'd when Virgil sings
Sicilian swains, or Trojan kings,
And drink the music in;
Why should the trumpet's brazen voice,
Or oaten reed awake my joys,
And yet my heart so stupid lie when sacred hymns begin.

IV

Change me, O God; my flesh shall be
An instrument of song to thee,
And thou the notes inspire:
My tongue shall keep the heav'nly chime,
My cheerful pulse shall beat the time,
And sweet variety of sound shall in thy praise conspire.

V

The dearest nerve about my heart,
Should it refuse to bear a part,
With my melodious breath,
I'd tear away the vital cord,
A bloody victim to my Lord,
And live without that impious string, or show my zeal in death.

The Creator and Creatures.

I

God is a name my soul adores,
Th'almighty Three, th'eternal One;
Nature and grace, with all their pow'rs,
Confess the infinite Unknown.

II

From thy great self thy being springs:
Thou art thy own original,
Made up of uncreated things,
And self-sufficience bears them all.

III

Thy voice produc'd the seas and spheres,
Bid the waves roar, and planets shine;
But nothing like thyself appears,
Thro' all these spacious works of thine.

IV

Still restless nature dies and grows;
From change to change the creatures run:
Thy being no succession knows,
And all thy vast designs are one.

V

A glance of thine runs thro' the globes,
Rules the bright world, and moves their frame:
Broad sheets of light compose thy robes;
Thy guards are form'd of living flame.

VI

Thrones and dominions round thee fall,
And worship in submissive forms;
Thy presence shakes this lower ball,
This little dwelling-place of worms.

VII

How shall affrighted mortals dare
To sing thy glory or thy grace,
Beneath thy feet we lie so far,
And see but shadows of thy face?

VIII

Who can behold the blazing light;
Who can approach consuming flame?
None but thy wisdom knows thy might;
None but thy word can speak thy name.

The Nativity of Christ.

I

‘Shepherds, rejoice, lift up your eyes,
‘And send your fears away;
‘News from the region of the skies,
‘Salvation's born to-day.

II

‘Jesus, the God whom angels fear,
‘Comes down to dwell with you;
‘To-day he makes his entrance here,
‘But not as monarchs do.

III

‘No gold, nor purple swaddling bands,
‘Nor royal shining things;
‘A manger for his cradle stands
‘And holds the King of kings.

IV

‘Go, shepherds, where the infant lies,
‘And see his humble throne;
‘With tears of joy in all your eyes,
‘Go, shepherds, kiss the Son.’

V

Thus Gabriel sang, and straight around
The heav'nly armies throng;
They tune their harps to lofty sound,
And thus conclude the song:

VI

‘Glory to God that reigns above,
‘Let peace surround the earth;
‘Mortals shall know their Maker's love,
‘At their Redeemer's birth.’

VII

Lord! and shall angels have their songs,
And men no tunes to raise?
O may we lose these useless tongues
When they forget to praise!

VIII

Glory to God that reigns above,
That pitied us forlorn,
We join to sing our Maker's love,
For there's a Saviour born.

427

God glorious, and Sinners saved.

I

Father, how wide thy glory shines!
How high thy wonders rise!
Known through the earth by thousand signs,
By thousand thro' the skies.

II

Those mighty orbs proclaim thy pow'r,
Their motions speak thy skill;
And on the wings of every hour,
We read thy patience still.

III

Part of thy name divinely stands
On all thy creatures writ,
They show the labour of thine hands,
Or impress of thy feet.

IV

But when we view thy strange design
To save rebellious worms,
Where vengeance and compassion join
In their divinest forms;

V

Our thoughts are lost in reverend awe:
We love and we adore;
The first archangel never saw
So much of God before.

VI

Here the whole deity is known,
Nor dares a creature guess
Which of the glories brightest shone
The justice or the grace.

VII

When sinners broke the Father's laws,
The dying Son atones;
Oh the dear mysteries of his cross!
The triumph of his groans!

VIII

Now the full glories of the Lamb
Adorn the heav'nly plains;
Sweet cherubs learn Immanuel's name,
And try their choicest strains.

IX

O may I bear some humble part
In that immortal song!
Wonder and joys shall tune my heart,
And love command my tongue.

The humble Enquiry.

A French Sonnet imitated. 1695.

Grand Dieu, tes Jugemens, &c.

I

Grace rules below, and sits enthron'd above,
How few the sparks of wrath! how slow they move,
And drop and die in boundless seas of love!

II

But me, vile wretch! should pitying love embrace
Deep in its ocean, hell itself would blaze,
And flash and burn me thro' the boundless seas.

III

Yea, Lord, my guilt to such a vastness grown
Seems to confine thy choice to wrath alone,
And calls thy power to vindicate thy throne.

IV

Thine honour bids, ‘Avenge thy injur'd name,’
Thy slighted loves a dreadful glory claim,
While my moist tears might but incense thy flame.

V

Should heaven grow black, almighty thunder roar,
And vengeance blast me, I could plead no more,
But own thy justice dying, and adore.

VI

Yet can those bolts of death that cleave the flood
To reach a rebel, pierce this sacred shroud,
Ting'd in the vital stream of my Redeemer's blood?

The Penitent pardoned.

I

Hence from my soul, my sins, depart,
Your fatal friendship now I see;
Long have you dwelt too near my heart,
Hence, to eternal distance flee.

II

Ye gave my dying Lord his wound,
Yet I caress'd your viperous brood,
And in my heart-strings lapp'd you round,
You, the vile murderers of my God.

III

Black heavy thoughts, like mountains, roll
O'er my poor breast, with boding fears,
And crushing hard my tortured soul,
Wring thro' my eyes the briny tears.

IV

Forgive my treasons, Prince of grace,
The bloody Jews were traitors too,
Yet thou hast pray'd for that curst race,
‘Father, they know not what they do.’

V

Great Advocate, look down and see
A wretch, whose smarting sorrows bleed;
O plead the same excuse for me!
For, Lord, I knew not what I did.

VI

Peace, my complaints; let every groan
Be still, and silence wait his love;
Compassions dwell amidst his throne,
And thro' his inmost bowels move.

428

VII

Lo, from the everlasting skies,
Gently, as morning-dews distil,
The dove immortal downward flies,
With peaceful olive in his bill.

VIII

How sweet the voice of pardon sounds!
Sweet the relief to deep distress!
I feel the balm that heals my wounds,
And all my pow'rs adore the grace.

A Hymn of Praise for Three great Salvations, viz.

1 From the Spanish Invasion, 1588. 2 From the Gun-powder Plot, Nov. 5. 3 From Popery and Slavery by King William of glorious memory, who landed Nov. 5, 1688. Composed, Nov. 5, 1695.

[The First Part.

I

Infinite God, thy counsels stand
Like mountains of eternal brass,
Pillars to prop our sinking land,
Or guardian rocks to break the seas.

II

From pole to pole thy name is known,
Thee a whole heaven of angels praise;
Our labouring tongues would reach thy throne
With the loud triumphs of thy grace.

III

Part of thy church, by thy command
Stands rais'd upon the British isles;
‘There,’ said the Lord, ‘to ages stand,
‘Firm as the everlasting hills.’

IV

In vain the Spanish ocean roar'd;
Its billows swell'd against our shore,
Its billows sunk beneath thy word,
With all the floating war they bore.

V

‘Come,’ said the sons of bloody Rome,
‘Let us provide new arms from hell:’
And down they digg'd thro' earth's dark womb,
And ransack'd all the burning cell.

VI

Old Satan lent them fiery stores,
Infernal coal, and sulphrous flame,
And all that burns, and all that roars,
Outrageous fires of dreadful name.

VII

Beneath the senate and the throne,
Engines of hellish thunder lay;
There the dark seeds of fire were sown,
To spring a bright but dismal day.

VIII

Thy love beheld the black design,
Thy love that guards our island round:
Strange! how it quench'd the fiery mine,
And crush'd the tempest under ground.

The Second Part.

I

Assume, my tongue, a nobler strain,
Sing the new wonders of the Lord;
The foes revive their pow'rs again,
Again they die beneath his sword.

II

Dark as our thoughts our minutes roll,
While tyranny possess'd the throne,
And murderers of an Irish soul
Ran, threat'ning death, thro' every town.

III

The Roman priest, and British prince,
Join'd their best force, and blackest charms,
And the fierce troops of neighbouring France
Offer'd the service of their arms.

IV

‘'Tis done,’ they cry'd, and laugh'd aloud,
The courts of darkness rang with joy,
Th'old serpent hiss'd, and hell grew proud,
While Zion mourn'd her ruin nigh.

V

But lo, the great deliverer sails
Commission'd from Jehovah's hand,
And smiling seas, and wishing gales,
Convey him to the longing land.

VI

The happy day, and happy year,
Both in our new salvation meet:
The day that quench'd the burning snare,
The year that burnt the invading fleet.

VII

Now did thine arm, O God of hosts,
Now did thine arm shine dazzling bright,
The sons of might their hands had lost,
And men of blood forgot to fight.

VIII

Brigades of angels lin'd the way,
And guarded William to his throne;
There, ye celestial warriors, stay,
And make his palace like your own.

IX

Then, mighty God, the earth shall know
And learn the worship of the sky,
Angels and Britons join below,
To raise their Hallelujahs high.

X

All Hallelujah, heavenly King:
While distant lands thy vict'ry sing,
And tongues their utmost pow'rs employ,
The world's bright roof repeats the joy.

November 5, 1688.

November 5, 1588.

429

The Incomprehensible.

I.

Far in the heav'ns my God retires,
My God, the mark of my desires,
And hides his lovely face;
When he descends within my view,
He charms my reason to pursue,
But leaves it tir'd and fainting in th'unequal chase.

II.

Or if I reach unusual height
Till near his presence brought,
There floods of glory check my flight,
Cramp the bold pinions of my wit,
And all untune my thought;
Plung'd in a sea of light I roll,
Where wisdom, justice, mercy, shines;
Infinite rays in crossing lines
Beat thick confusion on my sight, and overwhelm my soul.

III.

Come to my aid, ye fellow-minds,
And help me reach the throne;
(What single strength, in vain designs,
United force hath done;
Thus worms may join, and grasp the poles,
Thus atoms fill the sea)
But the whole race of creature-souls
Stretch'd to their last extent of thought, plunge and are lost in thee.

IV.

Great God, behold my reason lies
Adoring; yet my love would rise
On pinions not her own;
Faith shall direct her humble flight,
Thro' all the trackless seas of light,
To Thee, th'eternal Fair, the infinite Unknown.

Death and Eternity.

I

My thoughts, that often mount the skies,
Go, search the world beneath,
Where nature in all ruin lies,
And owns her sovereign, death.

II

The tyrant, how he triumphs here!
His trophies spread around!
And heaps of dust and bones appear
Thro' all the hollow ground.

III

These sculls, what ghastly figures now!
How loathsome to the eyes?
These are the heads we lately knew
So beauteous and so wise.

IV

But where the souls, those deathless things,
That left this dying clay?
My thoughts, now strecth out all your wings,
And trace eternity.

V

O that unfathomable sea!
Those deeps without a shore!
Where living waters gently play,
Or fiery billows roar.

VI

Thus must we leave the banks of life,
And try this doubtful sea;
Vain are our groans, and dying strife,
To gain a moment's stay.

VII

There we shall swim in heav'nly bliss,
Or sink in flaming waves,
While the pale carcase thoughtless lies,
Amongst the silent graves.

VIII

Some hearty friend shall drop his tear
On our dry bones, and say,
‘These once were strong, as mine appear,
‘And mine must be as they.’

IX

Thus shall our mould'ring members teach
What now our senses learn:
For dust and ashes loudest preach
Man's infinite concern.

A Sight of Heaven in Sickness.

I

Oft have I sat in secret sighs,
To feel my flesh decay,
Then groan'd aloud with frighted eyes,
To view the tott'ring clay.

II

But I forbid my sorrows now,
Nor dares the flesh complain;
Diseases bring their profit too;
The joy o'ercomes the pain.

III

My cheerful soul now all the day
Sits waiting here and sings;
Looks thro' the ruins of her clay,
And practises her wings.

IV

Faith almost changes into sight,
While from afar she spies,
Her fair inheritance, in light
Above created skies.

V

Had but the prison walls been strong,
And firm without a flaw,
In darkness she had dwelt too long,
And les of glory saw.

430

VI

But now the everlasting hills
Thro' every chink appear,
And something of the joy she feels,
While she's a pris'ner here.

VII

The shines of heaven rush sweetly in
At all the gaping flaws;
Visions of endless bliss are seen;
And native air she draws.

VIII

O may these walls stand tott'ring still,
The breaches never close,
If I must here in darkness dwell,
And all this glory lose!

IX

Or rather let this flesh decay,
The ruins wider grow,
'Till glad to see th'enlarged way,
I stretch my pinions through.

The universal Hallelujah.

Psalm cxlviii. paraphrased.

I

Praise ye the Lord with joyful tongue,
Ye pow'rs that guard his throne;
Jesus the man shall lead the song,
The God inspire the tune.

II

Gabriel, and all th'immortal choir
That fill the realms above,
Sing; for he form'd you of his fire,
And feeds you with his love.

III

Shine to his praise, ye crystal skies,
The floor of his abode,
Or veil your little twinkling eyes
Before a brighter God.

IV

Thou restless globe of golden light,
Whose beams create our days,
Join with the silver queen of night,
To own your borrow'd rays.

V

Blush and refund the honours paid
To your inferior names:
Tell the blind world, your orbs are fed
By his o'erflowing flames.

VI

Winds, ye shall bear his name aloud
Thro' the ethereal blue,
For when his chariot is a cloud,
He makes his wheels of you.

VII

Thunder and hail, and fires and storms,
The troops of his command,
Appear in all your dreadful forms,
And speak his awful hand.

VIII

Shout to the Lord, ye surging seas,
In your eternal roar;
Let wave to wave resound his praise,
And shore reply to shore:

IX

While monsters sporting on the flood,
In scaly silver shine,
Speak terribly their Maker, God,
And lash the foaming brine.

X

But gentler things shall tune his name,
To softer notes than these,
Young zephyrs breathing o'er the stream,
Or whisp'ring thro' the trees.

XI

Wave your tall heads, ye lofty pines,
To him that bid you grow,
Sweet clusters, bend the fruitful vines
On ev'ry thankful bough.

XII

Let the shrill birds his honour raise,
And climb the morning-sky:
While grov'ling beasts attempt his praise,
In hoarser harmony.

XIII

Thus while the meaner creatures sing,
Ye mortals, take the sound,
Echo the glories of your King
Thro' all the nations round.

XIV

Th'eternal name must fly abroad
From Britain to Japan;
And the whole race shall bow to God
That owns the name of man.

The Atheist's Mistake.

I

Laugh, ye profane, and swell and burst
With bold impiety:
Yet shall ye live for ever curs'd,
And seek in vain to die.

II

The gasp of your expiring breath
Consigns your souls to chains,
By the last agonies of death
Sent down to fiercer pains.

III

Ye stand upon a dreadful steep,
And all beneath is hell;
Your weighty guilt will sink you deep,
Where the old serpent fell.

IV

When iron slumbers bind your flesh,
With strange surprise you'll find
Immortal vigour spring afresh,
And tortures wake the mind!

431

V

Then you'll confess the frightful names
Of plagues you scorn'd before,
No more shall look like idle dreams,
Like foolish tales no more.

VI

Then shall ye curse that fatal day,
(With flames upon your tongues)
When you exchang'd your souls away
For vanity and songs.

VII

Behold the saints rejoice to die,
For heav'n shines round their heads;
And angel-guards prepar'd to fly,
Attend their fainting beds.

VIII

Their longing spirits part, and rise
To their celestial seat;
Above these ruinable skies
They make their last retreat.

IX

Hence, ye prophane, I hate your ways,
I walk with pious souls;
There's a wide difference in our race,
And distant are our goals.

The Law given at Sinai.

I.

Arm thee with thunder, heav'nly muse,
And keep th'expecting world in awe;
Oft hast thou sung in gentler mood
The melting mercies of thy God;
Now give thy fiercest fires a loose,
And sound his dreadful law:
To Israel first the words were spoke,
To Israel freed from Egypt's yoke,
Inhuman bondage! the hard galling load
Over-press'd their feeble souls,
Bent their knees to senseless bulls,
And broke their ties to God.

II.

Now had they pass'd the Arabian bay,
And march'd between the cleaving sea;
The rising waves stood guardians of their wondrous way,
But fell with most impeteous force
On the pursuing swarms,
And bury'd Egypt all in arms.
Blending in wat'ry death the rider and the horse:
O'er struggling Pharoah roll'd the mighty tide,
And sav'd the labours of a pyramid.
Apis and Ore in vain he cries,
And all his horned gods beside,
He swallows fate with swimming eyes,
And curs'd the Hebrews as he dy'd.

III.

Ah! foolish Israel, to comply
With Memphian idolatry!
And bow to brutes, (a stupid slave)
To idols impotent to save!
Behold thy God, the sovereign of the sky,
Has wrought salvation in the deep,
Has bound thy foes in iron sleep,
And rais'd thine honours high;
His grace forgives thy follies past,
Behold he comes in majesty,
And Sinai's top proclaims his law:
Prepare to meet thy God in haste!
But keep an awful distance still:
Let Moses round the sacred hill
The circling limits draw.

IV.

Hark! the shrill echoes of the trumpet roar,
And call the trembling armies near;
Slow and unwilling they appear,
Rails kept them from the mount before,
Now from the rails their fear:
'Twas the same herald, and the trump the same
Which shall be blown by high command,
Shall bid the wheels of nature stand,
And heav'n's eternal will proclaim,
That ‘Time shall be no more.’

V.

Thus while the labouring angel swell'd the sound,
And rent the skies, and shook the ground,
Up rose th'Almighty; round his sapphire seat
Adoring thrones in order fell;
The lesser powers at distance dwell,
And cast their glories down successive at his feet:
Gabriel the great prepares his way,
‘Lift up your heads, eternal doors,’ he cries;
Th'eternal doors his word obey,
Open and shoot celestial day
Upon the lower skies.
Heav'n's mighty pillars bow'd their head,
As their Creator bid,
And down Jehovah rode from the superior sphere,
A thousand guards before, and myriads in the rear.

VI.

His chariot was a pitchy cloud,
The wheels beset with burning gems;
The winds in harness with the flames
Flew o'er th'ethereal road:
Down thro' his magazines he past
Of hail, and ice, and fleecy snow,
Swift roll'd the triumph, and as fast
Did hail, and ice, in melted rivers flow.
The day was mingled with the night,
His feet on solid darkness trod,
His radiant eyes proclaim'd the God,
And scatter'd dreadful light;
He breath'd, and sulphur ran, a fiery stream:
He spoke, and (tho' with unknown speed he came)
Chid the slow tempest, and the lagging flame.

432

VII.

Sinai receiv'd his glorious flight,
With axle red, and glowing wheel,
Did the winged chariot light,
And rising smoke obscur'd the burning hill.
Lo, it mounts in curling waves,
Lo, the gloomy pride out-braves
The stately pyramids of fire
The pyramids to heav'n aspire,
And mix with stars, but see their gloomy offspring higher.
So you have seen ungrateful ivy grow
Round the tall oak that six score years has stood,
And proudly shoot a leaf or two
Above its kind supporter's utmost bough,
And glory there to stand the loftiest of the wood.

VIII.

Forbear, young muse, forbear;
The flow'ry things that poets say,
The little arts of simile
Are vain and useless here;
Nor shall the burning hills of old
With Sinai be compar'd,
Nor all that lying Greece has told,
Or learned Rome has heard;
Ætna shall be nam'd no more,
Ætna, the torch of Sicily;
Not half so high
Her lightnings fly,
Not half so loud her thunders roar
Cross the Sicanian sea, to fright th'Italian shore.
Behold the sacred hill: Its trembling spire
Quakes at the terrors of the fire,
While all below its verdant feet
Stagger and reel under th'almighty weight:
Press'd with a greater than feign'd Atlas' load
Deep groan'd the mount; it never bore
Infinity before,
It bow'd, and shook beneath the burden of a God.

IX.

Fresh horror seize the camp, despair,
And dying groans, torment the air,
And shrieks, and swoons, and deaths were there;
The bellowing thunder, and the lightning's blaze,
Spread thro' the host a wild amaze;
Darkness on every soul, and pale was every face:
Confus'd and dismal were the cries,
‘Let Moses speak, or Israel dies:’
Moses the spreading terror feels,
No more the man of God conceals
His shivering and surprize:
Yet, with recovering mind, commands
Silence, & deep attention, thro' the Hebrew bands.
Hark! from the centre of the flame,
All arm'd and feather'd with the same,
Majestic sounds break thro' the smoky cloud:
Sent from the all-creating tongue
A flight of cherubs guard the words along,
And bear their fiery law to the retreating crowd.

X.

‘I am the Lord: 'Tis I proclaim
‘That glorious and that fearful name,
‘Thy God and King: 'Twas I, that broke
‘Thy bondage, and th'Egyptian yoke;
‘Mine is the right to speak my will,
‘And thine the duty to fulfil.
‘Adore no God beside me, to provoke mine eyes:
‘Nor worship me in shapes and forms that men devise;
‘With rev'rence use my name, nor turn my words to jest;
‘Observe my sabbath well, nor dare profane my rest;
‘Honour, and due obedience, to thy parents give;
‘Nor spill the guiltless blood, nor let the guilty live:
‘Preserve thy body chaste, and flee th'unlawful bed;
‘Nor steal thy neighbour's gold, his garment, or his bread:
‘Forbear to blast his name with falsehood, or deceit;
‘Nor let thy wishes loose upon his large estate.’

Remember your Creator, &c.

Ecclesiastes xii.

I

Children, to your Creator, God,
Your early honours pay,
While vanity and youthful blood
Would tempt your thoughts astray.

II

The memory of his mighty name,
Demands your first regard.
Nor dare indulge a meaner flame,
'Till you have lov'd the Lord.

III

Be wise, and make his favour sure,
Before the mournful days,
When youth and mirth are known no more,
And life and strength decays.

IV

No more the blessings of a feast
Shall relish on the tongue,
The heavy ear forgets the taste
And pleasure of a song.

V

Old age, with all her dismal train,
Invades your golden years
With sighs and groans, and raging pain,
And death, that never spares.

VI

What will you do when light departs,
And leaves your withering eyes,
Without one beam to cheer your hearts,
From the superior skies?

433

VII

How will you meet God's frowning brow,
Or stand before his seat,
While nature's old supporters bow,
Nor bear their tott'ring weight?

VIII

Can you expect your feeble arms
Shall make a strong defence,
When death, with terrible alarms,
Summons the pris'ner hence?

IX

The silver bands of nature burst,
And let the building fall;
The flesh goes down to mix with dust,
Its vile original.

X

Laden with guilt, (a heavy load)
Uncleans'd and unforgiv'n,
The soul returns t'an angry God,
To be shut out from heav'n.

Sun, Moon, and Stars, praise ye the Lord.

I

Fairest of all the lights above,
Thou sun, whose beams adorn the spheres,
And with unweary'd swiftness move,
To form the circles of our years;

II

Praise the Creator of the skies,
That dress'd thine orb in golden rays:
Or may the sun forget to rise,
If he forget his Maker's praise.

III

Thou reigning beauty of the night,
Fair queen of silence, silver moon,
Whose gentle beams and borrow'd light,
Are softer rivals of the noon;

IV

Arise, and to that sov'reign pow'r
Waxing and waning honours pay,
Who bid thee rule the dusky hour,
And half supply the absent day.

V

Ye twinkling stars, who gild the skies
When darkness has its curtains drawn,
Who keep your watch, with wakeful eyes,
When business, cares, and day are gone;

VI

Proclaim the glories of your Lord,
Dispers'd thro' all the heav'nly street,
Whose boundless treasures can afford
So rich a pavement for his feet.

VII

Thou heav'n of heav'ns, supremely bright,
Fair palace of the court divine,
Where, with inimitable light,
The Godhead condescends to shine.

VIII

Praise thou thy great Inhabitant,
Who scatters lovely beams of grace
On ev'ry angel, ev'ry saint,
Nor veils the lustre of his face.

IX

O God of glory, God of love,
Thou art the Sun that makes our days;
With all thy shining works above,
Let earth and dust attempt thy praise.

The Welcome Messenger.

I

Lord, when we see a saint of thine
Lie gasping out his breath,
With longing eyes, and looks divine,
Smiling and pleas'd in death;

II

How we could e'en contend to lay
Our limbs upon that bed!
We ask thine envoy to convey
Our spirits in his stead.

III

Our souls are rising on the wing,
To venture in his place;
For when grim death has lost his sting,
He has an angel's face.

IV

Jesus, then purge my crimes away,
'Tis guilt creates my fears,
'Tis guilt gives death its fierce array,
And all the arms it bears.

V

Oh! if my threat'ning sins were gone,
And death had lost his sting,
I could invite the angel on,
And chide his lazy wing.

VI

Away these interposing days,
And let the lovers meet;
The angel has a cold embrace,
But kind, and soft, and sweet.

VII

I'd leap at once my seventy years,
I'd rush into his arms,
And lose my breath, and all my cares,
Amidst those heav'nly charms.

VIII

Joyful I'd lay this body down,
And leave the lifeless clay,
Without a sigh, without a groan,
And stretch and soar away.

434

Sincere Praise.

I

Almighty Maker, God!
How wondrous is thy name!
Thy glories how diffus'd abroad
Thro' the creation's frame!

II

Nature in every dress
Her humble homage pays,
And finds a thousand ways t'express
Thine undissembled praise.

III

In native white and red
The rose and lily stand,
And free from pride, their beauties spread,
To show thy skilful hand.

IV

The lark mounts up the sky,
With unambitious song,
And bears her Maker's praise on high
Upon her artless tongue.

V

My soul would rise and sing
To her Creator too,
Fain would my tongue adore my King,
And pay the worship due.

VI

But pride, that busy sin,
Spoils all that I perform;
Curs'd pride, that creeps securely in,
And swells a haughty worm.

VII

Thy glories I abate,
Or praise thee with design;
Some of the favours I forget,
Or think the merit mine.

VIII

The very songs I frame,
Are faithless to thy cause,
And steal the honours of thy name
To build their own applause.

IX

Create my soul anew,
Else all my worship's vain;
This wretched heart will ne'er be true,
Until 'tis form'd again.

X

Descend, celestial fire,
And seize me from above,
Melt me in flames of pure desire,
A sacrifice to love.

XI

Let joy and worship spend
The remnant of my days,
And to my God, my soul ascend,
In sweet perfumes of praise.

True Learning.

Partly imitated from a French Sonnet of Mr. Poiret.

I

Happy the feet that shining truth has led
With her own hand to tread the path she please,
To see her native lustre round her spread,
Without a veil, without a shade,
All beauty, and all light, as in herself she is.

II

Our senses cheat us with the pressing crouds
Of painted shapes they thrust upon the mind:
The truth they show lies wrapp'd in sev'nfold shrouds,
Our senses cast a thousand clouds
On unenlighten'd souls, and leave them doubly blind.

III

I hate the dust that fierce disputers raise,
And lose the mind in a wild maze of thought:
What empty triflings, and what subtle ways
To fence and guard by rule and rote!
Our God will never charge us, that we knew them not.

IV

Touch, heav'nly Word, O touch these curious souls;
Since I have heard but one soft hint from thee,
From all the vain opinions of the schools
(That pageantry of knowing fools)
I feel my powers releas'd, and stand divinely free.

V

'Twas this Almighty Word that all things made,
He grasps whole nature in his single hand;
All the eternal truths in him are laid,
The ground of all things, and their head,
The circle where they move, and centre where they stand.

VI

Without his aid I have no sure defence,
From troops of errors that besiege me round;
But he that rests his reason and his sense
Fast here, and never wanders hence,
Unmoveable he dwells upon unshaken ground.

VII

Infinite truth, the life of my desires,
Come from the sky, and join thyself to me;
I'm tir'd with hearing, and this reading tires;
But never tir'd of telling thee,
'Tis thy fair face alone my spirit burns to see.

VIII

Speak to my soul, alone, no other hand
Shall mark my path out with delusive art;
All nature silent in his presence stand,
Creatures be dumb at his command,
And leave his single voice to whisper to my heart.

435

IX

Retire, my soul, within thyself retire,
Away from every sense and every outward show:
Now let my thoughts to loftier themes aspire,
My knowledge now on wheels of fire
May mount and spread above, surveying all below.

X

The Lord grows lavish of his heav'nly light,
And pours whole floods on such a mind as this:
Fled from the eyes she gains a piercing sight,
She dives into the infinite,
And sees unutterable things in that unknown abyss.

True Wisdom.

I

Pronounce him blest, my muse, whom wisdom guides
In her own path to her own heav'nly seat;
Thro' all the storms his soul securely glides,
Nor can the tempests, nor the tides,
That rise and roar around, supplant his steady feet.

II

Earth, you may let your golden arrows fly,
And seek, in vain, a passage to his breast,
Spread all your painted toys to court his eye,
He smiles, and sees them vainly try
To lure his soul aside from her eternal rest.

III

Our headstrong lusts, like a young fiery horse,
Start, and flee raging in a violent course;
He tames and breaks them, manages and rides 'em,
Checks their career, and turns and guides 'em,
And bids his reason bridle their licentious force.

IV

Lord of himself, he rules his wildest thoughts,
And boldly acts what calmly he design'd,
Whilst he looks down and pities human faults;
Nor can he think, nor can he find
A plague like reigning passions, and a subject mind.

V

But oh! 'tis mighty toil to reach this height,
To vanquish self is a laborious art;
What manly courage to sustain the fight,
To bear the noble pain, and part
With those dear charming tempters rooted in the heart!

VI

'Tis hard to stand when all the passions move,
Hard to awake the eye that passion blinds
To rend and tear out this unhappy love,
That clings so close about our minds,
And where th'enchanted soul so sweet a poison finds.

VII

Hard; but it may be done. Come heav'nly fire,
Come to my breast, and with one powerful ray
Melt off my lusts, my fetters: I can bear
Awhile to be a tenant here,
But not be chain'd and prison'd in a cage of clay.

VIII

Heav'n is my home and I must use my wings;
Sublime above the globe my flight aspires:
I have a soul was made to pity kings,
And all their little glitt'ring things;
I have a soul was made for infinite desires.

IX

Loos'd from the earth, my heart is upward flown;
Farewell, my friends, and all that once was mine:
Now, should you fix my feet on Cæsar's throne,
Crown me, and call the world my own,
The gold that binds my brows could ne'er my soul confine.

X

I am the Lord's, and Jesus is my love;
He, the dear God, shall fill my vast desire.
My flesh below; yet I can dwell above,
And nearer to my Saviour move;
There all my soul shall centre, all my pow'rs conspire.

XI

Thus I with angels live; thus half-divine
I sit on high, nor mind inferior joys:
Fill'd with his love, I feel that God is mine,
His glory is my great design,
That everlasting project all my thoughts employs.

A Song to creating Wisdom.

PART I.

I

Eternal Wisdom, thee we praise,
Thee the creation sings:
With thy loud name, rocks, hills, and seas,
And heav'n's high palace rings.

II

Place me on the bright wings of day
To travel with the sun;
With what amaze shall I survey
The wonders thou hast done?

III

Thy hand how wide it spread the sky!
How glorious to behold?
Ting'd with a blue of heav'nly dye,
And starr'd with sparkling gold.

IV

There thou hast bid the globes of light
Their endless circles run;
There the pale planet rules the night,
And day obeys the sun.

PART II.

V

Downward I turn my wondering eyes
On clouds and storms below,
Those under-regions of the skies
Thy num'rous glories show.

436

VI

The noisy winds stand ready there
Thy orders to obey,
With sounding wings they sweep the air,
To make thy chariot way.

VII

There, like a trumpet, loud and strong,
Thy thunder shakes our coast:
While the red lightnings wave along,
The banners of thine host.

VIII

On the thin air, without a prop,
Hang fruitful show'rs around:
At thy command they sink, and drop
Their fatness on the ground.

PART III.

IX

Now to the earth I bend my song,
And cast my eyes abroad,
Glancing the British isles along;
Blest isles, confess your God.

X

How did his wondrous skill array
Your fields in charming green;
A thousand herbs his art display,
A thousand flowers between!

XI

Tall oaks for future navies grow,
Fair Albion's best defence,
While corn and vines rejoice below,
Those luxuries of sense.

XII

The bleating flocks his pasture feeds:
And herds of larger size,
That bellow thro' the Lindian meads,
His bounteous hand supplies.

PART IV.

XIII

We see the Thames caress the shores,
He guides her silver flood:
While angry Severn swells and roars,
Yet hears her ruler God.

XIV

The rolling mountains of the deep
Observe his strong command;
His breath can raise the billows steep,
Or sink them to the sand.

XV

Amidst thy wat'ry kingdoms, Lord,
The finny nations play,
And scaly monsters, at thy word,
Rush thro' the northern sea.

PART V.

XVI

Thy glories blaze all nature round,
And strike the gazing sight,
Thro' skies, and seas, and solid ground,
With terror and delight.

XVII

Infinite strength, and equal skill,
Shine thro' the worlds abroad,
Our souls with vast amazement fill,
And speak the builder God.

XVIII

But the sweet beauties of thy grace
Our softer passions move;
Pity divine in Jesus' face
We see, adore, and love.

God's absolute Dominion.

I.

Lord, when my thoughtful soul surveys
Fire, air and earth, and stars and seas,
I call them all thy slaves;
Commission'd by my Father's will,
Poisons shall cure, or balms shall kill;
Vernal suns, or zephyr's breath,
May burn or blast the plants to death
That sharp December saves;
What can winds or planets boast
But a precarious pow'r?
The sun is all in darkness lost,
Frost shall be fire, and fire be frost,
When he appoints the hour.

II.

Lo, the Norwegians near the polar sky
Chafe their frozen limbs with snow;
Their frozen limbs awake and glow,
The vital flame touch'd with a strange supply
Rekindles, for the God of life is nigh;
He bids the vital flood in wonted circles flow.
Cold steel expos'd to northern air,
Drinks the meridian fury of the midnight Bear,
And burns th'unwary stranger there.

III.

Enquire, my soul, of ancient fame,
Look back to thousand years, and see
Th'Assyrian prince transform'd a brute,
For boasting to be absolute:
Once to his court the God of Israel came,
A King more absolute than he.
I see the furnace blaze with rage
Sevenfold: I see amidst the flame
Three Hebrews of immortal name;
They move, they walk across the burning stage
Unhurt, and fearless, while the tyrant stood
A statue; fear congeal'd his blood:

437

Nor did the raging element dare
Attempt their garments, or their hair;
It knew the Lord of nature there.
Nature, compell'd by a superior cause,
Now breaks her own eternal laws,
Now seems to break them, and obeys
Her sov'reign King in different ways.
Father, how bright thy glories shine!
How broad thy kingdom, how divine!
Nature, and miracle, and fate, and chance are thine.

IV.

Hence from my heart, ye idols, flee,
Ye sounding names of vanity!
No more my lips shall sacrifice
To chance and nature, tales and lies:
Creatures without a God can yield me no supplies.
What is the sun, or what the shade,
Or frosts, or flames, to kill or save?
His favour is my life, his lips pronounce me dead:
And as his awful dictates bid,
Earth is my mother, or my grave.

Condescending Grace.

In Imitation of the 114th Psalm.

I

When the Eternal bows the skies,
To visit earthly things,
With scorn divine he turns his eyes
From towers of haughty kings;

II

Rides on a cloud disdainful by
A sultan, or a czar,
Laughs at the worms that rise so high,
Or frowns 'm from afar;

III

He bids his awful chariot roll
Far downward from the skies,
To visit ev'ry humble soul,
With pleasure in his eyes.

IV

Why should the Lord that reigns above
Disdain so lofty kings?
Say, Lord, and why such looks of love
Upon such worthless things?

V

Mortals, be dumb; what creature dares
Dispute his awful will;
Ask no account of his affairs,
But tremble, and be still.

VI

Just like his nature is his grace,
All sov'reign, and all free;
Great God, how searchless are thy ways!
How deep thy judgments be!

The Infinite.

I

Some seraph, lend your heav'nly tongue,
Or harp of golden string,
That I may raise a lofty song
To our eternal King.

II

Thy names, how infinite they be!
Great Everlasting One!
Boundless thy might and majesty,
And unconfin'd thy throne.

III

Thy glories shine of wondrous size,
And wondrous large thy grace;
Immortal day breaks from thine eyes,
And Gabriel veils his face.

IV

Thine essence is a vast abyss,
Which angels cannot sound,
An ocean of infinities
Where all our thoughts are drown'd.

V

The mysteries of creation lie
Beneath enlighten'd minds,
Thoughts can ascend above the sky,
And fly before the winds.

VI

Reason may grasp the massy hills
And stretch from pole to pole,
But half thy name our spirit fills,
And overloads our soul.

VII

In vain our haughty reason swells,
For nothing's found in Thee
But boundless inconceivables,
And vast eternity.

Confession and Pardon.

I

Alas, my aching heart!
Here the keen torment lies;
It racks my waking hours with smart,
And frights my slumbering eyes.

II

Guilt will be hid no more,
My griefs take vent apace,
The crimes that blot my conscience o'er
Flush crimson in my face.

III

My sorrows, like a flood,
Impatient of restraint,
Into thy bosom, O my God,
Pour out a long complaint.

IV

This impious heart of mine
Could once defy the Lord,
Could rush with violence on to sin
In presence of thy sword.

438

V

How often have I stood
A rebel to the skies,
The calls, the tenders of a God,
And mercy's loudest cries!

VI

He offers all his grace,
And all his heav'n to me;
Offers! but 'tis to senseless brass,
That cannot feel nor see.

VII

Jesus the Saviour stands
To court me from above,
And looks and spreads his wounded hands,
And shews the prints of love.

VIII

But I, a stupid fool,
How long have I withstood
The blessings purchas'd with his soul,
And paid for all in blood?

IX

The heav'nly Dove came down
And tender'd me his wings
To mount me upward to a crown,
And bright immortal things.

X

Lord, I'm asham'd to say
That I refus'd thy Dove,
And sent thy Spirit griev'd away,
To his own realms of love.

XI

Not all thine heav'nly charms,
Nor terrors of thy hand,
Could force me to lay down my arms,
And bow to thy command.

XII

Lord, 'tis against thy face
My sins like arrows rise,
And yet, and yet, O matchless grace!
Thy thunder silent lies.

XIII

O shall I never feel
The meltings of thy love?
Am I of such hell-harden'd steel
That mercy cannot move?

XIV

Now for one powerful glance,
Dear Saviour, from thy face!
This rebel heart no more withstands,
But sinks beneath thy grace.

XV

O'ercome by dying love I fall,
Here at thy cross I lie;
And throw my flesh, my soul, my all,
And weep, and love, and die.

XVI

‘Rise,’ says the Prince of mercy, ‘rise,
‘With joy and pity in his eyes:
‘Rise, and behold my wounded veins,
‘Here flows the blood to wash thy stains.

XVII

‘See my great Father reconcil'd:’
He said. And lo, the Father smil'd;
The joyful cherubs clapp'd their wings,
And sounded grace on all their strings.

Young Men and Maidens, old Men and Babes, praise ye the Lord, Psalm cxlviii. 12.

I.

Sons of Adam, bold and young,
In the wild mazes of whose veins
A flood of fiery vigour reigns,
And weilds your active limbs, with hardy sinews strung;
Fall prostrate at th'eternal throne
Whence your precarious pow'rs depend;
Nor swell as if your lives were all your own,
But choose your Maker for your friend;
His favour is your life, his arm is your support,
His hand can stretch your days, or cut your minutes short.

II.

Virgins, who roll your artful eyes,
And shoot delicious danger thence:
Swift the lovely lightning flies,
And melts our reason down to sense;
Boast not of those with'ring charms
That must yield their youthful grace
To age and wrinkles, earth and worms;
But love the Author of your smiling face;
That heav'nly Bridegroom claims your blooming hours;
O make it your perpetual care
To please that everlasting Fair;
His beauties are the sun, and but the shade is yours.

III.

Infants, whose different destinies
Are wove with threads of different size;
But from the same spring-tide of tears,
Commence your hopes, and joys, and fears,
(A tedious train!) and date your following years:
Break your first silence in his praise
Who wrought your wondrous frame:
With sounds of tenderest accent raise
Young honours to his name;
And consecrate your early days
To know the pow'r supreme:

IV.

Ye heads of venerable age
Just marching off the mortal stage,
Fathers, whose vital threads are spun
As long as e'er the glass of life would run,
Adore the hand that led your way
Thro' flow'ry fields a fair long summer's day;
Gasp out your soul in praises to the sovereign pow'r
That set your west so distant from your dawning hour.

439

Flying Fowl, and creeping Things, praise ye the Lord.

Psalm cxlviii. 10.

I.

Sweet flocks, whose soft enamel'd wing
Swift and gently cleaves the sky;
Whose charming notes address the spring
With an artless harmony.
Lovely minstrels of the field,
Who in leafy shadows sit,
And your wondrous structures build,
Awake your tuneful voices with the dawning light;
To nature's God your first devotions pay,
E'er you salute the rising day,
'Tis he calls up the sun, and gives him every ray.

II.

Serpents, who o'er the meadows slide,
And wear upon your shining back
Num'rous ranks of gaudy pride,
Which thousand mingling colours make:
Let the fierce glances of your eyes
Rebate their baleful fire;
In harmless play twist and unfold
The volumes of your scaly gold:
That rich embroidery of your gay attire,
Proclaims your Maker kind and wise.

III.

Insects and mites, of mean degree,
That swarm in myriads o'er the land,
Moulded by wisdom's artful hand,
And curl'd and painted with a various die;
In your innumerable forms
Praise him that wears th'ethereal crown,
And bends his lofty counsels down
To despicable worms.

The Comparison and Complaint.

I

Infinite power, eternal Lord,
How sov'reign is thy hand!
All nature rose t'obey thy word,
And moves at thy command.

II

With steady course thy shining sun
Keeps his appointed way,
And all the hours obedient run
The circle of the day.

III

But ah! how wide my spirit flies,
And wanders from her God!
My soul forgets the heavenly prize,
And treads the downward road.

IV

The raging fire, and stormy sea,
Perform thine awful will;
And ev'ry beast and ev'ry tree,
Thy great designs fulfil:

V

While my wild passions rage within,
Nor thy commands obey;
And flesh and sense, inslav'd to sin,
Draw my best thoughts away.

VI

Shall creatures of a meaner frame
Pay all their dues to thee;
Creatures, that never knew thy name,
That never lov'd like me?

VII

Great God, create my soul anew,
Conform my heart to thine,
Melt down my will, and let it flow,
And take the mould divine.

VIII

Seize my whole frame into thy hand:
Here all my pow'rs I bring;
Manage the wheels by thy command,
And govern ev'ry spring.

IX

Then shall my feet no more depart,
Nor wandering senses rove;
Devotion shall be all my heart,
And all my passions love.

X

Then not the sun shall more than I
His Maker's law perform,
Nor travel swifter thro' the sky,
Nor with a zeal so warm.

God Supreme, and Self-sufficient.

I

What is our God, or what his name
Nor men can learn, nor angels teach;
He dwells conceal'd in radiant flame,
Where neither eyes nor thoughts can reach.

II

The spacious worlds of heavenly light,
Compar'd with him, how short they fall?
They are too dark, and he too bright.
Nothing are they, and God is all.

III

He spoke the wondrous word, and lo
Creation rose at his command;
Whirlwinds and seas their limits know,
Bound in the hollow of his hand.

IV

There rests the earth, there roll the spheres,
There nature leans, and feels her prop:
But his own self-sufficience bears
The weight of his own glories up.

V

The tide of creatures ebbs and flows,
Measuring their changes by the moon:
No ebb his sea of glory knows;
His age is one eternal noon.

440

VI

Then fly, my song, an endless round,
The lofty tune let Michael raise;
All nature dwell upon the sound,
But we can ne'er fulfil the praise.

Jesus the only Saviour.

I

Adam, our father and our head,
Transgrest; and justice doom'd us dead:
The fiery law speaks all despair,
There's no reprieve, nor pardon there.

II

Call a bright council in the skies;
‘Seraphs the mighty and the wise,
‘Say, what expedient can you give,
‘That sin be damn'd, and sinners live?

III

‘Speak, are you strong to bear the load,
‘The weighty vengeance of a God?
‘Which of you loves our wretched race,
‘Or dares to venture in our place?’

IV

In vain we ask; for all around
Stands silence thro' the heavenly ground:
There's not a glorious mind above
Has half the strength, or half the love.

V

But, O unutterable grace!
Th'eternal Son takes Adam's place;
Down to our world the Saviour flies,
Stretches his naked arms, and dies.

VI

Justice was pleas'd to bruise the God,
And pay its wrongs with heav'nly blood;
What unknown racks and pangs he bore!
Then rose: The law could ask no more.

VII

Amazing work! look down, ye skies,
Wonder and gaze with all your eyes;
Ye heav'nly thrones, stoop from above,
And bow to this mysterious love.

VIII

See, how they bend! See, how they look!
Long they had read th'eternal book,
And studied dark degrees in vain,
The cross and Calvary makes them plain.

IX

Now they are struck with deep amaze,
Each with his wings conceals his face;
Nor clap their sounding plumes, and cry,
‘The wisdom of a Deity!’

X

Low they adore th'incarnate Son,
And sing the glories he hath won;
Sing how he broke our iron chains,
How deep he sunk, how high he reigns.

XI

Triumph and reign, victorious Lord,
By all thy flaming hosts ador'd;
And say, dear conqueror, say, how long
Ere we shall rise to join their song.

XII

Lo, from afar the promis'd day
Shines with a well-distinguish'd ray;
But my wing'd passion hardly bears
These lengths of slow delaying years.

XIII

Send down a chariot from above,
With fiery wheels, and pav'd with love;
Raise me beyond th'ethereal blue,
To sing and love as angels do.

Looking upward.

I

The heavens invite mine eye,
The stars salute me round;
Father, I blush, I mourn to lie
Thus grov'ling on the ground.

II

My warmer spirits move,
And make attempts to fly;
I wish aloud for wings of love
To raise me swift and high.

III

Beyond those crystal vaults,
And all their sparkling balls;
They're but the porches to thy courts,
And paintings on thy walls.

IV

Vain world, farewell to you;
Heav'n is my native air:
I bid my friends a short adieu,
Impatient to be there.

V

I feel my powers releast
From their old fleshy clod;
Fair Guardian, bear me up in haste
And set me near my God.

Christ dying, rising and reigning.

I

He dies! the heav'nly Lover dies!
The tidings strike a doleful sound
On my poor heart-strings. Deep he lies
In the cold caverns of the ground.

II

Come, saints, and drop a tear or two,
On the dear bosom of your God,
He shed a thousand drops for you,
A thousand drops of richer blood.

III

Here's love and grief beyond degree,
The Lord of glory dies for men!
But lo, what sudden joys I see!
Jesus the dead revives again.

441

IV

The rising God forsakes the tomb,
Up to his Father's court he flies;
Cherubic legions guard him home,
And shout him welcome to the skies.

V

Break off your tears, ye saints, and tell
How high our great Deliverer reigns;
Sing how he spoil'd the hosts of hell,
And led the monster death in chains.

VI

Say, ‘Live for ever, wondrous King!
‘Born to redeem, and strong to save!’
Then ask the monster, ‘Where's his sting?
‘And where's thy victory, boasting grave?’

The God of Thunder.

I

O the immense, the amazing height,
The boundless grandeur of our God,
Who treads the worlds beneath his feet,
And sways the nations with his nod!

II

He speaks; and lo, all nature shakes,
Heav'n's everlasting pillars bow;
He rends the clouds with hideous cracks,
And shoots his fiery arrows through.

III

Well, let the nations start and fly
At the blue lightning's horrid glare,
Atheists and emperors shrink and die,
When flame and noise torment the air.

IV

Let noise and flame confound the skies,
And drown the spacious realms below,
Yet will we sing the thunderer's praise,
And send our loud hosannas through.

V

Celestial King, thy blazing power
Kindles our hearts to flaming joys,
We shout to hear thy thunders roar,
And echo to our Father's voice.

VI

Thus shall the God our Saviour come,
And lightnings round his chariot play;
Ye lightnings, fly to make him room;
Ye glorious storms, prepare his way.

The Day of Judgment, AN ODE, Attempted in English Sapphic.

I

When the fierce north wind with his airy forces
Rears up the Baltic to a foaming fury;
And the red lightning, with a storm of hail comes
Rushing amain down,

II

How the poor sailors stand amaz'd and tremble!
While the hoarse thunder, like a bloody trumpet,
Roars a loud onset to the gaping waters
Quick to devour them.

III

Such shall the noise be, and the wild disorder,
(If things eternal may be like these earthly)
Such the dire terror when the great Archangel
Shakes the creation;

IV

Tears the strong pillars of the vault of heaven,
Breaks up old marble, the repose of princes;
See the graves open, and the bones arising,
Flames all around 'em!

V

Hark, the shrill outcries of the guilty wretches!
Lively bright horror, and amazing anguish,
Stare thro' their eye-lids, while the living worm lies
Gnawing within them.

VI

Thoughts, like old vultures, prey upon their heart-strings,
And the smart twinges, when the eye beholds the
Lofty Judge frowning, and a flood of vengeance
Rolling afore him.

VII

Hopeless immortals! how they scream and shiver
While devils push them to the pit wide-yawning
Hideous and gloomy to receive them headlong
Down to the centre.

VIII

Stop here, my fancy: (All away, ye horrid
Doleful ideas,) come, arise to Jesus,
How he sits God-like! and the saints around him
Thron'd, yet adoring!

IX

O may I sit there when he comes triumphant,
Dooming the nations! then ascend to glory,
While our hosannas all along the passage
Shout the Redeemer.

The Song of Angels above.

I

Earth has detain'd me prisoner long,
And I'm grown weary now:
My heart, my hand, my ear, my tongue,
There's nothing here for you.

II

Tir'd in my thoughts I stretch me down,
And upward glance mine eyes.
Upward, my Father, to thy throne,
And to my native skies.

III

There the dear Man, my Saviour sits,
The God, how bright he shines!
And scatters infinite delights
On all the happy minds.

442

IV

Seraphs with elevated strains
Circle the throne around,
And move and charm the starry plains
With an immoral sound.

V

Jesus the Lord their harps employs,
Jesus my love they sing,
Jesus the name of both our joys
Sounds sweet from ev'ry string.

VI

Hark, how beyond the narrow bounds
Of time and space they run,
And speak in most majestic sounds,
The Godhead of the Son.

VII

How on the Father's breast he lay,
The darling of his soul.
Infinite years before the day
Or heavens began to roll.

VIII

And now they sink the lofty tone,
And gentler notes they play,
And bring th'eternal Godhead down
To dwell in humble clay.

IX

O sacred beauties of the Man!
(The God resides within)
His flesh all pure, without a stain,
His soul without a sin.

X

Then, how he look'd, and how he smil'd,
What wondrous things he said!
Sweet cherubs, stay, dwell here a while,
And tell what Jesus did.

XI

At his command the blind awake,
And feel the gladsome rays;
He bids the dumb attempt to speak,
They try their tongues in praise.

XII

He shed a thousand blessings round
Where'er he turn'd his eye;
He spoke, and at the sov'reign sound
The hellish legions fly.

XIII

Thus while with unambitious strife
Th'ethereal minstrels rove
Thro' all the labours of his life,
And wonders of his love.

XIV

In the full choir a broken string
Groans with a strange surprize;
The rest in silence mourn their King,
That bleeds, and loves, and dies.

XV

Seraph and saint, with drooping wings,
Cease their harmonious breath;
No blooming trees, nor bubbling springs,
While Jesus sleeps in death.

XVI

Then all at once to living strains
They summon every chord,
Break up the tomb, and burst his chains,
And show their rising Lord.

XVII

Around the flaming army throngs
To guard him to the skies,
With loud hosannas on their tongues,
And triumph in their eyes.

XVIII

In awful state the conqu'ring God
Ascends his shining throne,
While tuneful angels sound abroad
The vict'ries he has won.

XIX

Now let me rise, and join their song,
And be an angel too;
My heart, my hand, my ear, my tongue,
Here's joyful work for you.

XX

I would begin the music here,
And so my soul should rise:
Oh for some heavenly notes to bear
My spirit to the skies!

XXI

There, ye that love my Saviour, sit,
There I would fain have place,
Amongst your thrones, or at your feet,
So I might see his face.

XXII

I am confin'd to earth no more,
But mount in haste above,
To bless the God that I adore,
And sing the Man I love.

Fire, Air, Earth, and Sea, praise ye the Lord.

I.

Earth, thou great footstool of our God
Who reigns on high; thou fruitful source
Of all our raiment, life and food;
Our house, our parent and our nurse;
Mighty stage of mortal scenes,
Drest with strong and gay machines,
Hung with golden lamps around:
(And flow'ry carpets spread the ground)
Thou bulky globe, prodigious mass,
That hangs unpillar'd in an empty space!
While thy unweildy weight rests on the feeble air,
Bless that Almighty Word that fix'd and holds thee there.

II.

Fire, thou swift herald of his face,
Whose glorious rage, at his command,
Levels a palace with the sand,
Blending the lofty spires in ruin with the base:

443

Ye heav'nly flames, that singe the air,
Artillery of a jealous God,
Bright arrows that his sounding quivers bear
To scatter deaths abroad;
Lightnings, adore the sov'reign arm that flings
His vengeance, and your fires, upon the heads of kings.

III.

Thou vital element, the air,
Whose boundless magazines of breath
Our fainting flame of life repair,
And save the bubble man from the cold arms of death:
And ye, whose vital moisture yields
Life's purple stream a fresh supply;
Sweet waters, wand'ring thro' the flow'ry fields,
Or dropping from the sky;
Confess the Pow'r whose all-sufficient name
Nor needs your aid to build, or to support our frame.

IV.

Now the rude air, with noisy force,
Beats up and swells the angry sea,
They join to make our lives a prey,
And sweep the sailor's hopes away.
Vain hopes, to reach their kindred on the shores!
Lo, the wild seas and surging waves
Gape hideous in a thousand graves:
Be still, ye floods, and know your bounds of sand,
Ye storms, adore your Master's hand;
The winds are in his fist, the waves at his command.

V.

From the eternal emptiness
His fruitful word by secret springs
Drew the whole harmony of things
That form this noble universe:
Old nothing knew his pow'rful hand,
Scarce had he spoke his full command,
Fire, air, and earth, and sea, heard the creating call,
And leap'd from empty nothing to this beauteous all;
And still they dance, and still obey
The orders they receiv'd the great creation-day.

The Farewell.

I

Dead be my heart to all below,
To mortal joys and mortal cares;
To sensual bliss that charms us so
Be dark, my eyes, and deaf my ears.

II

Here I renounce my carnate taste
Of the fair fruit that sinners prize:
Their paradise shall never waste
One thought of mine, but to despise.

III

All earthly joys are overweigh'd
With mountains of vexatious care;
And where's the sweet that is not laid
A bait to some destructive snare?

IV

Be gone for ever, mortal things!
Thou mighty mole-hill, earth, farewell!
Angels aspire on lofty wings,
And leave the globe for ants to dwell.

V

Come heav'n, and fill my vast desires,
My soul pursues the sov'reign good:
She was all made of heavenly fires,
Nor can she live on meaner food.

God only known to Himself.

I

Stand and adore! how glorious he
That dwells in bright eternity!
We gaze, and we confound our sight
Plung'd in th'abyss of dazzling light.

II

Thus sacred One, Almighty Three,
Great Everlasting Mystery,
What lofty numbers shall we frame
Equal to thy tremendous name?

III

Seraphs, the nearest to the throne,
Begin, and speak the Great Unknown:
Attempt the song, wind up your strings,
To notes untry'd, and boundless things.

IV

You, whose capacious pow'rs survey
Largely beyond our eyes of clay:
Yet what a narrow portion too
Is seen, or known, or thought by you?

V

How flat your highest praises fall
Below the immense Original!
Weak creatures we, that strive in vain
To reach an uncreated strain!

VI

Great God, forgive our feeble lays,
Sound out thine own eternal praise;
A song so vast, a theme so high,
Calls for the voice that tun'd the sky.

Pardon and Sanctification.

I

My crimes awake; and hideous fear
Distracts my restless mind,
Guilt meets my eyes with horrid glare,
And hell pursues behind.

II

Almighty vengeance frowns on high,
And flames array the throne;
While thunder murmurs round the sky,
Impatient to be gone.

444

III

Where shall I hide this noxious head;
Can rocks or mountains save?
Or shall I wrap me in the shade
Of midnight and the grave?

IV

Is there no shelter from the eye
Of a revenging God?
Jesus, to thy dear wounds I fly,
Bedew me with thy blood.

V

Those guardian drops my soul secure,
And wash away my sin;
Eternal justice frowns no more,
And conscience smiles within.

VI

I bless that wondrous purple stream
That whitens every stain;
Yet is my soul but half redeem'd,
If sin the tyrant reign.

VII

Lord, blast his empire with thy breath,
That cursed throne must fall;
Ye flatt'ring plagues, that work my death,
Fly, for I hate you all.

Sovereignty and Grace.

I

The Lord! how fearful is his name?
How wide is his command?
Nature, with all her moving frame,
Rests on his mighty hand.

II

Immortal glory forms his throne,
And light his awful robe;
Whilst with a smile, or with a frown,
He manages the globe.

III

A word of his almighty breath
Can swell or sink the seas;
Build the vast empires of the earth,
Or break them as he please.

IV

Adoring angels round him fall
In all their shining forms,
His sov'reign eye looks thro' them all,
And pities mortal worms.

V

His bowels, to our worthless race,
In sweet compassion move;
He clothes his looks with softest grace,
And takes his title, love.

VI

Now let the Lord for ever reign,
And sway us as he will,
Sick, or in health, in ease, or pain,
We are his favourites still.

VII

No more shall peevish passion rise,
The tongue no more complain;
'Tis sov'reign love that lends our joys,
And love resumes again.

The Law and Gospel.

I

‘Curst be the man, for ever curst,
‘That doth one wilful sin commit;
‘Death and damnation for the first,
‘Without relief and infinite.’

II

Thus Sinai roars; and round the earth
Thunder, and fire, and vengeance flings;
But Jesus, thy dear gasping breath,
And Calvary, say gentler things.

III

‘Pardon, and grace, and boundless love,
‘Streaming along a Saviour's blood,
‘And life, and joys, and crowns above,
‘Dear purchas'd by a bleeding God.’

IV

Hark, how he prays, (the charming sound
Dwells on his dying lips) Forgive;
And every groan, and gaping wound,
Cries, ‘Father, let the rebels live.’

V

Go, you that rest upon the law,
And toil, and seek salvation there,
Look to the flames that Moses saw,
And shrink, and tremble, and despair.

VI

But I'll retire beneath the cross,
Saviour, at thy dear feet I lie;
And the keen sword that justice draws,
Flaming and red, shall pass me by.

Seeking a divine Calm in a restless World.

O Mens, quæ stabili fata regis vice, &c. Casimire, book iii. od 28.

I

Eternal mind, who rul'st the fates
Of dying realms, and rising states,
With one unchang'd decree,
While we admire thy vast affairs,
Say, can our little trifling cares,
Afford a smile to thee?

II

Thou scatterest honours, crowns and gold;
We fly to seize, and fight to hold
The bubbles and the ore:
So emmets struggle for a grain;
So boys their petty wars maintain
For shells upon the shore.

445

III

Here a vain man his sceptre breaks,
The next a broken sceptre takes,
And warriors win and lose;
This rolling world will never stand,
Plunder'd and snatch'd from hand to hand,
As power decays or grows.

IV

Earth's but an atom: Greedy swords
Carve it amongst a thousand lords,
And yet they can't agree:
Let greedy swords still fight and slay,
I can be poor; but, Lord, I pray
To sit and smile with thee.

Happy Frailty.

I

‘How meanly dwells th'immortal mind!
‘How vile these bodies are!
‘Why was a clod of earth design'd
‘T'inclose a heav'nly star?

II

‘Weak cottage where our souls reside!
‘This flesh a tott'ring wall;
‘With frightful breaches gaping wide
‘The building bends to fall.

III

‘All round it storms of trouble blow,
‘And waves of sorrow roll;
‘Cold waves and winter's storms beat through,
‘And pain the tenant soul.

IV

‘Alas! how frail our state!’ said I;
And thus went mourning on,
Till sudden from the cleaving sky
A gleam of glory shone.

V

My soul all felt the glory come,
And breath'd her native air;
Then she remember'd heav'n her home,
And she a pris'ner here.

VI

Straight she began to change her key,
And joyful in her pains,
She sung the frailty of her clay
In pleasurable strains.

VII

‘How weak the pris'n is where I dwell!
‘Flesh but a tott'ring wall
‘The breaches cheerfully foretel,
‘The house must shortly fall.

VIII

‘No more, my friends, shall I complain,
‘Tho' all my heart-strings ache;
‘Welcome disease, and ev'ry pain,
‘That makes the cottage shake.

IX

‘Now let the tempest blow all round,
‘Now swell the surges high,
‘And beat this house of bondage down,
‘To let the stranger fly.

X

‘I have a mansion built above
‘By the eternal hand;
‘And should the earth's old basis move,
‘My heav'nly house must stand.

XI

‘Yes, for 'tis there my Saviour reigns,
‘(I long to see the God)
‘And his immortal strength sustains
‘The courts that cost him blood.’

XII

Hark, from on high my Saviour calls:
‘I come, my Lord, my love:’
Devotion breaks the prison walls,
And speeds my last remove.

Launching into Eternity.

It was a brave attempt! adventurous he,
Who in the first ship broke the unknown sea,
And leaving his dear native shores behind,
Trusted his life to the licentious wind.
I see the surging brine: the tempest raves:
He on a pine-plank rides across the waves
Exulting on the edge of thousand gaping graves:
He steers the winged boat, and shifts the sails,
Conquers the flood, and manages the gales.

Such is the soul that leaves this mortal land
Fearless when the great Master gives command.
Death is the storm: She smiles to hear it roar,
And bids the tempest waft her from the shore:
Then with a skilful helm she sweeps the seas,
And manages the raging storm with ease;
(Her faith can govern death) she spreads her wings
Wide to the wind, and as she sails she sings,
And loses by degrees, the sight of mortal things.
As the shores lessen, so her joys arise,
The waves roll gentler, and the tempest dies:
Now vast eternity fills all her sight!
She floats on the broad deep with infinite delight,
The seas for ever calm, the skies for ever bright.

A Prospect of the Resurrection.

I

How long shall death the tyrant reign
And triumph o'er the just,
While the rich blood of martyrs slain
Lies mingled with the dust?

446

II

When shall the tedious night be gone?
When will our Lord appear?
Our fond desires would pray him down,
Our love embrace him here.

III

Let faith arise and climb the hills,
And from afar descry
How distant are his chariot-wheels,
And tell how fast they fly.

IV

Lo, I behold the scatt'ring shades,
The dawn of heav'n appears,
The sweet immortal morning spreads
Its blushes round the spheres.

V

I see the Lord of glory come,
And flaming guards around:
The skies divide to make him room,
The trumpet shakes the ground.

VI

I hear the voice, ‘Ye dead arise,’
And lo, the graves obey,
And waking saints with joyful eyes
Salute th'expected day.

VII

They leave the dust, and on the wing
Rise to the middle air,
In shining garments meet their King,
And low adore him there.

VIII

O may my humble spirit stand
Amongst them cloth'd in white!
The meanest place at his right-hand
Is infinite delight.

IX

How will our joy and wonder rise,
When our returning King
Shall bear us homeward thro' the skies
On love's triumphant wing!

447

Breathing toward the heavenly Country.

Casimire, book i. od. 19. Imitated.

Urit me Patriæ Decor, &c.

The beauty of my native land
Immortal love inspires;
I burn, I burn with strong desires,
And sigh, and wait the high command.
There glides the moon her shining way,
And shoots my heart thro' with a silver ray,
Upward my heart aspires:
A thousand lamps of golden light
Hung high, in vaulted azure, charm my sight,
And wink and beckon with their amorous fires,
O ye fair glories of my heav'nly home,
Bright centinels who guard my Father's court,
Where all the happy minds resort,
When will my Father's chariot come?
Must ye for ever walk the ethereal round?
For ever see the mourner lie
An exile of the sky,
A pris'ner of the ground?
Descend some shining servants from on high,
Build me a hasty tomb;
A grassy turf will raise my head;
The neighbouring lilies dress my bed;
And shed a cheap perfume.
Here I put off the chains of death,
My soul too long has worn:
Friends, I forbid one groaning breath,
Or tear to wet my urn;
Raphael, behold me all undrest,
Here gently lay this flesh to rest;
Then mount, and lead the path unknown,
Swift I pursue thee, flaming guide, on pinions of my own.

448

Casimiri Epigramma 100.

Englished. On Saint Ardalio, who from a Stage-player became a Christian, and suffered Martyrdom.

I

Ardalio jeers, and in his comic strains
The mysteries of our bleeding God profanes,
While his loud laughter shakes the painted scenes.

II

Heaven heard, and straight around the smoking throne
The kindling lightning in thick flashes shone,
And vengeful thunder murmur'd to be gone.

III

Mercy stood near, and with a smiling brow
Calm'd the loud thunder; ‘There's no need of you;
‘Grace shall descend, and the weak man subdue.’

IV

Grace leaves the skies, and he the stage forsakes,
He bows his head down to the martyring axe,
And as he bows, this gentle farewell speaks;

V

‘So goes the comedy of life away;
‘Vain earth, adieu; heaven will applaud to-day;
‘Strike, courteous tyrant, and conclude the play.

When the Protestant Church at Montpelier was demolished by the French King's Order, the Protestants laid the Stones up in their Burying-place, wherein a Jesuit made a Latin Epigram.

Englished thus:

A hug'not church, once at Montpelier built,
Stood and proclaim'd their madness and their guilt;
Too long it stood beneath heav'n's angry frown,
Worthy when rising to be thunder'd down.
Lewis, at last, th'avenger of the skies,
Commands, and level with the ground it lies:
The stones dispers'd, their wretched offspring come,
Gather, and heap them on their father's tomb.
Thus the curs'd house falls on the builder's head:
And tho' beneath the ground their bones are laid,
Yet the just vengeance still pursues the guilty dead.

The Answer, by a French Protestant.

Englished thus:

A Christian church once at Montpelier stood,
And nobly spoke the builder's zeal for God.
It stood the envy of the fierce dragoon,
But not deserv'd to be destroy'd so soon:
Yet Lewis, the wild tyrant of the age,
Tears down the walls, a victim to his rage.
Young faithful hands pile up the sacred stones
(Dear monument!) o'er their dead father's bones;
The stones shall move when the dead fathers rise,
Start up before the pale destroyer's eyes,
And testify his madness to th'avenging skies.

Two happy Rivals, Devotion and the Muse.

I.

Wild as the lightning, various as the moon,
Roves my Pindaric song:
Here she glows like burning noon
In fiercest flames, and here she plays
Gentle as star-beams on the midnight seas:
Now in a smiling angel's form,
Anon she rides upon the storm,
Loud as the noisy thunder, as a deluge strong,
Are my thoughts and wishes free,
And know no number nor degree?
Such is the muse: Lo, she disdains
The links and chains,
Measures and rules of vulgar strains,
And o'er the laws of harmony a sovereign queen she reigns.

II.

If she roves
By streams or groves
Tuning her pleasures or her pains,
My passion keeps her still in sight,
My passion holds an equal flight
Thro' love's, or nature's wide campaigns.
If with bold attempt she sings
Of the biggest mortal things,
Tottering thrones and nations slain;
Or breaks the fleets of warring kings,
While thunders roar
From shore to shore,
My soul sits fast upon her wings,
And sweeps the crimson surge, or scours the purple plain;
Still I attend her as she flies,
Round the broad globe, and all beneath the skies.

III.

But when from the meridian star
Long streaks of glory shine,
And heaven invites her from afar,
She takes the hint, she knows the sign,
The muse ascends her heavenly car,
And climbs the steepy path, and means the throne divine.

449

Then she leaves my fluttering mind
Clogg'd with clay, and unrefin'd,
Lengths of distance far behind:
Virtue lags with heavy wheel;
Faith has wings, but cannot rise,
Cannot rise,—Swift and high
As the winged numbers fly,
And faint devotion panting lies
Half way th'ethereal hill.

IV.

O why is piety so weak,
And yet the muse so strong?
When shall these hateful fetters break
That have confin'd me long?
Inward a glowing heat I feel,
A spark of heav'nly day;
But earthly vapours damp my zeal,
And heavy flesh drags me the downward way.
Faint are the efforts of my will,
And mortal passion charms my soul astray.
Shine, thou sweet hour of dear release,
Shine from the sky,
And call me high
To mingle with the choirs of glory and of bliss.
Devotion there begins the flight,
Awakes the song, and guides the way;
There love and zeal divine and bright
Trace out new regions in the world of light,
And scarce the boldest muse can follow or obey.

V.

I'm in a dream, and fancy reigns,
She spreads her gay delusive scenes;
Or is the vision true?
Behold Religion on her throne,
In awful state descending down,
And her dominions vast and bright within my spacious view.
She smiles, and with a courteous hand
She beckens me away;
I feel mine airy powers loose from the cumbrous clay,
And with a joyful haste obey
Religion's high command.
What lengths and heights and depths unknown!
Broad fields with blooming glory sown,
And seas, and skies, and stars her own,
In an unmeasur'd sphere!
What heavens of joy, and light serene,
Which nor the rolling sun has seen,
Where nor the roving muse has been
That greater traveller!

VI.

A long farewell to all below,
Farewell to all that sense can show,
To golden scenes, and flow'ry fields,
To all the worlds that fancy builds,
And all that poets know.
Now the swift transports of the mind
Leave the fluttering muse behind,
A thousand loose Pindaric plumes fly scatt'ring down the wind.
Amongst the clouds I lose my breath,
The rapture grows too strong:
The feeble pow'rs that nature gave
Faint, and drop downward to the grave;
Receive their fall, thou treasurer of death;
I will no more demand my tongue,
Till the gross organ well refin'd
Can trace the boundless flights of an unfetter'd mind,
And raise an equal song.

[_]

The following Poems of this Book are peculiarly dedicated to Divine Love.

Different ages have their different airs and fashions of writing. It was much more the fashion of the age, when these poems were written, to treat of divine subjects in the style of Solomon's Song than it is at this day, which will afford some apology for the writer, in his youngest years.

The Hazard of loving the Creatures.

I

Where'er my flatt'ring passions rove
I find a lurking snare;
'Tis dangerous to let loose our love
Beneath th'eternal fair.

II

Souls whom the tie of friendship binds,
And partners of our blood,
Seize a large portion of our minds,
And leave the less for God.

III

Nature has soft but pow'rful bands,
And reason she controls;
While children with their little hands
Hang closest to our souls.

IV

Thoughtless they act th'old serpent's part
What tempting things they be!
Lord, how they twine about our heart,
And draw it off from thee!

V

Our hasty wills rush blindly on
Where rising passion rolls,
And thus we make our fetters strong
To bind our slavish souls.

VI

Dear Sov'reign, break these fetters off,
And set our spirits free;
God in himself is bliss enough,
For we have all in thee.

450

Desiring to Love Christ.

I

Come, let me love: Or is thy mind
Harden'd to stone, or froze to ice?
I see the blessed Fair One bend
And stoop t'embrace me from the skies!

II

O! 'tis a thought would melt a rock,
And make a heart of iron move,
That those sweet lips, that heav'nly look,
Should seek and wish a mortal love!

III

I was a traitor doom'd to fire,
Bound to sustain eternal pains;
He flew on wings of strong desire,
Assum'd my guilt, and took my chains.

IV

Infinite grace! Almighty charms!
Stand in amaze, ye whirling skies,
Jesus the God, with naked arms;
Hangs on a cross of love, and dies.

V

Did pity ever stoop so low,
Dress'd in divinity and blood?
Was ever rebel courted so
In groans of an expiring God?

VI

Again he lives; and spreads his hands,
Hands that were nail'd to tort'ring smart;
‘By these dear wounds,’ says he; and stands
And prays to clasp me to his heart.

VII

Sure I must love; or are my ears
Still deaf, nor will my passion move?
Then let me melt this heart to tears;
This heart shall yield to death or love.

The Heart given away.

I

If there are passions in my soul,
(And passions sure they be)
Now they are all at thy control,
My Jesus, all for thee.

II

If love, that pleasing power, can rest
In hearts so hard as mine,
Come, gentle Saviour, to my breast,
For all my love is thine.

III

Let the gay world, with treach'rous art,
Allure my eyes in vain:
I have convey'd away my heart,
Ne'er to return again.

IV

I feel my warmest passions dead
To all that earth can boast:
This soul of mine was never made
For vanity and dust.

V

Now I can fix my thoughts above,
Amidst their flatt'ring charms,
Till the dear Lord that hath my love
Shall call me to his arms.

VI

So Gabriel, at his King's command,
From yon celestial hill,
Walks downward to our worthless land,
His soul points upward still.

VII

He glides along my mortal things,
Without a thought of love,
Fulfils his task, and spreads his wings
To reach the realms above.

Meditation in a Grove.

I

Sweet muse, descend and bless the shade,
And bless the evening grove;
Business, and noise, and day are fled,
And every care, but love.

II

But hence, ye wanton young and fair,
Mine is a purer flame;
No Phillis shall infect the air,
With her unhallowed name.

III

Jesus has all my powers possest,
My hopes, my fears, my joys:
He, the dear Sov'reign of my breast,
Shall still command my voice.

IV

Some of the fairest choirs above
Shall flock around my song,
With joy to hear the name they love
Sound from a mortal tongue.

V

His charms shall make my numbers flow,
And hold the falling floods,
While silence sits on ev'ry bough,
And bends the list'ning woods.

VI

I'll carve our passion on the bark,
And ev'ry wounded tree
Shall drop and bear some mystic mark
That Jesus dy'd for me.

VII

The swains shall wonder when they read,
Inscrib'd on all the grove,
That heav'n itself came down and bled
To win a mortal's love.

451

The Fairest and the only Beloved.

I.

Honour to that diviner ray
That first allur'd my eyes away
From ev'ry mortal fair;
All the gay things that held my sight
Seem but the twinkling sparks of night,
And languishing in doubtful light
Die at the morning-star.

II.

Whatever speaks the godhead great,
And fit to be ador'd,
Whatever makes the creature sweet,
And worthy of my passion, meet
Harmonious in my Lord.
A thousand graces ever rise
And bloom upon his face;
A thousand arrows from his eyes
Shoot thro' my heart with dear surprise,
And guard around the place.

III.

All nature's art shall never cure
The heav'nly pains I found,
And 'tis beyond all beauty's pow'r
To make another wound:
Earthly beauties grow and fade;
Nature heals the wounds she made,
But charms so much divine
Hold a long empire of the heart;
What heav'n has join'd shall never part,
And Jesus must be mine.

IV.

In vain the envious shades of night,
Or flatteries of the day
Would veil his image from my sight,
Or tempt my soul away;
Jesus is all my waking theme,
His lovely form meets ev'ry dream
And knows not to depart:
The passion reigns
Thro' all my veins,
And floating round the crimson stream,
Still finds him at my heart.

V.

Dwell there, for ever dwell, my Love;
Here I confine my sense;
Nor dare my wildest wishes rove
Nor stir a thought from thence.
Amidst thy glories and thy grace
Let all my remnant-minutes pass;
Grant, thou everlasting Fair,
Grant my soul a mansion there:
My soul aspires to see thy face
Tho' life should for the vision pay;
So rivers run to meet the sea,
And lose their nature in th'embrace.

VI.

Thou art my Ocean, thou my God;
In thee the passions of the mind
With joys and freedom unconsin'd
Exult, and spread their pow'rs abroad,
Not all the glittering things on high
Can make my heav'n, if thou remove;
I shall be tir'd and long to die;
Life is a pain without thy love;
Who could ever bear to be
Curst with immortality
Among the stars, but far from thee?

Mutual Love stronger than Death.

I.

Not the rich world of minds above
Can pay the mighty debt of love
I owe to Christ my God:
With pangs which none but he could feel
He brought my guilty soul from hell:
Not the first seraph's tongue can tell
The value of his blood.

II.

Kindly he seiz'd me in his arms,
From the false world's pernicious charms
With force divinely sweet.
Had I ten thousand lives my own,
At his demand,
With cheerful hand,
I'd pay the vital treasure down
In hourly tributes at his feet.

III.

But, Saviour, let me taste thy grace
With every fleeting breath;
And thro' that heaven of pleasure pass
To the cold arms of death;
Then I could lose successive souls
Fast as the minutes fly;
So billow after billow rolls
To kiss the shore and die.

[_]

The substance of the following Copy, and many of the Lines were sent me by an esteemed Friend, Mr. W. Nokes, with a desire that I would form them into a Pindaric Ode; but I retained his measures, lest I should too much alter his sense.

A Sight of Christ.

Angels of light, your God and King surround,
With noble songs; in his exalted flesh
He claims your worship; while his saints on earth,
Bless their Redeemer-God with humble tongues.
Angels with lofty honours crown his head;
We bowing at his feet, by faith, may feel
His distant influence, and confess his love.

452

Once I beheld his face, when beams divine
Broke from his eye-lids, and unusual light
Wrapt me at once in glory and surprise.
My joyful heart, high leaping in my breast,
With transport cry'd, ‘This is the Christ of God;’
Then threw my arms around in sweet embrace,
And clasp'd, and bow'd adoring low, till I was lost in him.

While he appears, no other charms can hold
Or draw my soul, asham'd of former things,
Which no remembrance now deserve, or name,
Tho' with contempt; best in oblivion hid.

But the bright shine & presence soon withdrew;
I sought him whom I love, but found him not;
I felt his absence; and with strongest cries
Proclaim'd, ‘Where Jesus is not, all is vain.’
Whether I hold him with a full delight,
Or seek him panting with extreme desire,
'Tis he alone can please my wond'ring soul;
To hold or seek him is my only choice.
If he refrain on me to cast his eye
Down from his palace, nor my longing soul
With upward look can spy my dearest Lord
Thro' his blue pavement, I'll behold him still
With sweet reflection on the peaceful cross,
All in his blood and anguish groaning deep,
Gasping and dying there—
This sight I ne'er can lose, by it I live:
A quick'ning virtue from his death inspir'd
Is life and breath to me; his flesh my food;
His vital blood I drink, and hence my strength.

I live, I'm strong, and now eternal life
Beats quick within my breast, my vigorous mind
Spurns the dull earth, and on her fiery wings
Reaches the mount of purposes divine,
Counsels of peace betwixt th'almighty Three
Conceiv'd at once, and sign'd without debate
In perfect union of th'eternal mind.
With vast amaze I see th'unfathom'd thoughts,
Infinite schemes, and infinite designs
Of God's own heart, in which he ever rests.
Eternity lies open to my view;
Here the beginning and the end of all
I can discover; Christ the end of all,
And Christ the great beginning; he my head,
My God, my glory, and my all in all.

O that the day, the joyful day were come,
When the first Adam from his ancient dust
Crown'd with new honours shall revive, and see
Jesus his Son and Lord; while shouting saints
Surround their King, and God's eternal Son
Shines in the midst, but with superior beams,
And like himself; then the mysterious Word
Long hid behind the letter shall appear
All spirit and life, and in the fullest light
Stand forth to public view; and there disclose
His Father's sacred works, and wondrous ways;
Then wisdom, righteousness and grace divine,
Thro' all the infinite transactions past,
Inwrought and shining, shall with double blaze
Strike our astonish'd eyes, and ever reign
Admir'd and glorious in triumphant light.

Death and the tempter, and the man of sin
Now at the bar arraign'd, in judgment cast,
Shall vex the saints no more: But perfect love
And loudest praises perfect joy create,
While ever circling years maintain the blissful state.

Love on a Cross, and a Throne.

I

Now let my faith grow strong, and rise
And view my Lord in all his love;
Look back to hear his dying cries,
Then mount and see his throne above.

II

See where he languish'd on the cross;
Beneath my sins he groan'd and dy'd;
See where he sits to plead my cause
By his almighty Father's side.

III

If I behold his bleeding heart,
There love in floods of sorrow reigns,
He triumphs o'er the killing smart,
And buys my pleasure with his pains.

IV

Or if I climb th'eternal hills
Where the dear Conqueror sits enthron'd,
Still in his heart compassion dwells,
Near the memorials of his wound.

V

How shall a pardon'd rebel show
How much I love my dying God?
Lord, here I banish ev'ry foe,
I hate the sins that cost thy blood.

VI

I hold no more commerce with hell,
My dearest lusts shall all depart;
But let thine image ever dwell
Stampt as a seal upon my heart.

A Preparatory Thought for the Lord's-Supper.

In Imitation of Isaiah lxiii. 1, 2, 3.

I

What heav'nly Man, or lovely God,
Comes marching downward from the skies,
Array'd in garments roll'd in blood,
With joy and pity in his eyes?

453

II

The Lord! the Saviour! yes, 'tis he,
I know him by the smiles he wears;
Dear glorious Man that dy'd for me,
Drench'd deep in agonies and tears!

III

Lo, he reveals his shining breast;
I own those wounds, and I adore:
Lo, he prepares a royal feast,
Sweet fruit of the sharp pangs he bore!

IV

Whence flow these favours so divine!
Lord, why so lavish of thy blood?
Why for such earthly souls as mine,
This heav'nly flesh, this sacred food?

V

'Twas his own love that made him bleed,
That nail'd him to the cursed tree;
'Twas his own love this table spread
For such unworthy worms as we.

VI

Then let us taste the Saviour's love,
Come, faith, and feed upon the Lord:
With glad consent our lips shall move
And sweet hosannas crown the board.

Converse with Christ.

I

I'm tir'd with visits, modes, and forms,
And flatteries made to fellow-worms:
Their conversation cloys;
Their vain amours, and empty stuff:
But I can ne'er enjoy enough
Of thy best company, my Lord, thou life of all my joys.

II

When he begins to tell his love,
Thro' ev'ry vein my passions move,
The captive of his tongue:
In midnight shades, on frosty ground,
I could attend the pleasing sound,
Nor should I feel December cold, nor think the darkness long.

III

There, while I hear my Saviour-God
Count o'er the sins (a heavy load)
He bore upon the tree,
Inward I blush with secret shame,
And weep, and love, and bless the name
That knew not guilt nor grief his own, but bare it all for me.

IV

Next he describes the thorns he wore,
And talks his bloody passions o'er,
Till I am drown'd in tears:
Yet with the sympathetic smart
There's a strange joy beats round my heart;
The cursed tree has blessings in't, my sweetest balm it bears.

V

I hear the glorious Sufferer tell,
How on his cross he vanquish'd hell,
And all the powers beneath;
Transported and inspir'd, my tongue
Attempts his triumphs in a song:
‘How has the serpent lost his sting, and where's thy victory, death?’

VI

But when he shows his hands and heart,
With those dear prints of dying smart,
He sets my soul on fire:
Not the beloved John could rest
With more delight upon that breast,
Nor Thomas pry into those wounds with more intense desire.

VII

Kindly he opens me his ear,
And bids me pour my sorrow there,
And tell him all my pains:
Thus while I ease my burden'd heart,
In ev'ry woe he bears a part,
His arms embrace me, and his hand my drooping head sustains.

VIII

Fly from my thoughts, all human things,
And sporting swains, and fighting kings,
And tales of wanton love:
My soul disdains that little snare
The tangles of Amira's hair:
Thine arms, my God, are sweeter bands, nor can my heart remove.

Grace shining and Nature fainting.

Sol. Song i. 3. and ii. 5. and vi. 5.

I.

Tell me, fairest of thy kind,
Tell me, Shepherd, all divine,
Where this fainting head reclin'd
May relieve such cares as mine:
Shepherd, lead me to thy grove;
If burning noon infect the sky
The sick'ning sheep to covert fly,
The sheep not half so faint as I,
Thus overcome with love.

II.

Say, thou dear Sov'reign of my breast,
Where dost thou lead thy flock to rest:
Why should I appear like one
Wild and wand'ring all alone,
Unbeloved and unknown?
O my great Redeemer, say,
Shall I turn my feet astray!
Will Jesus bear to see me rove,
To see me seek another love?

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III.

Ne'er had I known his dearest name,
Ne'er had I felt this inward flame,
Had not his heart-strings first began the tender sound:
Nor can I bear the thought, that he
Should leave the sky,
Should bleed and die,
Should love a wretch so vile as me
Without returns of passion for his dying wound.

IV.

His eyes are glory mix'd with grace;
In his delightful awful face
Sits majesty and gentleness.
So tender is my bleeding heart
That with a frown he kills;
His absence is perpetual smart,
Nor is my soul refin'd enough
To bear the beaming of his love,
And feel his warmer smiles.
Where shall I rest this drooping head;
I love, I love the sun, and yet I want the shade.

V.

My sinking spirits feebly strive
T'endure the ecstasy;
Beneath these rays I cannot live,
And yet without them die.
None knows the pleasure and the pain
That all my inward pow'rs sustain
But such as feel a Saviour's love, and love the God again.

VI.

O why should beauty heav'nly bright
Stoop to charm a mortal's sight,
And torture with the sweet excess of light?
Our hearts, alas! how frail their make!
With their own weight of joy they break;
Oh! why is love so strong, and nature's self so weak?

VII.

Turn, turn away thine eyes,
Ascend the azure hills, and shine
Amongst the happy tenants of the skies;
They can sustain a vision so divine.
O turn thy lovely glories from me,
The joys are too intense, the glories overcome me.

VIII.

Dear Lord, forgive my rash complaint,
And love me still
Against my froward will;
Unveil thy beauties, tho' I faint.
Send the great herald from the sky,
And at the trumpet's awful roar
This feeble state of things shall fly,
And pain and pleasure mix no more:
Then shall I gaze with strengthened sight
On glories infinitely bright,
My heart shall all be love, my Jesus all delight.

Love to Christ, present or absent.

I

Of all the joys we mortals know,
Jesus, thy love exceeds the rest;
Love, the best blessing here below,
And nearest image of the blest.

II

Sweet are my thoughts, and soft my cares,
When the celestial flame I feel;
In all my hopes, and all my fears,
There's something kind and pleasing still.

III

While I am held in his embrace
There's not a thought attempts to rove;
Each smile he wears upon his face
Fixes, and charms, and fires my love.

IV

He speaks, and straight immortal joys
Run through my ears, and reach my heart;
My soul all melts at that dear voice,
And pleasure shoots thro' ev'ry part.

V

If he withdraw a moment's space,
He leaves a sacred pledge behind;
Here in this breast his image stays,
The grief and comfort of my mind.

VI

While of his absence I complain,
And long, and weep as lovers do,
There's a strange pleasure in the pain,
And tears have their own sweetness too.

VII

When round his courts by day I rove,
Or ask the watchman of the night
For some kind tidings of my love,
His very name creates delight.

VIII

Jesus, my God; yet rather come;
Mine eyes would dwell upon thy face;
'Tis best to see my Lord at home,
And feel the presence of his grace.

The Absence of Christ.

I

Come, lead me to some lofty shade
Where turtles moan their loves;
Tall shadows were for lovers made;
And grief becomes the groves.

II

'Tis no mean beauty of the ground
That has inslav'd mine eyes;
I faint beneath a nobler wound,
Nor love below the skies.

III

Jesus the spring of all that's bright,
The everlasting fair,
Heaven's ornament, and heaven's delight,
Is my eternal care.

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IV

But ah! how far above this grove
Does the bright charmer dwell?
Absence, thou keenest wound to love,
That sharpest pain, I feel.

V

Pensive I climb the sacred hills,
And near him vent my woes;
Yet his sweet face he still conceals,
Yet still my passion grows.

VI

I murmur to the hollow vale,
I tell the rocks my flame,
And bless the echo in her cell
That best repeats her name.

VII

My passion breathes perpetual sighs,
Till pitying winds shall hear,
And gently bear them up the skies,
And gently wound his ear.

Desiring his Descent to Earth.

I

Jesus, I love. Come, dearest name,
Come and possess this heart of mine;
I love, tho' 'tis a fainter flame,
And infinitely less than thine.

II

O! if my Lord would leave the skies,
Drest in the rays of mildest grace,
My soul should hasten to my eyes,
To meet the pleasures of his face.

III

How would I feast on all his charms,
Then round his lovely feet entwine!
Worship and love in all their forms,
Should honour beauty so divine.

IV

In vain the tempter's flatt'ring tongue,
The world in vain should bid me move,
In vain; for I should gaze so long
Till I were all transform'd to love.

V

Then, mighty God, I'd sing and say,
‘What empty names are crowns and kings!
‘Amongst 'em give these worlds away,
‘These little despicable things.’

VI

I would not ask to climb the sky,
Nor envy angels their abode,
I have a heav'n as bright and high
In the blest vision of my God.

Ascending to him in Heaven.

I

'Tis pure delight, without alloy,
Jesus, to hear thy name,
My spirit leaps with inward joy,
I feel the sacred flame.

II

My passions hold a pleasing reign,
While love inspires my breast,
Love, the divinest of the train,
The sov'reign of the rest.

III

This is the grace must live and sing,
When faith and fear shall cease,
Must sound from ev'ry joyful string
Thro' the sweet groves of bliss.

IV

Let life immortal seize my clay;
Let love refine my blood;
Her flames can bear my soul away,
Can bring me near my God.

V

Swift I ascend the heav'nly place,
And hasten to my home,
I leap to meet thy kind embrace,
I come, O Lord, I come.

VI

Sink down, ye separating hills,
Let guilt and death remove,
'Tis love that drives my chariot wheels,
And death must yield to love.

The Presence of God worth dying for; or, the Death of Moses.

I

Lord, 'tis an infinite delight
To see thy lovely face,
To dwell whole ages in thy sight,
And feel thy vital rays.

II

This Gabriel knows; and sings thy name
With rapture on his tongue;
Moses the saint enjoys the same,
And heav'n repeats the song.

III

While the bright nation sounds thy praise
From each eternal hill,
Sweet odours of exhaling grace
The happy region fill.

IV

Thy love, a sea without a shore,
Spreads life and joy abroad:
O 'tis a heav'n worth dying for
To see a smiling God!

V

Show me thy face, and I'll away
From all inferior things:
Speak, Lord, and here I quit my clay,
And stretch my airy wings.

VI

Sweet was the journey to the sky
The wondrous prophet try'd;
‘Climb up the mount.’ says God, ‘and die,’
The prophet climb'd and dy'd.

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VII

Softly his fainting head he lay
Upon his Maker's breast,
His Maker kiss'd his soul away,
And laid his flesh to rest.

VIII

In God's own arms he left the breath
That God's own Spirit gave;
His was the noblest road to death,
And his the sweetest grave.

Long for his Return.

I

O 'twas a mournful parting day!
‘Farewell, my spouse,’ he said;
(How tedious, Lord, is thy delay!
How long my love hath stay'd!)

II

Farewell; at once he left the ground,
And climb'd his Father's sky:
Lord, I would tempt thy chariot down,
Or leap to thee on high.

III

Round the creation wild I rove,
And search the globe in vain;
There's nothing here that's worth my love
Till thou return again.

IV

My passions fly to seek their King,
And send their groans abroad,
They beat the air with heavy wing,
And mourn an absent God:

V

With inward pain my heart-strings sound,
My soul dissolves away;
Dear Sov'reign, whirl the seasons round,
And bring the promis'd day.

Hope in Darkness.

1694.

I.

Yet, gracious God,
Yet will I seek thy smiling face;
What tho' a short eclipse his beauties shroud
And bar the influence of his rays,
'Tis but a morning vapour, or a summer cloud:
He is my Sun tho' he refuse to shine,
Tho' for a moment he depart
I dwell for ever on his heart,
For ever he on mine.
Early before the light arise
I'll spring a thought away to God;
The passion of my heart and eyes
Shall shout a thousand groans and sighs,
A thousand glances strike the skies,
The floor of his abode.

II.

Dear Sov'reign, hear thy servant pray,
Bend the blue heav'ns, eternal King,
Downward thy cheerful graces bring;
Or shall I breathe in vain and pant my hours away?
Break, glorious Brightness, thro' the gloomy veil,
Look how the armies of despair
Aloft their sooty banners rear
Round my poor captive soul, and dare
Pronounce me prisoner of hell,
But thou, my Sun, and thou, my Shield,
Wilt save me in the bloody field;
Break, glorious Brightness, shoot one glimm'ring ray,
One glance of thine creates a day,
And drives the troops of hell away.

III.

Happy the times, but ah! the times are gone
When wondrous pow'r and radiant grace
Round the tall arches of the temple shone,
And mingled their victorious rays:
Sin, with all its ghastly train,
Fled to the deeps of death again,
And smiling triumph sat on every face:
Our spirits raptur'd with the sight
Were all devotion, all delight,
And loud hosannas sounded the Redeemer's praise.
Here could I say,
(And point the place whereon I stood)
Here I enjoy'd a visit half the day
From my descending God:
I was regal'd with heav'nly fare,
With fruit and manna from above;
Divinely sweet the blessings were
While mine Emanuel was there:
And o'er my head
The conqueror spread
The banner of his love.

IV.

Then why my heart sunk down so low?
Why do my eyes dissolve and flow,
And hopeless nature mourn?
Review, my soul, those pleasing days,
Read his unalterable grace
Thro' the displeasure of his face,
And wait a kind return.
A father's love may raise a frown
To chide the child, or prove the son,
But love will ne'er destroy;
The hour of darkness is but short,
Faith be thy life, and patience thy support,
The morning brings the joy.

Come, Lord Jesus.

I

When shall thy lovely face be seen?
When shall our eyes behold our God?
What lengths of distance lie between,
And hills of guilt? a heavy load!

457

II

Our months are ages of delay,
And slowly every minute wears:
Fly, winged time, and roll away
These tedious rounds of sluggish years.

III

Ye heav'nly gates, loose all your chains,
Let the eternal pillars bow;
Blest Saviour, cleave the starry plains,
And make the crystal mountains flow.

IV

Hark, how thy saints unite their cries,
And pray and wait the general doom;
Come, thou, the soul of all our joys,
Thou, the desire of nations, come.

V

Put thy bright robes of triumph on,
And bless our eyes, and bless our ears,
Thou absent love, thou dear unknown,
Thou Fairest of ten thousand fairs.

VI

Our heart-strings groan with deep complaint,
Our flesh lies panting, Lord, for thee,
And ev'ry limb, and ev'ry joint,
Stretches for immortality.

VII

Our spirits shake their eager wings,
And burn to meet thy flying throne;
We rise away from mortal things
T'attend thy shining chariot down.

VIII

Now let our cheerful eyes survey
The blazing earth and melting hills,
And smile to see the lightnings play,
And flash along before thy wheels.

IX

O for a shout of violent joys
To join the trumpet's thund'ring sound!
The angel herald shakes the skies,
Awakes the graves and tears the ground.

X

Ye slumb'ring saints, a heav'nly host
Stands waiting at your gaping tombs;
Let ev'ry sacred sleeping dust
Leap into life, for Jesus comes.

XI

Jesus, the God of might and love,
New-moulds our limbs of cumb'rous clay;
Quick as seraphic flames we move,
Active and young, and fair as they.

XII

Our airy feet with unknown flight,
Swift as the motions of desire,
Run up the hills of heav'nly light,
And leave the welt'ring world in fire.

Bewailing my own Inconstancy.

I

I love the Lord; but ah! how far
My thoughts from the dear object are!
This wanton heart, how wide it roves!
And fancy meets a thousand loves.

II

If my soul burn to see my God,
I tread the courts of his abode,
But troops of rivals throng the place
And tempt me off before his face.

III

Would I enjoy my Lord alone,
I bid my passions all be gone,
All but my love; and charge my will
To bar the door and guard it still.

IV

But cares, or trifles, make, or find,
Still new avenues to the mind,
Till I with grief and wonder see
Huge crowds betwixt the Lord and me

V

Oft I am told the muse will prove
A friend to piety and love;
Straight I begin some sacred song,
And take my Saviour on my tongue.

VI

Strangely I lose his lovely face,
To hold the empty sounds in chase;
At best the chimes divide my heart,
And the muse shares the larger part.

VII

False confident! and falser breast!
Fickle, and fond of ev'ry guest:
Each airy image as it flies,
Here finds admittance thro' my eyes.

VIII

This foolish heart can leave her God,
And shadows tempt her thoughts abroad:
How shall I fix this wand'ring mind?
Or throw my fetters on the wind?

IX

Look gently down, almighty Grace,
Prison me round in thine embrace;
Pity the soul that would be thine,
And let thy pow'r my love confine.

X

Say, when shall thy bright moment be
That I shall live alone for thee,
My heart no foreign lords adore,
And the wild muse prove false no more?

Forsaken, yet hoping.

I

Happy the hours, the golden days,
When I could call my Jesus mine,
And sit and view his smiling face,
And melt in pleasures all divine.

458

II

Near to my heart, within my arms
He lay, till sin defil'd my breast,
Till broken vows, and earthly charms,
Tir'd and provok'd my heav'nly guest.

III

And now he's gone, O mighty woe!
Gone from my soul, and hides his love!
Curse on you, sins, that griev'd him so,
Ye sins, that forc'd him to remove.

IV

Break, break, my heart; complain, my tongue;
Hither, my friends, your sorrows bring:
Angels, assist my doleful song,
If you have e'er a mourning string.

V

But ah! your joys are ever high,
Ever his lovely face you see;
While my poor spirits pant and die,
And groan, for thee, my God, for thee.

VI

Yet let my hope look thro' my tears,
And spy afar his rolling throne;
His chariot thro' the cleaving spheres
Shall bring the bright Beloved down.

VII

Swift as a roe flies o'er the hills,
My soul springs out to meet him high,
Then the fair Conqueror turns his wheels,
And climbs the mansions of the sky.

VIII

There smiling joy for ever reigns,
No more the turtle leaves the dove;
Farewell to jealousies, and pains,
And all the ills of absent love.

THE CONCLUSION.

God exalted above all Praise.

I

Eternal pow'r! whose high abode
Becomes the grandeur of a God;
Infinite length beyond the bounds
Where stars revolve their little rounds.

II

The lowest step above thy seat
Rises too high for Gabriel's feet,
In vain the tall archangel tries
To reach thine height with wond'ring eyes.

III

Thy dazzling beauties whilst he sings
He hides his face behind his wings;
And ranks of shining thrones around
Fall worshipping, and spread the ground.

IV

Lord, what shall earth and ashes do?
We would adore our Maker too;
From sin and dust to thee we cry,
‘The Great, the Holy, and the High!’

V

Earth from afar has heard thy fame,
And worms have learnt to lisp thy name;
But O, the glories of thy mind
Leave all our soaring thoughts behind.

VI

God is in heav'n, and men below;
Be short our tunes; our words be few;
A sacred reverence checks our songs,
And praise sits silent on our tongues.

Tibi silet laus, O Deus,

Psalm lxv. 1.

END OF THE FIRST BOOK.

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BOOK II. SACRED TO VIRTUE, HONOUR AND FRIENDSHIP.

TO HER MAJESTY.

Queen of the northern world, whose gentle sway
Commands our love, and charms our hearts t'obey,
Forgive the nation's groan when William dy'd:
Lo, at thy feet in all the loyal pride
Of blooming joy, three happy realms appear,
And William's urn almost without a tear
Stands; nor complains: while from thy gracious tongue
Peace flows in silver streams amidst the throng.
Amazing balm that on those lips was found
To sooth the torment of that mortal wound,
And calm the wild affright! The terror dies,
The bleeding wound cements, the danger flies,
And Albion shouts thine honours as her joys arise.

The German eagle feels her guardian dead,
Not her own thunder can secure her head;
Her trembling eaglets hasten from afar,
And Belgia's lion dreads the Gallic war:
All hide behind thy shield. Remoter lands
Whose lives lay trusted in Nassovian hands
Transfer their souls, and live; secure they play
In thy mild rays, and love the growing day.

Thy beamy wing at once defends and warms
Fainting religion, whilst in various forms
Fair piety shines thro' the British isles:
Here at thy side, and in thy kindest smiles
Blazing in ornamental gold she stands,
To bless thy counsels, and assist thy hands,
And crowds wait round her to receive commands.
There at a humble distance from the throne
Beauteous she lies: Her lustre all her own,
Ungarnish'd; yet not blushing, nor afraid,
Nor knows suspicion, nor affects the shade:
Cheerful and pleas'd she not presumes to share
In thy parental gifts, but owns thy guardian care.
For thee, dear Sov'reign, endless vows arise,
And zeal with earthly wing salutes the skies
To gain thy safety: Here a solemn form
Of ancient words keeps the devotion warm,
And guides, but bounds our wishes: There the mind
Feels its own fire, and kindles unconfin'd
With bolder hopes: Yet still beyond our vows
Thy lovely glories rise, thy spreading terror grows.

Princess, the world already owns thy name:
Go, mount the chariot of immortal fame,
Nor die to be renown'd: Fame's loudest breath
Too dear is purchas'd by an angel's death.
The vengeance of thy rod, with general joy,
Shall scourge rebellion and the rival boy:
Thy sounding arms his Gallic patron hears
And speeds his flight; not overtakes his fears,
Till hard despair wring from the tyrant's soul
The iron tears out. Let thy frown control
Our angry jars at home, till wrath submit
Her impious banners to thy sacred feet.
Mad zeal and frenzy, with their murderous train,
Flee these sweet realms in thine auspicious reign,
Envy expire in rage, and treason bite the chain.

Let no black scenes affright fair Albion's stage:
Thy thread of life prolong our golden age,
Long bless the earth, and late ascend thy throne
Ethereal; (not thy deeds are there unknown,

460

Nor there unsung; for by thine awful hands
Heav'n rules the waves, and thunders o'er the lands,
Creates inferior kings, and gives 'em their commands.)
Legions attend thee at the radiant gates;
For thee thy sister-seraph, blest Maria, waits.

But oh! the parting stroke! some heavenly pow'r
Cheer thy sad Britons in the gloomy hour;
Some new propitious star appear on high
The fairest glory of the western sky,
And Anna be its name; with gentle sway
To check the planets of malignant ray,
Sooth the rude north wind, and the rugged bear,
Calm rising wars, heal the contagious air,
And reign with peaceful influence to the southern sphere.

Note, This poem was written in the year 1705, in that honourable part of the reign of our late Queen, when she had broke the French power at Blenheim, asserted the right of Charles the present Emperor to the crown of Spain, exerted her zeal for the protestant succession, and promised inviolably to maintain the toleration to the protestant dissenters.—Thus she appeared the chief support of the Reformation, and the patroness of the liberties of Europe.

The latter part of her reign was of a different colour, and was by no means attended with the accomplishment of those glorious hopes which we had conceived. Now the muse cannot satisfy herself to publish this new edition without acknowledging the mistake of her former presages; and while she does the world this justice, she does herself the honour of a voluntary retractation.

August 1, 1721.

The established church of England.

The protestant dissenters.

The established church of England.

The protestant dissenters.

The pretender.

She made Charles the emperor's second son king of Spain, who is now emperor of Germany.

PALINODIA.

Britons, forgive the forward muse
That dar'd prophetic seals to loose,
(Unskill'd in fate's eternal book,)
And the deep characters mistook.

George is the name, that glorious star;
Ye saw his splendors beaming far;
Saw in the east your joys arise,
When Anna sunk in western skies,
Streaking the heav'ns with crimson gloom,
Emblems of tyranny and Rome,
Portending blood and night to come.
'Twas George diffus'd a vital ray,
And gave the dying nations day:
His influence sooths the Russian bear,
Calms rising wars, and heals the air;
Join'd with the sun his beams are hurl'd
To scatter blessings round the world,
Fulfil whate'er the muse has spoke,
And crown the work that Anne forsook.

August 1, 1721.

TO JOHN LOCKE, ESQ.

Retired from Business.

I.

Angels are made of heav'nly things,
And light and love our souls compose,
Their bliss within their bosom springs,
Within their bosom flows.
But narrow minds still make pretence
To search the coasts of flesh and sense,
And fetch diviner pleasures thence.
Men are a-kin to ethereal forms,
But they bely their nobler birth,
Debase their honour down to earth,
And claim a share with worms.

II.

He that has treasures of his own
May leave the cottage or the throne,
May quit the globe, and dwell alone
Within his spacious mind.
Locke hath a soul wide as the sea,
Calm as the night, bright as the day,
There may his vast ideas play,
Nor feel a thought confin'd.

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

On Mr. Locke's dangerous Sickness, some time after he had retired to study the Scriptures.

June, 1704.

I

And must the man of wondrous mind
(Now his rich thoughts are just refin'd)
Forsake our longing eyes?
Reason at length submits to wear
The wings of faith; and lo, they rear
Her chariot high, and nobly bear
Her Prophet to the skies.

II

Go, friend, and wait the Prophet's flight,
Watch if his mantle chance to light,
And seize it for thy own;
Shute is the darling of his years,
Young Shute his better likeness bears;
All but his wrinkles and his hairs
Are copy'd in his Son.

III

Thus when our follies, or our fau'ts,
Call for the pity of thy thoughts,
Thy pen shall make us wise:
The sallies of whose youthful wit
Could pierce the British fogs with light,
Place our true interest in our sight,
And open half our eyes.

The Interest of England, written by I. S. Esq.

461

TO MR. WILLIAM NOKES.

Friendship.

1702.

I

Friendship, thou charmer of the mind,
Thou sweet deluding ill,
The brightest minute mortals find,
And sharpest hour we feel.

II

Fate has divided all our shares
Of pleasure and of pain;
In love the comforts and the cares
Are mix'd and join'd again.

III

But whilst in floods our sorrow rolls,
And drops of joy are few,
This dear delight of mingling souls
Serves but to swell our woe.

IV

Oh! why should bliss depart in haste,
And friendship stay to moan?
Why the fond passion cling so fast,
When ev'ry joy is gone?

V

Yet never let our hearts divide,
Nor death dissolve the chain:
For love and joy were once ally'd,
And must be join'd again.

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

1704.

I.

Tis not by splendor, or by state,
Exalted mien, or lofty gate,
My muse takes measure of a king:
If wealth, or height, or bulk will do,
She calls each mountain of Peru
A more majestic thing.
Frown on me, friend, if e'er I boast
O'er fellow-minds inslav'd in clay,
Or swell when I shall have ingrost
A larger heap of shining dust,
And wear a bigger load of earth than they.
Let the vain world salute me loud,
My thoughts look inward, and forget
The sounding names of High and Great,
The flatteries of the crowd.

II.

When Gould commands his ships to run
And search the traffic of the sea,
His fleet o'ertakes the falling day,
And bears the western mines away,
Or richer spices from the rising sun:
While the glad tenants of the shore
Shout, and pronounce him senator,
Yet still the man's the same:
For well the happy merchant knows
The soul with treasure never grows,
Nor swells with airy fame.

III.

But trust me, Gould, 'tis lawful pride
To rise above the mean control
Of flesh and sense, to which we're ty'd;
This is ambition that becomes a soul.
We steer our course up thro' the skies;
Farewell this barren land:
We ken the heav'nly shore with longing eyes,
There the dear wealth of spirits lies,
And beck'ning angels stand.

Member of parliament for a port in Sussex.

TO DR. THOMAS GIBSON.

The Life of Souls.

1704.

I.

Swift as the sun revolves the day
We hasten to the dead,
Slaves to the wind we puff away,
And to the ground we tread.
'Tis air that lends us life, when first
The vital bellows heave:
Our flesh we borrow of the dust;
And when a mother's care has nurst
The babe to manly size, we must
With usury pay the grave.

II.

Rich juleps drawn from precious ore
Still tend the dying flame:
And plants, and roots, of barbarous name,
Torn from the Indian shore.
Thus we support our tott'ring flesh,
Our cheeks resume the rose afresh,
When bark and steel play well their game
To save our sinking breath,
And Gibson, with his awful power,
Rescues the poor precarious hour
From the demands of death.

III.

But art and nature, pow'rs and charms,
And drugs, and recipes, and forms,
Yield us, at last, to greedy worms
A despicable prey;
I'd have a life to call my own,
That shall depend on heav'n alone;
Nor air, nor earth, nor sea
Mix their base essences with mine,
Nor claim dominion so divine
To give me leave to be.

IV.

Sure there's a mind within, that reigns
O'er the dull current of my veins;
I feel the inward pulse beat high
With vig'rous immortality.

462

Let earth resume the flesh it gave,
And breath dissolve amongst the winds;
Gibson, the things that fear a grave,
That I can lose, or you can save,
Are not a-kin to minds.

V.

We claim acquaintance with the skies,
Upward our spirits hourly rise,
And there our thoughts employ:
When heav'n shall sign our grand release,
We are no strangers to the place,
The business, or the joy.

False Greatness.

I.

Mylo, forbear to call him blest
That only boasts a large estate,
Should all the treasures of the west
Meet, and conspire to make him great.
I know thy better thoughts, I know
Thy reason can't descend so low.
Let a broad stream with golden sands
Thro' all his meadows roll,
He's but a wretch, with all his lands,
That wears a narrow soul.

II.

He swells amidst his wealthy store,
And proudly poizing what he weighs,
In his own scale he fondly lays
Huge heaps of shining ore.
He spreads the balance wide to hold
His manors and his farms,
And cheats the beam with loads of gold
He hugs between his arms.
So might the plough-boy climb a tree,
When Crœsus mounts his throne,
And both stand up, and smile to see
How long their shadow's grown.
Alas! how vain their fancies be
To think that shape their own!

III.

Thus mingled still with wealth and state,
Crœsus himself can never know
His true dimensions, and his weight
Are far inferior to their show.
Were I so tall to reach the pole,
Or grasp the ocean with my span,
I must be measur'd by my soul:
The mind's the standard of the man.

TO SARISSA.

An Epistle.

Bear up, Sarissa, thro' the ruffling storms
Of a vain vexing world: Tread down the cares
Those ragged thorns that lie across the road,
Nor spend a tear upon them. Trust the muse,
She sings experienc'd truth: This briny dew,
This rain of eyes will make the briers grow:
We travel thro' a desert, and our feet
Have measur'd a fair space, have left behind
A thousand dangers, and a thousand snares
Well scap'd. Adieu, ye horrors of the dark,
Ye finish'd labours, and ye tedious toils
Of days and hours: The twinge of real smart,
And the false terrors of ill-boding dreams
Vanish together, be alike forgot,
For ever blended in one common grave.

Farewell, ye waxing and ye waning moons,
That we have watch'd behind the flying clouds
On night's dark hill, or setting or ascending,
Or in meridian height: Then silence reign'd
O'er half the world; then ye beheld our tears,
Ye witness'd our complaints, our kindred groans,
(Sad harmony!) while with your beamy horns,
Or richer orb ye silver'd o'er the green
Where trod our feet, and lent a feeble light
To mourners. Now ye have fulfill'd your round,
Those hours are fled, farewell. Months that are gone
Are gone for ever, and have borne away
Each his own load. Our woes and sorrows past,
Mountainous woes, still lessen as they fly
Far off. So billows in a stormy sea,
Wave after wave (a long succession) roll
Beyond the ken of sight: The sailors safe
Look far a-stern till they have lost the storm,
And shout their boisterous joys. A gentler muse
Sings thy dear safety, and commands thy cares
To dark oblivion; bury'd deep in night
Lose them, Sarissa, and assist my song.

Awake thy voice, sing how the slender line
Of fate's immortal now divides the past
From all the future, with eternal bars
Forbidding a return. The past temptations
No more shall vex us; every grief we feel
Shortens the destin'd number; every pulse
Beats a sharp moment of the pain away,
And the last stroke will come. By swift degrees
Time sweeps us off, and we shall soon arrive
At life's sweet period: O celestial point
That ends this mortal story!

But if a glimpse of light with flatt'ring ray
Breaks thro' the clouds of life, or wand'ring fire
Amidst the shades invite your doubtful feet,
Beware the dancing meteor; faithless guide,
That leads the lonesome pilgrim wide astray
To bogs, and fens, and pits, and certain death!
Should vicious pleasure take an angel-form
And at a distance rise, by slow degrees,
Treacherous, to wind herself into your heart,
Stand firm aloof; nor let the gaudy phantom
Too long allure your gaze: The just delight
That heav'n indulges lawful, must obey
Superior powers; nor tempt your thoughts too far
In slavery to sense, nor swell your hope

463

To dang'rous size: If it approach your feet
And court your hand, forbid th'intruding joy
To sit too near your heart: Still may our souls
Claim kindred with the skies, nor mix with dust
Our better-born affections; leave the globe
A nest for worms, and hasten to our home.

O there are gardens of th'immortal kind
That crown the heav'nly Eden's rising hills
With beauty and with sweets; no lurking mischief
Dwells in the fruit, nor serpent twines the bough;
The branches bend laden with life and bliss
Ripe for the taste, but 'tis a steep ascent;
Hold fast the golden chain let down from heav'n,
'Twill help your feet and wings; I feel its force
Draw upwards; fasten'd to the pearly gate
It guides the way unerring: Happy clue
Thro' this dark wild! 'Twas wisdom's noblest work,
All join'd by pow'r divine, and every link is love.

The Gospel.

TO MR. T. BRADBURY.

Paradise.

1708.

I.

Young as I am I quit the stage,
Nor will I know th'applauses of the age;
Farewell to growing fame. I leave below
A life not half worn out with cares,
Or agonies, or years;
I leave my country all in tears,
But heaven demands me upward, and I dare to go.
Amongst ye, friends, divide and share
The remnant of my days,
If ye have patience, and can bear
A long fatigue of life, and drudge thro' all the race.

II.

Hark, my fair guardian chides my stay,
And waves his golden rod:
‘Angel, I come; lead on the way:’
And now by swift degrees
I sail aloft thro' azure seas,
Now tread the milky road:
Farewell, ye planets, in your spheres;
And as the stars are lost, a brighter sky appears.
In haste for Paradise
I stretch the pinions of a bolder thought;
Scarce had I will'd, but I was past
Deserts of trackless light and all th'ethereal waste,
And to the sacred borders brought;
There on the wing a guard of cherubs lies,
Each waves a keen flame as he flies,
And well defends the walls from sieges and surprise.

III.

With pleasing rev'rence I behold
The pearly portals wide unfold:
Enter, my soul, and view th'amazing scenes;
Sit fast upon the flying muse,
And let thy roving wonder loose
O'er all th'empyreal plains.
Noon stands eternal here: here may thy sight
Drink in the rays of primogenial light;
Here breathe immortal air:
Joy must beat high in ev'ry vein,
Pleasure thro' all thy bosom reign;
The laws forbid the stranger, pain,
And banish every care.

IV.

See how the bubbling springs of love
Beneath the throne arise;
The streams in crystal channels move,
Around the golden streets they rove,
And bless the mansions of the upper skies.
There a fair grove of knowledge grows,
Nor sin nor death infects the fruit;
Young life hangs fresh on all the boughs,
And springs from ev'ry root;
Here may thy greedy senses feast
While ecstasy and health attend on every taste.
With the fair prospect charm'd I stood;
Fearless I feed on the delicious fare,
And drink profuse salvation from the silver flood,
Nor can excess be there.

V.

In sacred order rang'd along
Saints new-releas'd by death
Join the bold seraph's warbling breath,
And aid th'immortal song.
Each has a voice that tunes his strings
To mighty sounds, and mighty things,
Things of everlasting weight,
Sounds, like the softer viol, sweet,
And, like the trumpet, strong.
Divine attention held my soul,
I was all ear!
Thro' all my pow'rs the heav'nly accents roll.
I long'd and wish'd my Bradbury there;
‘Could he but hear these notes,’ I said,
‘His tuneful soul wou'd never bear
‘The dull unwinding of life's tedious thread,
‘But burst the vital cords to reach the happy dead.’

VI.

And now my tongue prepares to join
The harmony, and with a noble aim
Attempts th'unutterable name,
But faints, confounded by the notes divine:
Again my soul th'unequal honour sought,
Again her utmost force she brought,
And bow'd beneath the burden of th'unwieldy thought.
Thrice I essay'd, and fainted thrice;
Th'immortal labour strain'd my feeble frame,
Broke the bright vision, and dissolv'd the dream

464

I sunk at once and lost the skies:
In vain I sought the scenes of light
Rolling abroad my longing eyes,
For all around 'em stood my curtains and the night.

Strict Religion very rare.

I.

I'm borne aloft, and leave the crowd,
I sail upon a morning cloud
Skirted with dawning gold:
Mine eyes beneath the opening day
Command the globe with wide survey,
Where ants in busy millions play,
And tug and heave the mould.

II.

‘Are these the things,’ my passion cry'd,
‘That we call men? Are these ally'd
‘To the fair worlds of light?
‘They have ras'd out their Maker's name,
‘Grav'n on their minds with pointed flame
‘In strokes divinely bright.

III.

‘Wretches! they hate their native skies;
‘If an ethereal thought arise,
‘Or spark of virtue shine,
‘With cruel force they damp its plumes,
‘Choak the young fire with sensual fumes,
‘With business, lust or wine.

IV.

‘Lo! how they throng with panting breath
‘The broad descending road
‘That leads unerring down to death,
‘Nor miss the dark abode.’
Thus while I drop a tear or two
On the wild herd, a noble few
Dare to stray upward, and pursue
Th'unbeaten way to God.

V.

I meet Myrtillo mounting high,
I know his candid soul afar;
Here Dorylus and Thyrsis fly,
Each like a rising star,
Charin I saw and Fidea there,
I saw them help each other's flight,
And bless them as they go;
They soar beyond my lab'ring sight,
And leave their loads of mortal care
But not their love below.
On heav'n their home, they fix their eyes,
The temple of their God:
With morning incense up they rise
Sublime, and thro' the lower skies
Spread the perfumes abroad.

VI.

Across the road a seraph flew,
‘Mark,’ said he, ‘that happy pair,
‘Marriage helps devotion there:
‘When kindred minds their God pursue
‘They break with double vigour thro'
‘The dull incumbent air.’
Charm'd with the pleasure and surprise
My soul adores and sings,
‘Blest be the pow'r that springs their flight,
‘That streaks their path with heav'nly light,
‘That turns their love to sacrifice,
‘And joins their zeal for wings.’

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.

TO WILLIAM BLACKBOURN, ESQ.

Casimir. lib. ii. od. 2. Imitated.

Quæ tegit canas modo Bruma valles, &c.

I

Mark how it snows! how fast the valley fills!
And the sweet groves the hoary garment wear;
Yet the warm sun-beams bounding from the hills
Shall melt the veil away, and the young green appear.

II

But when old age has on your temples shed
Her silver-frost, there's no returning sun;
Swift flies our autumn, swift our summer's fled,
When youth, and love, and spring, and golden joys are gone.

III

Then cold, and winter, and your aged snow,
Stick fast upon you; not the rich array,
Not the green garland, nor the rosy bough
Shall cancel or conceal the melancholy gray.

IV

The chase of pleasures is not worth the pains,
While the bright sands of health run wasting down;
And honour calls you from the softer scenes,
To sell the gaudy hour for ages of renown.

V

'Tis but one youth, and short, that mortals have,
And one old age dissolves our feeble frame;
But there's a heav'nly art t'elude the grave,
And with the hero-race immortal kindred claim.

VI

The man that has his country's sacred tears
Bedewing his cold hearse, has liv'd his day:
Thus, Blackbourn, we should leave our names our heirs;
Old time and waning moons sweep all the rest away.

True Monarchy.

1701.

The rising year beheld th'imperious Gaul
Stretch his dominion, while a hundred towns
Crouch'd to the victor; but a steady soul
Stands firm on its own base, and reigns as wide,
As absolute; and sways ten thousand slaves,
Lusts and wild fancies with a sovereign hand.

We are a little kingdom; but the man
That chains his rebel will to reason's throne,
Forms it a large one, whilst his royal mind
Makes heav'n its council, from the rolls above
Draws his own statutes, and with joy obeys.

'Tis not a troop of well-appointed guards
Create a monarch, not a purple robe
Dy'd in the people's blood, not all the crowns
Or dazzling tiars that bend about the head,
Tho' gilt with sun-beams and set round with stars.
A monarch he that conquers all his fears,
And treads upon them; when he stands alone,
Makes his own camp; four guardian virtues wait
His nightly slumbers, and secure his dreams.
Now dawns the light; he ranges all his thoughts
In square battalions, bold to meet th'attacks
Of time and chance, himself a num'rous host
All eye, all ear, all wakeful as the day,
Firm as a rock, and moveless as the centre.

In vain the harlot, pleasure, spreads her charms,
To lull his thoughts in luxury's fair lap,
To sensual ease, (the bane of little kings,
Monarchs whose waxen images of souls
Are moulded into softness) still his mind
Wears its own shape, nor can the heavenly form
Stoop to be model'd by the wild decrees
Of the mad vulgar, that unthinking herd.

He lives above the crowd, nor hears the noise
Of wars and triumphs, nor regards the shouts
Of popular applause, that empty sound;
Nor feels the flying arrows of reproach,
Or spite or envy. In himself secure,
Wisdom his tower, and conscience is his shield,
His peace all inward, and his joys his own.

Now my ambition swells, my wishes soar,
This be my kingdom: Sit above the globe
My rising soul, and dress thyself around
And shine in virtue's armour, climb the height
Of wisdom's lofty castle, there reside
Safe from the smiling and the frowning world.

Yet once a day drop down a gentle look
On the great mole-hill, and with pitying eye
Survey the busy emmets round the heap,
Crowding and bustling in a thousand forms
Of strife and toil, to purchase wealth and fame,
A bubble or a dust: Then call thy thoughts
Up to thyself to feed on joys unknown,
Rich without gold, and great without renown.

True Courage.

Honour demands my song. Forget the ground,
My generous muse, and sit amongst the stars!
There sing the soul, that, conscious of her birth,
Lives like a native of the vital world,

466

Amongst these dying clods, and bears her state
Just to herself: How nobly she maintains
Her character, superior to the flesh,
She wields her passions like her limbs, and knows
The brutal powers were only born t'obey.

This is the man whom storms could never make
Meanly complain; nor can a flatt'ring gale
Make him talk proudly: He hath no desire
To read his secret fate; yet unconcern'd
And calm could meet his unborn destiny,
In all its charming, or its frightful shapes.

He that unshrinking, and without a groan,
Bears the first wound, may finish all the war
With mere courageous silence, and come off
Conqueror: For the man that well conceals
The heavy strokes of fate, he bears 'em well.

He, tho' th'Atlantic and the Midland seas
With adverse surges meet, and rise on high
Suspended 'twixt the winds, then rush amain
Mingled with flames, upon his single head,
And clouds, and stars, and thunder, firm he stands,
Secure of his best life; unhurt, unmov'd;
And drops his lower nature, born for death.
Then from the lofty castle of his mind
Sublime looks down, exulting, and surveys
The ruins of creation; (souls alone
Are heirs of dying worlds;) a piercing glance
Shoots upwards from between his closing lids,
To reach his birth-place, and without a sigh
He bids his batter'd flesh lie gently down
Amongst its native rubbish; whilst the spirit
Breathes and flies upward, an undoubted guest
Of the third heav'n, th'unruinable sky.

Thither, when fate has brought our willing souls,
No matter whether 'twas a sharp disease,
Or a sharp sword, that help'd the travellers on,
And push'd us to our home. Bear up, my friend,
Serenely, and break thro' the stormy brine
With steady prow; know, we shall once arrive
At the fair haven of eternal bliss,
To which we ever steer; whether as kings
Of wide command we've spread the spacious sea
With a broad painted fleet, or row'd along
In a thin cock-boat with a little oar.

There let my native plank shift me to land
And I'll be happy: Thus I'll leap ashore
Joyful and fearless on th'immortal coast,
Since all I leave is mortal, and it must be lost.

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

Free Philosophy.

I.

Custom, that tyranness of fools,
That leads the learned round the schools,
In magic chains of forms and rules!
My genius storms her throne:
No more, ye slaves, with awe profound
Beat the dull track, nor dance the round;
Loose hands, and quit th'inchanted ground:
Knowledge invites us each alone.

II.

I hate these shackles of the mind
Forg'd by the haughty wise;
Souls were not born to be confin'd,
And led, like Sampson, blind and bound;
But when his native strength he found
He well aveng'd his eyes.
I love thy gentle influence, Rowe,
Thy gentle influence like the sun,
Only dissolves the frozen snow,
Then bids our thoughts like rivers flow,
And choose the channels where they run.

III.

Thoughts should be free as fire or wind;
The pinions of a single mind
Will thro' all nature fly:
But who can drag up to the poles
Long fetter'd ranks of leaden souls?
A genius which no chain controls
Roves with delight, or deep, or high:
Swift I survey the globe around,
Dive to the centre thro' the solid ground,
Or travel o'er the sky.

TO THE REV. MR. BENONI ROWE.

The Way of the Multitude.

I.

Rowe, if we make the crowd our guide
Thro' life's uncertain road,
Mean is the chase; and wandering wide
We miss th'immortal good;
Yet if my thoughts could be confin'd
To follow any leader-mind,
I'd mark thy steps, and tread the same:
Drest in thy notions I'd appear
Not like a soul of mortal frame,
Nor with a vulgar air.

467

II.

Men live at random and by chance,
Bright reason never leads the dance;
Whilst in the broad and beaten way
O'er dales and hills from truth we stray,
To ruin we descend, to ruin we advance.
Wisdom retires; she hates the crowd,
And with a decent scorn
Aloof she climbs her steepy seat,
Where nor the grave nor giddy feet,
Of the learn'd vulgar or the rude,
Have e'er a passage worn.

III.

Mere hazard first began the track,
Where custom leads her thousands blind
In willing chains and strong;
There's scarce one bold, one noble mind,
Dares tread the fatal error back;
But hand in hand ourselves we bind
And drag the age along.

IV.

Mortals, a savage herd, and loud
As billows on a noisy flood
In rapid order roll:
Example makes the mischief good:
With jocund heel we beat the road,
Unheedful of the goal.
Me let Ithuriel's friendly wing
Snatch from the crowd, and bear sublime
To wisdom's lofty tower,
Thence to survey that wretched thing,
Mankind; and in exalted rhyme
Bless the delivering power.

Ithuriel is the name of an angel in Milton's Paradise Lost.

TO THE REV. MR. JOHN HOWE.

1704.

I.

Great man, permit the muse to climb
And seat her at thy feet,
Bid her attempt a thought sublime,
And consecrate her wit.
I feel, I feel th'attractive force
Of thy superior soul:
My chariot flies her upward course,
The wheels divinely roll.
Now let me chide the mean affairs
And mighty toil of men:
How they grow grey in trifling cares,
Or waste the motions of the spheres
Upon delights as vain!

II.

A puff of honour fills the mind,
And yellow dust is solid good;
Thus like the ass of savage kind,
We snuff the breezes of the wind,
Or steal the serpent's food.
Could all the choirs
That charm the poles
But strike one doleful sound,
'Twould be employ'd to mourn our souls,
Souls that were fram'd of sprightly fires
In floods of folly drown'd.
Souls made of glory seek a brutal joy;
How they disclaim their heav'nly birth,
Melt their bright substance down with drossy earth,
And hate to be refin'd from that impure alloy.

III.

Oft has thy genius rous'd us hence
With elevated song,
Bid us renounce this world of sense,
Bid us divide th'immortal prize
With the seraphic throng:
‘Knowledge and love make spirits blest,
‘Knowledge their food, and love their rest;’
But flesh, th'unmanageable beast,
Resists the pity of thine eyes,
And music of thy tongue.
Then let the worms of grov'ling mind
Round the short joys of earthly kind
In restless windings roam;
Howe hath an ample orb of soul,
Where shining worlds of knowledge roll,
Where love, the centre and the pole,
Completes the heav'n at home.

The Disappointment and Relief.

I.

Virtue, permit my fancy to impose
Upon my better pow'rs:
She casts sweet fallacies on half our woes,
And gilds the gloomy hours.
How could we bear this tedious round
Of waning moons, and rolling years,
Of flaming hopes, and chilling fears,
If, where no sov'reign cure appears,
No opiates could be found.

II.

Love, the most cordial stream that flows,
Is a deceitful good:
Young Doris who nor guilt nor danger knows,
On the green margin stood,
Pleas'd with the golden bubbles as they rose,
And with more golden sands her fancy pav'd the flood:

468

Then fond to be entirely blest,
And tempted by a faithless youth,
As void of goodness as of truth,
She plunges in with heedless haste,
And rears the nether mud:
Darkness and nauseous dregs arise
O'er thy fair current, love, with large supplies
Of pain to tieze the heart, and sorrow for the eyes.
The golden bliss that charm'd her sight
Is dash'd, and drown'd, and lost;
A spark, or glimm'ring streak at most
Shines here and there, amidst the night,
Amidst the turbid waves, and gives a faint delight.

III.

Recover'd from the sad surprise,
Doris awakes at last,
Grown by the disappointment wise;
And manages with art th'unlucky cast;
When the lowring frown she spies
On her haughty tyrant's brow,
With humble love she meets his wrathful eyes,
And makes her sov'reign beauty bow;
Cheerful she smiles upon the grizly form;
So shines the setting sun on adverse skies,
And paints a rainbow on the storm.
Anon she lets the sullen humour spend,
And with a virtuous book or friend,
Beguiles th'uneasy hours:
Well-colouring ev'ry cross she meets,
With heart serene she sleeps and eats,
She spreads her board with fancy'd sweets,
And strews her bed with flow'rs.

The Hero's School of Morality.

Thereon, amongst his travels, found,
A broken statue on the ground;
And searching onward, as he went
He trac'd a ruin'd monument.
Mould, moss, and shades had overgrown
The sculpture of the crumbling stone,
Yet, ere he past, with much ado,
He guess'd, and spell'd out, Sci-pi-o.

‘Enough,’ he cry'd, ‘I'll drudge no more
‘In tuning the dull Stoics o'er:
‘Let pedants waste their hours of ease
‘To sweat all night at Socrates;
‘And feed their boys with notes and rules
‘Those tedious recipes of schools,
‘To cure ambition: I can learn
‘With greater ease the great concern
‘Of mortals; how we may despise
‘All the gay things below the skies.

‘Methinks a mould'ring pyramid
‘Says all that the old sages said;
‘For me these shatter'd tombs contain
‘More morals than the Vatican.
‘The dust of heroes cast abroad,
‘And kick'd and trampled in the road,
‘The relics of a lofty mind,
‘That lately wars and crowns design'd,
‘Tost for a jest from wind to wind,
‘Bid me be humble, and forbear
‘Tall monuments of fame to rear,
‘They are but castles in the air.
‘The tow'ring heights, and frightful falls,
‘The ruin'd heaps and funerals,
‘Of smoking kingdoms and their kings,
‘Tell me a thousand mournful things
‘In melancholy silence—
‘—He
‘That living could not bear to see
‘An equal, now lies torn and dead;
‘Here his pale trunk, and there his head;
‘Great Pompey! while I meditate,
‘With solemn horror, thy sad fate,
‘Thy carcase, scatter'd on the shore
‘Without a name, instructs me more
‘Than my whole library before.

‘Lie still, my Plutarch, then, and sleep,
‘And my good Seneca may keep
‘Your volumes clos'd for ever too,
‘I have no further use for you:
‘For when I feel my virtue fail,
‘And my ambitious thoughts prevail,
‘I'll take a turn among the tombs,
‘And see whereto all glory comes:
‘There the vile foot of every clown
‘Tramples the sons of honour down.
‘Beggars with awful ashes sport,
‘And tread the Cæsars in the dirt.’

Freedom.

1697.

I.

Tempt me no more. My soul can ne'er comport
With the gay slaveries of a court:
I've an aversion to those charms,
And hug dear Liberty in both mine arms.
Go, vassal-souls, go, cringe and wait,
And dance attendance at Honorio's gate,
Then run in troops before him to compose his state;
Move as he moves: And when he loiters, stand;
You're but the shadows of a man.
Bend when he speaks; and kiss the ground:
Go, catch th'impertinence of sound:
Adore the follies of the great;
Wait till he smiles: But lo, the idol frown'd
And drove them to their fate.

II.

Thus base-born minds: But as for me,
I can and will be free:
Like a strong mountain, or some stately tree,
My soul grows firm upright,

469

And as I stand, and as I go,
It keeps my body so;
No, I can never part with my creation right.
Let slaves and asses stoop and bow,
I cannot make this iron knee
Bend to a meaner pow'r than that which form'd it free.

III.

Thus my bold harp profusely play'd
Pindarical; then on a branchy shade
I hung my harp aloft, myself beneath it laid.
Nature, that listen'd to my strain,
Resum'd the theme, and acted it again.
Sudden rose a whirling wind
Swelling like Honorio proud,
Around the straws and feathers crowd,
Types of a slavish mind;
Upwards the stormy forces rise,
The dust flies up and climbs the skies,
And as the tempest fell th'obedient vapours sunk:
Again it roars with bellowing sound,
The meaner plants that grew around,
The willow, and the asp, trembled and kiss'd the ground:
Hard by there stood the iron trunk
Of an old oak, and all the storms defy'd;
In vain the winds their forces try'd,
In vain they roar'd; the iron oak
Bow'd only to the heav'nly thunder's stroke.

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

I.

Thus reason learns by slow degrees,
What faith reveals; but still complains
Of intellectual pains,
And darkness from the too exuberant light.
The blaze of those bright mysteries
Pour'd all at once on nature's eyes
Offend and cloud her feeble sight.

II.

Reason could scarce sustain to see
Th'Almighty One, th'eternal Three,
Or bear the infant deity;
Scarce could her pride descend to own
Her Maker stooping from his throne,
And drest in glories so unknown.
A ransom'd world, a bleeding God,
And heav'n appeas'd with flowing blood,
Were themes too painful to be understood.

III.

Faith, thou bright cherub, speak, and say
Did ever mind of mortal race
Cost thee more toil, or larger grace,
To melt and bend it to obey.
Twas hard to make so rich a soul submit,
And lay her shining honours at thy sovereign feet.

IV.

Sister of faith, fair Charity,
Show me the wondrous man on high,
Tell how he sees the godhead Three in One;
The bright conviction fills his eye,
His noblest powers in deep prostration lie
At the mysterious throne.
‘Forgive,’ he cries, ‘ye saints below,
‘The wav'ring and the cold assent
‘I gave to themes divinely true;
‘Can you admit the blessed to repent?
‘Eternal darkness veil the lines
‘Of that unhappy book,
‘Where glimmering reason with false lustre shines.
‘Where the mere mortal pen mistook
‘What the celestial meant!

See Mr. Locke's Annotations on Rom. iii. 25. and Paraphrase on Rom. ix. 5. which has inclined some readers to doubt whether he believed the deity and satisfaction of Christ. Therefore in the fourth stanza I invoke Charity, that by her help I may find him out in heaven, since his Notes on 2 Cor. v. ult. and some other places, give me reason to believe he was no Socinian, though he has darkened the glory of the gospel, and debased christianity, in the book which he calls the Reasonableness of it, and in some of his other works.

True Riches.

I am not concern'd to know
What to-morrow fate will do:
'Tis enough that I can say,
I've possest myself to-day:
Then if haply midnight-death
Seize my flesh, and stop my breath,
Yet to-morrow I shall be
Heir to the best part of me.

Glitt'ring stones, and golden things,
Wealth and honours that have wings,
Ever fluttering to be gone
I could never call my own:
Riches that the world bestows,
She can take, and I can lose;
But the treasures that are mine
Lie afar beyond her line.
When I view my spacious soul,
And survey myself awhole,
And enjoy myself alone,
I'm a kingdom of my own.

I've a mighty part within
That the world hath never seen,
Rich as Eden's happy ground,
And with choicer plenty crown'd:
Here on all the shining boughs
Knowledge fair and useful grows;
On the same young flow'ry tree
All the seasons you may see;
Notions in the bloom of light,
Just disclosing to the sight;
Here are thoughts of larger growth,
Rip'ning into solid truth;

470

Fruits refin'd, of noble taste;
Seraphs feed on such repast.
Here in a green and shady grove,
Streams of pleasure mix with love:
There beneath the smiling skies
Hills of contemplation rise;
Now upon some shining top
Angels light, and call me up;
I rejoice to raise my feet,
Both rejoice when there we meet.

There are endless beauties more
Earth hath no resemblance for;
Nothing like them round the pole,
Nothing can describe the soul:
'Tis a region half unknown,
That has treasures of its own.
More remote from public view
Than the bowels of Peru;
Broader 'tis, and brighter far,
Than the golden Indies are;
Ships that trace the wat'ry stage
Cannot coast it in an age;
Harts, or horses, strong and fleet,
Had they wings to help their feet,
Could not run it half-way o'er
In ten thousand days or more.

Yet the silly wand'ring mind,
Loth to be too much confin'd,
Roves and takes her daily tours,
Coasting round the narrow shores,
Narrow shores of flesh and sense,
Picking shells and pebbles thence:
Or she sits at fancy's door,
Calling shapes and shadows to her,
Foreign visits still receiving,
And t'herself a stranger living.
Never, never would she buy
Indian dust, or Tyrian dye,
Never trade abroad for more,
If she saw her native store,
If her inward worth were known
She might ever live alone.

The Adventurous Muse.

I

Urania takes her morning flight
With an inimitable wing:
Thro' rising deluges of dawning light
She cleaves her wondrous way,
She tunes immortal anthems to the growing day;
Nor Rapin gives her rules to fly, nor Purcell notes to sing.

II.

She nor inquires, nor knows, nor fears
Where lie the pointed rocks, or where th'ingulphing sand,
Climbing the liquid mountains of the skies,
She meets descending angels as she flies,
Nor asks them where their country lies,
Or where the sea-marks stand.
Touch'd with an empyreal ray
She springs, unerring, upward to eternal day,
Spreads her white sails aloft, and steers,
With bold and safe attempt, to the celestial land.

III.

Whilst little skiffs along the mortal shores
With humble toil in order creep,
Coasting in sight of one another's oars,
Nor venture thro' the boundless deep.
Such low pretending souls are they
Who dwell inclos'd in solid orbs of scull;
Plodding along their sober way,
The snail o'ertakes them in their wildest play,
While the poor labourers sweat to be correctly dull.

IV.

Give me the chariot whose diviner wheels
Mark their own rout, and unconfin'd
Bound o'er the everlasting hills
And lose the clouds below, and leave the stars behind.
Give me the muse whose gen'rous force,
Impatient of the reins,
Pursues an unattempted course,
Breaks all the critics' iron chains,
And bears to paradise the raptur'd mind.

V.

There Milton dwells: The mortal sung
Themes not presum'd by mortal tongue;
New terrors, or new glories, shine
In every page, and flying scenes divine
Surprise the wond'ring sense, and draw our souls along.
Behold his muse sent out t'explore
The unapparent deep where waves of Chaos roar,
And realms of night unknown before.
She trac'd a glorious path unknown,
Thro' fields of heav'nly war, and seraphs overthrown,
Where his advent'rous genius led:
Sov'reign she fram'd a model of her own,
Nor thank'd the living nor the dead.
The noble hater of degenerate rhyme
Shook off the chains, and built his verse sublime,
A monument too high for coupled sound to climb.
He mourn'd the garden lost below;
(Earth is the scene for tuneful woe)
Now bliss beats high in all his veins,
Now the lost Eden he regains,
Keeps his own air, and triumphs in unrival'd strains.

471

VI.

Immortal bard! Thus thy own Raphael sings,
And knows no rule but native fire:
All heav'n sits silent, while to his sov'reign strings
He talks unutterable things;
With graces infinite his untaught fingers rove
Across the golden lyre:
From ev'ry note devotion springs.
Rapture, and harmony, and love,
O'erspread the list'ning choir.

A French critic.

An English master of music.

TO MR. NICHOLAS CLARK.

The Complaint.

I

'Twas in a vale where osiers grow
By murm'ring streams we told our woe,
And mingled all our cares:
Friendship sat pleas'd in both our eyes,
In both the weeping dews arise,
And drop alternate tears.

II

The vigorous monarch of the day
Now mounting half his morning way
Shone with a fainter bright:
Still sick'ning, and decaying still,
Dimly he wander'd up the hill,
With his expiring light.

III

In dark eclipse his chariot roll'd,
The queen of night obscur'd his gold
Behind her sable wheels;
Nature grew sad to lose the day
The flow'ry vales in mourning lay,
In mourning stood the hills.

IV

Such are our sorrows, Clark, I cry'd,
Clouds of the brain grow black, and hide
Our dark'ned souls behind:
In the young morning of our years
Distempering fogs have climb'd the spheres,
And choke the lab'ring mind.

V

Lo, the gay planet rears his head,
And overlooks the lofty shade,
New bright'ning all the skies:
But say, dear partner of my moan,
When will our long eclipse be gone,
Or when our suns arise?

VI

In vain are potent herbs apply'd
Harmonious sounds in vain have try'd
To make the darkness fly;
But drugs would raise the dead as soon,
Or clatt'ring brass relieve the moon,
When fainting in the sky.

VII

Some friendly spirit from above,
Born of the light, and nurst with love,
Assist our feebler fires;
Force these invading glooms away;
Souls should be seen quite thro' their clay,
Bright as your heav'nly choirs.

VIII

But if the fogs must damp the flame,
Gently, kind death, dissolve our frame,
Release the pris'ner-mind:
Our souls shall mount, at thy discharge,
To their bright source, and shine at large
Nor clouded, nor confin'd.

The Afflictions of a Friend.

1702.

I

Now let my cares all bury'd lie,
My griefs for ever dumb:
Your sorrows swell my heart so high,
They leave my own no room.

II

Sickness and pains are quite forgot,
The spleen itself is gone;
Plung'd in your woes I feel them not,
Or feel them all in one.

III

Infinite grief puts sense to flight,
And all the soul invades:
So the broad gloom of spreading night
Devours the evening shades.

IV

Thus am I born to be unblest!
This sympathy of woe
Drives my own tyrants from my breast
T'admit a foreign foe.

V

Sorrows in long succession reign;
Their iron rod I feel:
Friendship has only chang'd the chain,
But I'm the pris'ner still.

VI

Why was this life for misery made?
Or why drawn out so long?
Is there no room amongst the dead?
Or is a wretch too young?

VII

Move faster on, great nature's wheel,
Be kind, ye rolling pow'rs,
Hurl my days headlong down the hill
With undistinguish'd hours.

VIII

Be dusky, all my rising suns,
Nor smile upon a slave:
Darkness, and death, make haste at once
To hide me in the grave.

472

The Reverse; or, the Comforts of a Friend.

I

Thus nature tun'd her mournful tongue,
Till grace lift up her head,
Revers'd the sorrow and the song,
And smiling, thus she said:

II

‘Were kindred spirits born for cares?
‘Must ev'ry grief be mine?
‘Is there a sympathy in tears,
‘Yet joys refuse to join?’

III

Forbid it, heav'n, and raise my love.
And make our joys the same:
So bliss and friendship join'd above
Mix an immortal flame.

IV

Sorrows are lost in vast delight
That brightens all the soul;
As deluges of dawning light
O'erwhelm the dusky pole.

V

Pleasures in long succession reign,
And all my pow'rs employ:
Friendship but shifts the pleasing scene,
And fresh repeats the joy.

VI

Life has a soft and silver thread,
Nor is it drawn too long;
Yet when my vaster hopes persuade,
I'm willing to be gone.

VII

Fast as ye please roll down the hill,
And haste away, my years;
Or I can wait my Father's will,
And dwell beneath the spheres.

VIII

Rise glorious, every future sun,
Gild all my following days,
But make the last dear moment known
By well-distinguish'd rays.

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

The Hardy Soldier.

I

‘O why is man so thoughtless grown?
‘Why guilty souls in haste to die?
‘Vent'ring the leap to worlds unknown,
‘Heedless to arms and blood they fly.

II

‘Are lives but worth a soldier's pay?
‘Why will ye join such wide extremes,
‘And stake immortal souls, in play
‘At desp'rate chance, and bloody games!

III

‘Valour's a nobler turn of thought,
‘Whose pardon'd guilt forbids her fears:
‘Calmly she meets the deadly shot,
‘Secure of life above the stars.

IV

‘But frenzy dares eternal fate,
‘And spurr'd with honour's airy dreams,
‘Flies to attack th'infernal gate,
‘And force a passage to the flames.’

V

Thus hov'ring o'er Namuria's plains,
Sung heav'nly love in Gabriel's form:
Young Thraso left the moving strains,
And vow'd to pray before the storm.

VI

Anon the thund'ring trumpet calls:
‘Vows are but wind,’ the hero cries;
Then swears by heav'n, and scales the walls,
Drops in the ditch, despairs and dies.

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

1708.

I.

I judge the muse of lewd desire;
Her sons to darkness, and her works to fire.
In vain the flatteries of their wit
Now with a melting strain, now with an heav'nly flight,
Would tempt my virtue to approve
Those gaudy tinders of a lawless love.
So harlots dress: They can appear
Sweet, modest, cool, divinely fair,
To charm a Cato's eye; but all within,
Stench, impudence and fire, and ugly raging sin.

II.

Die, Flora, die in endless shame,
Thou prostitute of blackest fame,
Stript of thy false array.
Ovid, and all ye wilder pens
Of modern lust, who gild our scenes,
Poison the British stage, and paint damnation gay,
Attend your mistress to the dead;
When Flora dies, her imps should wait upon her shade.

III.

Strephon, of noble blood and mind,
(For ever shine his name!)
As death approach'd, his soul refin'd,
And gave his looser sonnets to the flame.
‘Burn, burn,’ he cry'd with sacred rage,
‘Hell is the due of ev'ry page,

473

‘Hell be the fate. (But O indulgent heaven!
‘So vile the muse, and yet the man forgiv'n!)
‘Burn on my songs: For not the silver Thames
‘Nor Tiber with his yellow streams
‘In endless currents rolling to the main,
‘Can e'er dilute the poison, or wash out the stain.’
So Moses by divine command
Forbid the leprous house to stand,
When deep the fatal spot was grown,
‘Break down the timber, and dig up the stone.’

Earl of Rochester.

TO MRS. B. BENDISH.

Against Tears.

I

Madam, persuade me tears are good
To wash our mortal cares away;
These eyes shall weep a sudden flood,
And stream into a briny sea.

II

Or if these orbs are hard and dry,
(These orbs that never use to rain)
Some star direct me where to buy
One sov'reign drop for all my pain.

III

Were both the golden Indies mine,
I'd give both Indies for a tear:
I'd barter all but what's divine:
Nor shall I think the bargain dear.

IV

But tears, alas! are trifling things,
They rather feed than heal our woe;
From trickling eyes new sorrow springs,
As weeds in rainy seasons grow.

V

Thus weeping urges weeping on;
In vain our miseries hope relief,
For one drop calls another down,
Till we are drown'd in seas of grief.

VI

Then let these useless streams be staid,
Wear native courage on your face:
These vulgar things were never made
For souls of a superior race.

VII

If 'tis a rugged path you go,
And thousand foes your steps surround,
Tread the thorns down, charge thro' the foe:
The hardest fight is highest crown'd.

Few Happy Matches.

August, 1701.

I

Say, mighty love, and teach my song,
To whom my sweetest joys belong,
And who the happy pairs
Whose yielding hearts and joining hands,
Find blessings twisted with their bands,
To soften all their cares.

II

Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
That thoughtless fly into the chains,
As custom leads the way:
If there be bliss without design,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,
And be as blest as they.

III

Not sordid souls of earthly mould
Who drawn by kindred charms of gold
To dull embraces move:
So two rich mountains of Peru
May rush to wealthy marriage too,
And make a world of love.

IV

Not the mad tribe that hell inspires
With wanton flame; those raging fires
The purer bliss destroy:
On Ætna's top let furies wed,
And sheets of lightning dress the bed
T'improve the burning joy.

V

Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms
None of the melting passions warms
Can mingle hearts and hands:
Logs of green wood that quench the coals
Are marry'd, just like Stoic souls,
With osiers for their bands.

VI

Not minds of melancholy strain,
Still silent, or that still complain,
Can the dear bondage bless:
As well may heav'nly consorts spring
From two old lutes with ne'er a string,
Or none besides the bass.

VII

Nor can the soft inchantments hold
Two jarring souls of angry mould,
The rugged and the keen:
Sampson's young foxes might as well
In bands of cheerful wedlock dwell,
With firebands ty'd between.

474

VIII

Nor let the cruel fetters bind
A gentle to a savage mind;
For love abhors the sight:
Loose the fierce tiger from the deer,
For native rage and native fear
Rise and forbid delight.

IX

Two kindest souls alone must meet;
'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet,
And feeds their mutual loves:
Bright Venus on her rolling throne
Is drawn by gentlest birds alone,
And Cupids yoke the doves.

TO DAVID POLHILL, ESQ.

An Epistle.

December, 1702.

I

Let useless souls to woods retreat;
Polhill should leave a country-seat
When virtue bids him dare be great.

II

Nor Kent , nor Sussex , should have charms,
While liberty, with loud alarms,
Calls you to counsels and to arms.

III

Lewis, by fawning slaves ador'd,
Bids you receive a base-born lord;
Awake your cares! awake your sword!

IV

Factions amongst the Britons rise,
And warring tongues, and wild surmise,
And burning zeal without her eyes.

V

A vote decides the blind debate;
Resolv'd, ‘'Tis of diviner weight,
‘To save the steeple, than the state.’

VI

The bold machine is form'd and join'd
To stretch the conscience, and to bind
The native freedom of the mind.

VII

Your grandsire shades with jealous eye
Frown down to see their offspring lie
Careless, and let their country die.

VIII

If Trevia fear to let you stand
Against the Gaul with spear in hand,
At least petition for the land.

His country-seat and dwelling.

The pretender, proclaim'd king in France.

The parliament.

The bill against occasional conformity, 1702.

Mrs. Polhill, of the family of the Lord Trevor.

Mr. Polhill was one of those five zealous gentlemen who presented the famous Kentish petition to the parliament, in the reign of King William, to hasten their supplies, in order to support the king in his war with France.

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

[_]

Translated from Casimire, b. iv. od. 4. with large Additions.

Gador the old, the wealthy and the strong,
Cheerful in years (nor of the heroic muse
Unknowing, nor unknown) held fair possessions
Where flows the fruitful Danube: Seventy springs
Smil'd on his seed, and seventy harvest moons
Fill'd his wide granaries with autumnal joy:
Still he resum'd the toil: And fame reports,
While he broke up new ground, and tir'd his plough
In grassy furrows, the torn earth disclos'd
Helmets, and swords (bright furniture of war
Sleeping in rust) and heaps of mighty bones.
The sun descending to the western deep
Bid him lie down and rest; he loos'd the yoke,
Yet held his wearied oxen from their food
With charming numbers, and uncommon song.

Go, fellow-labourers, you may rove secure,
Or feed beside me; taste the greens and boughs
That you have long forgot; crop the sweet herb,
And graze in safety, while the victor Pole
Leans on his spear, and breathes; yet still his eye
Jealous and fierce. How large, old soldier, say,
How fair a harvest of the slaughter'd Turks
Strew'd the Moldavian fields? What mighty piles
Of vast destruction, and of Thracian dead
Fill and amaze my eyes? Broad bucklers lie
(A vain defence) spread o'er the pathless hills,
And coats of scaly steel, and hard habergeon,
Deep-bruis'd and empty of Mahometan limbs.
This the fierce Saracen wore, (for when a boy,
I was their captive, and remind their dress:)
Here the Polonians dreadful march'd along
In august port, and regular array,
Led on to conquest: Here the Turkish chief
Presumptuous trod, and in rude order rang'd
His long battalions, while his populous towns
Pour'd out fresh troops perpetual, drest in arms,
Horrent in mail, and gay in spangled pride.

O the dire image of the bloody fight
These eyes have seen, when the capacious plain
Was throng'd with Dacian spears; when polish'd helms
And convex gold blaz'd thick against the sun
Restoring all his beams! but frowning war
All gloomy, like a gather'd tempest, stood
Wavering, and doubtful where to bend its fall.

The storm of missive steel delay'd awhile
By wise command; fledg'd arrows on the nerve;
And scymiter and sabre bore the sheath
Reluctant; till the hollow brazen clouds

475

Had bellow'd from each quarter of the field
Loud thunder, and disgorg'd their sulph'rous fire.
Then banners wav'd, and arms were mix'd with arms;
Then javelins answer'd javelins as they fled,
For both fled hissing death: With adverse edge
The crooked fauchions met; and hideous noise
From clashing shields, thro' the long ranks of war,
Clang'd horrible. A thousand iron storms
Roar diverse: And in harsh confusion drown
The trumpet's silver sound. O rude effort
Of harmony! not all the frozen stores
Of the cold North, when pour'd in rattling hail,
Lash with such madness the Norwegian plains,
Or so torment the ear. Scarce sounds so far
The direful fragor, when some southern blast
Tears from the Alps a ridge of knotty oaks
Deep fang'd, and ancient tenants of the rock:
The massy fragment, many a rood in length,
With hideous crash, rolls down the rugged cliff
Resistless, plunging in the subject lake
Como, or Lugaine; th'afflicted waters roar,
And various thunder all the valley fills,
Such was the noise of war: The troubled air
Complains aloud, and propagates the din
To neighbouring regions; rocks and lofty hills
Beat the impetuous echoes round the sky.

Uproar, revenge, and rage, and hate appear
In all their murderous forms; and flame and blood,
And sweat and dust array the broad campaign
In horror: Hasty feet, and sparkling eyes,
And all the savage passions of the soul
Engage in the warm business of the day.
Here mingling hands, but with no friendly gripe,
Join in the flight; and breasts in close embrace,
But mortal, as the iron arms of death.
Here words austere, of perilous command,
And valour swift t'obey; bold feats of arms
Dreadful to see, and glorious to relate,
Shine thro' the field with more surprising brightness
Than glittering helms or spears. What loud applause
(Best meed of warlike toil) what manly shouts,
And yells unmanly thro' the battle ring!
And sudden wrath dies into endless fame.

Long did the fate of war hang dubious. Here
Stood the more num'rous Turk, the valiant Pole
Fought here; more dreadful, tho' with lesser wings.

But what the Dahees or the coward soul
Of a Cydonian, what the fearful crowds
Of base Cicilians scaping from the slaughter,
Or Parthian beasts, with all their racing riders,
What could they mean against th'intrepid breast
Of the pursuing foe? Th'impetuous Poles
Rush here, and here the Lithuanian horse
Drive down upon them like a double bolt
Of kindled thunder raging thro' the sky
On sounding wheels; or as some mighty flood
Rolls his two torrents down a dreadful steep,
Precipitant, and bears along the stream,
Rocks, woods and trees, with all the grazing herd,
And tumbles lofty forests headlong to the plain.

The bold Borussian smoking from afar
Moves like a tempest in a dusky cloud,
And imitates th'artillery of heaven,
The lightning and the roar. Amazing scene!
What showers of mortal hail, what flaky fires
Burst from the darkness! while their cohorts firm
Met the like thunder, and an equal storm,
From hostile troops, but with a braver mind.
Undaunted bosoms tempt the edge of war,
And rush on the sharp point; while baleful mischiefs,
Deaths, and bright dangers flew across the field
Thick and continual, and a thousand souls
Fled murmuring thro' their wounds. I stood aloof,
For 'twas unsafe to come within the wind
Of Russian banners, when with whizzing sound,
Eager of glory and profuse of life,
They bore down fearless on the charging foes,
And drove them backward. Then the Turkish moons
Wander'd in disarray. A dark eclipse
Hung on the silver crescent, boding night,
Long night, to all her sons: At length disrob'd
The standards fell; the barbarous ensigns torn
Fled with the wind, the sport of angry heav'n:
And a large cloud of infantry and horse
Scattering in wild disorder, spread the plain.

Not noise, nor number, nor the brawny limb,
Nor high-built size prevails: 'Tis courage fights,
'Tis courage conquers. So whole forests fall
(A spacious ruin) by one single ax,
And steel well-sharpened: So a generous pair
Of young-wing'd eaglets fright a thousand doves.

Vast was the slaughter, and the flow'ry green
Drank deep of flowing crimson. Veteran bands
Here made their last campaign. Here haughty chiefs
Stretch'd on the bed of purple honour lie
Supine, nor dream of battle's hard event,
Oppress'd with iron slumbers, and long night.
Their ghosts indignant to the nether world
Fled, but attended well: For at their side
Some faithful Janizaries strew'd the field,
Fall'n in just ranks or wedges, lunes or squares,
Firm as they stood; to the Warsovian troops
A nobler toil, and triumph worth their fight.
But the broad sabre and keen poll-ax flew
With speedy terror thro' the feebler herd,

476

And made rude havock and irregular spoil
Amongst the vulgar bands that own'd the name
Of Mahomet. The wild Arabians fled
In swift affright a thousand different ways
Thro' brakes and thorns, and climb'd the craggy mountains
Bellowing; yet hasty fate o'ertook the cry,
And Polish hunters clave the timorous deer.

Thus the dire prospect distant fill'd my soul
With awe; till the last relics of the war
The thin Edonians, flying had disclos'd
The ghastly plain: I took a nearer view.
Unseemly to the sight, nor to the smell
Grateful. What loads of mangled flesh and limbs
(A dismal carnage!) bath'd in reeking gore
Lay welt'ring on the ground; while flitting life
Convuls'd the nerves still shivering, nor had lost
All taste of pain! Here an old Thracian lies
Deform'd with years, and scars, and groans aloud
Torn with fresh wounds; but inward vitals firm
Forbid the soul's remove, and chain it down
By the hard laws of nature, to sustain
Long torment: His wild eye-balls roll: His teeth
Gnashing with anguish, chide his lingering fate,
Emblazon'd armour spoke his high command
Amongst their neighbouring dead; they round their lord
Lay prostrate; some in flight ignobly slain,
Some to the skies their faces upwards turn'd
Still brave, and proud to die so near their prince.

I mov'd not far, and lo, at manly length
Two beauteous youths of richest Ott'man blood
Extended on the field: In friendship join'd
Nor fate divides them: Hardy warriors both;
Both faithful; drown'd in showers of darts they fell
Each with his shield spread o'er his lover's heart,
In vain: For on those orbs of friendly brass
Stood groves of javelins: Some, alas, too deep
Where planted there, and thro' their lovely bosoms
Made painful avenues for cruel death.
O my dear native land, forgive the tear
I dropt on their wan cheeks, when strong compassion
Forc'd from my melting eyes the briny dew,
And paid a sacrifice to hostile virtue.
Dacia, forgive the sigh that wish'd the souls
Of those fair infidels some humble place
Among the blest. ‘Sleep, sleep, ye hapless pair
‘Gently,’ I cry'd, ‘worthy of better fate,
‘And better faith.’ Hard by the general lay
Of Saracen descent, a grizly form
Breathless, yet pride sat pale upon his front
In disappointment, with a surly brow
Louring in death, and vext; his rigid jaws
Foaming with blood bite hard the Polish spear.
In that dead visage my remembrance reads
Rash Caracas: In vain the boasting slave
Promis'd and sooth'd the sultan threat'ning fierce
With royal suppers and triumphant fare
Spread wide beneath Warsovian silk and gold;
See on the naked ground all cold he lies,
Beneath the damp wide cov'ring of the air,
Forgetful of his word. How heaven confounds
Insulting hopes! with what an awful smile
Laughs at the proud, that loosen all the reins
To their unbounded wishes, and leads on
Their blind ambition to a shameful end!

But whither am I borne? This thought of arms
Fires me in vain to sing to senseless bulls
What generous horse should hear. Break off, my song,
My barbarous muse be still: Immortal deeds
Must not be thus profan'd in rustic verse:
The martial trumpet, and the following age,
And growing fame, shall loud rehearse the fight
In sounds of glory. Lo, the evening-star
Shines o'er the western hill: My oxen, come,
The well-known star invites the labourer home.

The Indian Philosopher.

September 3, 1701.

TO MR. HENRY BENDISH

August 24, 1705.

I

Why should our joys transform to pain?
Why gentle Hymen's silken chain
A plague of iron prove?
Bendish, 'tis strange the charm that binds
Millions of hands, should leave their minds
At such a loose from love.

477

II

In vain I sought the wondrous cause,
Rang'd the wide fields of nature's laws,
And urg'd the schools in vain;
Then deep in thought, within my breast
My soul retir'd, and slumber dress'd
A bright instructive scene.

III

O'er the broad lands, and cross the tide,
On fancy's airy horse I ride,
(Sweet rapture of the mind!)
Till on the banks of Ganges' flood,
In a tall ancient grove I stood
For sacred use design'd.

IV

Hard by, a venerable priest,
Ris'n with his god, the sun, from rest,
Awoke his morning song;
Thrice he conjur'd the murmuring stream:
The birth of souls was all his theme,
And half divine his tongue.

V

He sang—‘Th'eternal rolling flame,
‘That vital mass, that still the same
‘Does all our minds compose:
‘But shap'd in twice ten thousand frames;
‘Thence diff'ring souls of diff'ring names,
‘And jarring tempests rose.

VI

‘The mighty power that form'd the mind
‘One mould for every two design'd,
‘And bless the new-born pair:
‘This be a match for this:’ He said,
‘Then down he sent the souls he made,
‘To seek them bodies here:

VII

‘But parting from their warm abode
‘They lost their fellows on the road,
‘And never join'd their hands:
‘Ah cruel chance, and crossing fates!
‘Our eastern souls have dropt their mates
‘On Europe's barbarous lands.

VIII

‘Happy the youth that finds the bride
‘Whose birth is to his own ally'd,
‘The sweetest joy of life:
‘But oh the crowds of wretched souls
‘Fetter'd to minds of different moulds,
‘And chain'd t'eternal strife!’

IX

Thus sang the wondrous Indian bard;
My soul with vast attention heard,
While Ganges ceas'd to flow:
‘Sure then,’ I cry'd, ‘might I but see
‘That gentle nymph that twinn'd with me,
‘I may be happy too.

X

‘Some courteous angel, tell me where,
‘What distant lands this unknown fair,
‘Or distant seas detain?
‘Swift as the wheel of nature rolls
‘I'd fly, to meet, and mingle souls,
‘And wear the joyful chain.’

The happy Man.

Serene as light is Myron's soul,
And active as the sun, yet steady as the pole:
In manly beauty shines his face;
Every muse, and every grace,
Makes his heart and tongue their seat,
His heart profusely good, his tongue divinely sweet.
Myron, the wonder of our eyes,
Behold his manhood scarce begun!
Behold his race of virtue run!
Behold the goal of glory won!
Nor fame denies the merit, nor withholds the prize;
Her silver trumpets his renown proclaim:
The lands where learning never flew,
Which neither Rome nor Athens knew,
Surly Japan and rich Peru,
In barbarous songs, pronounce the British hero's name.

‘Airy bliss,’ the hero cry'd,
‘May feed the tympany of pride;
‘But healthy souls were never found
‘To live on emptiness and sound.’

Lo, at his honourable feet
Fame's bright attendant, wealth, appears;
She comes to pay obedience meet,
Providing joys for future years;
Blessings with lavish hand she pours
Gather'd from the Indian coast:
Not Danäe's lap could equal treasures boast,
When Jove came down in golden show'rs.

He look'd and turn'd his eyes away,
With high disdain I heard him say,
‘Bliss is not made of glitt'ring clay.’

Now pomp and grandeur court his head
With scutcheons, arms, and ensigns spread:
Gay magnificence and state,
Guards and chariots, at his gate,
And slaves in endless order round his table wait:
They learn the dictates of his eyes,
And now they fall, and now they rise,
Watch every motion of their Lord,
Hang on his lips with most impatient zeal,
With swift ambition seize th'unfinish'd word,
And the command fulfil.

478

Tir'd with the train that grandeur brings,
He dropt a tear, and pity'd kings:
Then flying from the noisy throng,
Seeks the diversion of a song.

Music descending on a silent cloud,
Tun'd all her strings with endless art;
By slow degrees from soft to loud
Changing she rose: The harp and flute
Harmonious join, the hero to salute,
And make a captive of his heart.
Fruits, and rich wine, and scenes of lawless love
Each with utmost luxury strove
To treat their favourite best;
But sounding strings, and fruits, and wine,
And lawless love, in vain combine
To make his virtue sleep, or lull his soul to rest.

He saw the tedious round, and, with a sigh,
Pronounc'd the world but vanity.
‘In crowds of pleasure still I find
‘A painful solitude of mind.
‘A vacancy within which sense can ne'er supply.
‘Hence, and be gone, ye flatt'ring snares,
‘Ye vulgar charms of eyes and ears,
‘Ye unperforming promisers!
‘Be all my baser passions dead,
‘And base desires, by nature made
‘For animals and boys:
‘Man has a relish more refin'd,
‘Souls are for social bliss design'd,
‘Give me a blessing fit to match my mind,
‘A kindred soul to double and to share my joys.’

Myrrha appear'd: Serene her soul
And active as the sun, yet steady as the pole:
In softer beauties shone her face;
Every muse, and every grace,
Made her heart and tongue their seat,
Her heart profusely good; her tongue divinely sweet:
Myrrha, the wonder of his eyes;
His heart recoil'd with sweet surprise,
With joys unknown before:
His soul, dissolv'd in pleasing pain,
Flow'd to his eyes, and look'd again,
And could endure no more.
Enough!’ th'impatient hero cries,
And seiz'd her to his breast,
‘I seek no more below the skies,
‘I give my slaves the rest.’

TO DAVID POLHILL, ESQ.

An Answer to an infamous Satire, called Advice to a Painter; written by a nameless Author, against King William III. of glorious Memory, 1698.

[_]

SIR,

When you put this satire into my hand, you gave me the occasion of employing my pen to answer so detestable a writing; which might be done much more effectually by your known zeal for the interest of his majesty, your counsels and your courage, employed in the defence of your king and country. And, since you provoked me to write, you will accept of these efforts of my loyalty to the best of kings, addressed to one of the most zealous of his subjects, by,

Sir, Your most obedient servant, I. W.

I. PART I.

And must the hero, that redeem'd our land,
Here in the front of vice and scandal stand?
The man of wondrous soul, that scorn'd his ease,
Tempting the winters, and the faithless seas,
And paid an annual tribute of his life
To guard his England from the Irish knife,
And crush the French dragoon? Must William's name,
That brightest star that gilds the wings of fame,
William the brave, the pious, and the just,
Adorn these gloomy scenes of tyranny and lust?

Polhill, my blood boils high, my spirits flame;
Can your zeal sleep! Or are your passions tame?
Nor call revenge and darkness on the poet's name?
Why smoke the skies not? Why no thunders roll?
Nor kindling lightnings blast his guilty soul?
Audacious wretch! to stab a monarch's fame,
And fire his subjects with a rebel-flame;
To call the painter to his black designs,
To draw our guardian's face in hellish lines:
Painter, beware! the monarch can be shown
Under no shape but angels, or his own,
Gabriel, or William, on the British throne.

O! could my thought but grasp the vast design,
And words with infinite ideas join,
I'd rouse Appelles, from his iron sleep,
And bid him trace the warrior o'er the deep:
Trace him, Appelles, o'er the Belgian plain,
Fierce how he climbs the mountains of the slain,
Scatt'ring just vengeance thro' the red campaign.
Then dash the canvas with a flying stroke,
Till it be lost in clouds of fire and smoke,
And say, 'Twas thus the conqueror thro' the squadrons broke.
Mark him again emerging from the cloud,
Far from his troops; there like a rock he stood
His country's single barrier in a sea of blood.

479

Calmly he leaves the pleasure of a throne,
And his Maria weeping; whilst alone
He wards the fate of nations, and provokes his own:
But heav'n secures its champion; o'er the field
Paint hov'ring angels; tho' they fly conceal'd,
Each intercepts a death, and wears it on his shield.

Now noble pencil, lead him to our isle,
Mark how the skies with joyful lustre smile,
Then imitate the glory; on the strand
Spread half the nation, longing till he land.
Wash off the blood, and take a peaceful teint,
All red the warrior, white the ruler paint:
Abroad a hero, and at home a saint.
Throne him on high upon a shining seat,
Lust and profaneness dying at his feet,
While round his head the laurel and the olive meet,
The crowns of war and peace; and may they blow
With flow'ry blessings ever on his brow.
At his right-hand pile up the English laws
In sacred volumes; thence the monarch draws
His wise and just commands—
Rise, ye old sages of the British isle,
On the fair tablet cast a reverend smile,
And bless the piece; these statutes are your own,
That sway the cottage, and direct the throne;
People and prince are one in William's name.
Their joys, their dangers, and their laws the same.

Let liberty, and right, with plumes display'd,
Clap their glad wings around their guardian's head,
Religion o'er the rest her starry pinions spread.
Religion guards him; round th'imperial queen
Place waiting virtues, each of heav'nly mien;
Learn their bright air, and paint it from his eyes;
The just, the bold, the temperate, and the wise
Dwell in his looks; majestic, but serene;
Sweet, with no fondness; cheerful but not vain:
Bright, without terror; great, without disdain.
His soul inspires us what his lips command,
And spreads his brave example thro' the land:
Not so the former reigns;—
Bend down his earth to each afflicted cry,
Let beams of grace dart gently from his eye;
But the bright treasures of his sacred breast
Are too divine, too vast to be exprest:
Colours must fail where words and numbers faint,
And leave the hero's heart for thought alone to paint.

II. PART II.

Now, muse, pursue the satirist again,
Wipe off the blots of his envenom'd pen;
Hark, how he bids the servile painter draw,
In monstrous shapes, the patrons of our law;
At one slight dash he cancels every name
From the white rolls of honesty and fame:
This scribbling wretch marks all he meets for knave,
Shoots sudden bolts promiscuous at the base and brave,
And with unpardonable malice sheds
Poison and spite on undistinguish'd heads.
Painter, forbear; or if thy bolder hand
Dares to attempt the villains of the land,
Draw first this poet, like some baleful star,
With silent influence shedding civil war;
Or factious trumpeter, whose magic sound
Calls off the subjects to the hostile ground,
And scatters hellish feuds the nation round.
These are the imps of hell, that cursed tribe
That first create the plague, and then the pain describe.

Draw next above, the great ones of our isle,
Still from the good distinguishing the vile;
Seat 'em in pomp, in grandeur, and command,
Peeling the subjects with a greedy hand:
Paint forth the knaves that have the nation sold,
And tinge their greedy looks with sordid gold.
Mark what a selfish faction undermines
The pious monarch's generous designs,
Spoil their own native land as vipers do,
Vipers that tear their mothers bowels through.
Let great Nassau, beneath a careful crown,
Mournful in majesty, look gently down,
Mingling soft pity with an awful frown:
He grieves to see how long in vain he strove
To make us blest, how vain his labours prove
To save the stubborn land he condescends to love.

To the Discontented and Unquiet.

Imitated partly from Casimire, book iv. ode 15.

Varia, there's nothing here that's free
From wearisome anxiety:
And the whole round of mortal joys
With short possession tires and cloys:
'Tis a dull circle that we tread,
Just from the window to the bed,
We rise to see and to be seen,
Gaze on the world awhile, and then
We yawn, and stretch to sleep again.
But fancy, that uneasy guest,
Still holds a lodging in our breast;
She finds or frames vexations still.
Herself the greatest plague we feel,
We take strange pleasure in our pain,
And make a mountain of a grain,
Assume the load, and pant and sweat
Beneath th'imaginary weight.
With our dear selves we live at strife,
While the most constant scenes of life

480

From peevish humours are not free;
Still we affect variety:
Rather than pass an easy day,
We fret and chide the hours away,
Grow weary of this circling sun,
And vex that he should ever run
The same old track; and still, and still
Rise red behind yon eastern hill,
And chides the moon that darts her light
Thro' the same casement every night.

We shift our chambers, and our homes,
To dwell where trouble never comes:
Silvia has left the city crowd,
Against the court exclaims aloud,
Flies to the woods; a hermit-saint!
She loaths her patches, pins and paint,
Dear diamonds from her neck are torn:
But Humour, that eternal thorn,
Sticks in her heart: She's hurry'd still,
'Twixt her wild passions and her will:
Haunted and hagg'd where'er she roves,
By purling streams, and silent groves,
Or with her furies, or her loves.

Then our own native land we hate,
Too cold, too windy, or too wet;
Change the thick climate, and repair
To France or Italy for air;
In vain we change, in vain we fly;
Go, Silvia, mount the whirling sky,
Or ride upon the feather'd wind
In vain; if this diseased mind
Clings fast, and still sits close behind.
Faithful disease, that never fails
Attendance at her lady's side,
Over the desert or the tide,
On rolling wheels, or flying sails.

Happy the soul that virtue shows
To fix the place of her repose,
Needless to move; for she can dwell
In her old grandsire's hall as well.
Virtue that never loves to roam,
But sweetly hides herself at home,
And easy on a native throne
Of humble turf sits gently down.

Yet should tumultuous storms arise,
And mingle earth and seas, and skies,
Should the waves swell, and make her roll
Across the line, or near the pole,
Still she's at peace; for well she knows
To launch the stream that duty shows,
And makes her home where'er she goes.
Bear her, ye seas, upon your breast,
Or waft her, winds, from east to west
On the soft air; she cannot find
A couch so easy as her mind,
Nor breathe a climate half so kind.

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

Casimire, book i. ode 4. Imitated.

Vive jucundæ metuens juventæ, &c.

July, 1700.

I

Live, my dear Hartopp, live to-day,
Nor let the sun look down and say,
‘Inglorious here he lies,’
Shake off your ease, and send your name
To immortality and fame,
By ev'ry hour that flies.

II

Youth's a soft scene, but trust her not:
Her airy minutes, swift as thought,
Slide off the slipp'ry sphere;
Moons with their months make hasty rounds,
The sun has pass'd his vernal bounds,
And whirls about the year.

III

Let folly dress in green and red,
And gird her waist with flowing gold,
Knit blushing roses round her head,
Alas! the gaudy colours fade,
The garment waxes old.
Hartopp, mark the withering rose,
And the pale gold how dim it shows!

IV

Bright and lasting bliss below
Is all romance and dream;
Only the joys celestial flow
In an eternal stream,
The pleasures that the smiling day
With large right-hand bestows,
Falsly her left conveys away,
And shuffles in our woes.
So have I seen a mother play,
And cheat her silly child,
She gave and took a toy away,
The infant cry'd and smil'd.

V

Airy chance, and iron fate
Hurry and vex our mortal state,
And all the race of ills create;
Now fiery joy, now sullen grief,
Commands the reins of human life,
The wheels impetuous roll;
The harnest hours and minutes strive,
And days with stretching pinions drive—
—down fiercely on the goal.

VI

Not half so fast, the galley flies
O'er the Venetian sea,
When sails, and oars, and lab'ring skies
Contend to make her way.
Swift wings for all the flying hours
The God of time prepares,
The rest lie still yet in their nest
And grow for future years.

481

TO THOMAS GUNSTON, ESQ.

1700. Happy Solitude. Casimire, book iv. ode 12. Imitated.

Quid me latentem, &c.

I.

The noisy world complains of me
That I should shun their sight, and flee
Visits, and crowds, and company.
Gunston, the lark dwells in her nest
Till she ascend the skies;
And in my closet I could rest
Till to the heavens I rise.

II.

Yet they will urge, ‘This private life
‘Can never make you blest,
‘And twenty doors are still at strife
‘T'engage you for a guest.’
Friend, should the towers of Windsor or Whitehall
Spread open their inviting gates
To make my entertainment gay;
I would obey the royal call,
But short should be my stay,
Since a diviner service waits
T'employ my hours at home, and better fill the day.

III.

When I within myself retreat,
I shut my doors against the great;
My busy eye-balls inward roll,
And there with large survey I see
All the wide theatre of me,
And view the various scenes of my retiring soul;
There I walk o'er the mazes I have trod,
While hope and fear are in a doubtful strife,
Whether this opera of life
Be acted well to gain the plaudit of my God.

IV.

There's a day hast'ning, 'tis an awful day!
When the great Sov'reign shall at large review
All that we speak, and all we do,
The several parts we act on this wide stage of clay:
These he approves, and those he blames,
And crowns perhaps a porter, and a prince he damns.
O if the Judge from his tremendous seat
Shall not condemn what I have done,
I shall be happy tho' unknown,
Nor need the gazing rabble, nor the shouting street.

V.

I hate the glory, friend, that springs
From vulgar breath, and empty sound;
Fame mounts her upward with a flatt'ring gale
Upon her airy wings,
Till Envy shoots, and Fame receives the wound;
Then her flagging pinions fail,
Down Glory falls and strikes the ground,
And breaks her batter'd limbs.
Rather let me be quite concealed from Fame;
How happy I should lie
In sweet obscurity,
Nor the loud world pronounce my little name!
Here I could live and die alone;
Or if society be due
To keep our taste of pleasure new,
Gunston, I'd live and die with you,
For both our souls are one.

VI.

Here we could sit and pass the hour,
And pity kingdoms and their kings,
And smile at all their shining things,
Their toys of state, and images of power;
Virtue should dwell within our seat,
Virtue alone could make it sweet,
Nor is herself secure, but in a close retreat,
While she withdraws from public praise
Envy perhaps would cease to rail,
Envy itself may innocently gaze
At beauty in a veil:
But if she once advance to light,
Her charms are lost in Envy's sight,
And Virtue stands the mark of universal spite.

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

The Disdain.

1700.

I.

Hartopp, I love the soul that dares
Tread the temptations of his years
Beneath his youthful feet:
Fleetwood and all thy heav'nly line
Look thro' the stars, and smile divine
Upon an heir so great.
Young Hartopp knows this noble theme,
That the wild scenes of busy life,
The noise, th'amusements, and the strife
Are but the visions of the night,
Gay phantoms of delusive light,
Or a vexatious dream.

II.

Flesh is the vilest and the least
Ingredient of our frame:
We're born to live above the beast,
Or quit the manly name.
Pleasures of sense we leave for boys;
Be shining dust the miser's food;
Let fancy feed on fame and noise,
Souls must pursue diviner joys,
And seize th'immortal good.

482

TO MITIO, MY FRIEND.

An Epistle.

[_]

Forgive me, Mitio, that there should be any mortifying lines in the following Poems inscribed to you, so soon after your entrance into that state which was designed for the completest happiness on earth: But you will quickly discover, that the muse in the first poem only represents the shades and dark colours that melancholy throws upon love, and the social life. In the second, perhaps she indulges her own bright ideas a little. Yet if the accounts are but well balanced at last, and things set in a due light, I hope there is no ground for censure. Here you will find an attempt made to talk of one of the most important concerns of human nature in verse, and that with a solemnity becoming the argument. I have banished grimace and ridicule, that persons of the most serious character may read without offence. What was written several years ago to yourself is now permitted to entertain the world; but you may assume it to yourself as a private entertainment still, while you lie concealed behind a feigned name.

I. [THE FIRST PART: OR,]

The Mourning Piece.

Life's a long tragedy: This globe the stage,
Well fix'd and well adorn'd with strong machines,
Gay fields, and skies, and seas: The actors many:
The plot immense: A flight of dæmons sit
On every sailing cloud with fatal purpose;
And shoot across the scenes ten thousand arrows
Perpetual and unseen, headed with pain,
With sorrow, infamy, disease and death.
The pointed plagues fly silent thro' the air,
Nor twangs the bow, yet sure and deep the wound.

Dianthe acts her little part alone,
Nor wishes an associate. Lo she glides
Single thro' all the storm, and more secure;
Less are her dangers, and her breast receives
The fewest darts. ‘But, O my lov'd Marilla,
‘My sister, once my friend,’ Dianthe cries,
‘How much art thou expos'd! Thy growing soul
‘Doubled in wedlock, multiply'd in children,
‘Stands but the broader mark for all the mischiefs
‘That rove promiscuous o'er the mortal stage:
‘Children, those dear young limbs, those tenderest pieces
‘Of your own flesh, those little other selves,
‘How they dilate the heart to wide dimensions,
‘And soften every fibre to improve
‘The mother's sad capacity of pain!
‘I mourn Fidelio too; tho' heaven has chose
‘A favourite mate for him, of all her sex
‘The pride and flower: How blest the lovely pair,
‘Beyond expression, if well-mingled loves
‘And woes well-mingled could improve our bliss!
‘Amidst the rugged cares of life behold
‘The father and the husband; flatt'ring names,
‘That spread his title, and enlarge his share
‘Of common wretchedness. He fondly hopes
‘To multiply his joys, but every hour
‘Renews the disappointment and the smart.
‘There not a wound afflicts the meanest joint
‘Of his fair partner, or her infant train,
‘(Sweet babes!) but pierces to his inmost soul.
‘Strange is thy pow'r, O love! What num'rous veins,
‘And arteries, and arms, and hands, and eyes,
‘Are link'd and fasten'd to a lover's heart,
‘By strong but secret strings! With vain attempt
‘We put the Stoic on, in vain we try
‘To break the ties of nature and of blood;
‘Those hidden threads maintain the dear communion
‘Inviolably firm: Their thrilling motions
‘Reciprocal give endless sympathy
‘In all the bitters and the sweets of life.
‘Thrice happy man, if pleasure only knew
‘These avenues of love to reach our souls,
‘And pain had never found 'em!’

Thus sang the tuneful maid, fearful to try
The bold experiment. Oft Daphnis came,
And oft Narcissus, rivals of her heart,
Luring her eyes with trifles dipt in gold,
And the gay silken bondage. Firm she stood,
And bold repuls'd the bright temptation still,
Nor put the chains on; dangerous to try,
And hard to be dissolv'd. Yet rising tears
Sat on her eye-lids, while her numbers flow'd
Harmonious sorrow; and the pitying drops

483

Stole down her cheeks, to mourn the hapless state
Of mortal love. Love, thou best blessing sent
To soften life, and make our iron cares
Easy: But thy own cares of softer kind
Give sharper wounds: They lodge too near the heart,
Beat, like the pulse, perpetual, and create
A strange uneasy sense, a tempting pain.

Say, my companion Mitio, speak sincere,
(For thou art learned now) what anxious thoughts,
What kind perplexities tumultuous rise,
If but the absence of a day divide
Thee from thy fair beloved! Vainly smiles
The cheerful sun, and night with radiant eyes
Twinkles in vain: The region of thy soul
Is darkness, till thy better star appear.
Tell me, what toil, what torment to sustain
The rolling burden of the tedious hours?
The tedious hours are ages. Fancy roves
Restless in fond enquiry, nor believes
Charissa safe: Charissa, in whose life
Thy life consists, and in her comfort thine.
Fear and surmise put on a thousand forms
Of dear disquietude, and round thine ears
Whisper ten thousand dangers, endless woes,
Till thy frame shudders at her fancy'd death;
Then dies my Mitio, and his blood creeps cold
Thro' every vein. Speak, does the stranger-muse
Cast happy guesses at the unknown passion,
Or has she fabled all? Inform me, friend,
Are half thy joys sincere? Thy hopes fulfill'd,
Or frustrate? Here commit thy secret griefs
To faithful ears, and be they bury'd here
In friendship and oblivion; lest they spoil
Thy new-born pleasures with distasteful gall.
Nor let thine eye too greedily drink in
The frightful prospect, when untimely death
Shall make wild inroads on a parent's heart,
And his dear offspring to the cruel grave
Are dragg'd in sad succession; while his soul
Is torn away piece-meal: Thus dies the wretch
A various death, and frequent, ere he quit
The theatre, and make his exit final.

But if his dearest half, his faithful mate
Survive, and in the sweetest saddest airs
Of love and grief, approach with trembling hand
To close his swimming eyes, what double pangs,
What racks, what twinges rend his heart-strings off
From the fair bosom of that fellow-dove
He leaves behind to mourn? What jealous cares
Hang on his parting soul, to think his love
Expos'd to wild oppression, and the herd
Of savage men? So parts the dying turtle
With sobbing accents, with such sad regret
Leaves his kind feather'd mate: The widow bird
Wanders in lonesome shades, forgets her food,
Forgets her life; or falls a speedier prey
To talon'd falcons, and the crooked beak
Of hawks athirst for blood—

II. THE SECOND PART: OR,

The bright Vision.

Thus far the muse, in unaccustom'd mood,
And strains unpleasing to a lover's ear,
Indulg'd a gloom of thought; and thus she sang
Partial; for melancholy's hateful form
Stood by in sable robe: The pensive muse
Survey'd the darksome scenes of life, and sought
Some bright relieving glimpse, some cordial ray
In the fair world of love: But while she gaz'd
Delightful on the state of twin-born souls
United, bless'd, the cruel shade apply'd
A dark long tube, and a false tinctur'd glass
Deceitful; blending love and life at once
In darkness, chaos, and the common mass
Of misery: Now Urania feels the cheat,
And breaks the hated optic in disdain.
Swift vanishes the sullen form, and lo
The scene shines bright with bliss: Behold the place
Where mischiefs never fly, cares never come
With wrinkled brow, nor anguish, nor disease,
Nor malice forky-tongu'd. On this dear spot,
Mitio, my love would fix and plant thy station,
To act thy part of life, serene and blest
With the fair consort fitted to thy heart.

Sure 'tis a vision of that happy grove
Where the first authors of our mournful race
Liv'd in sweet partnership! One hour they liv'd,
But chang'd the tasted bliss (imprudent pair!)
For sin, and shame, and this waste wilderness
Of briers, and nine hundred years of pain.
The wishing muse new dresses the fair garden
Amid this desart world, with budding bliss,
And ever-greens, and balms, and flow'ry beauties
Without one dang'rous tree; there heav'nly dews
Nightly descending shall impearl the grass
And verdant herbage; drops of fragrancy
Sit trembling on the spires: The spicy vapours
Rise with the dawn, and thro' the air diffus'd
Salute your waking senses with perfume:
While vital fruits with their ambrosial juice
Renew life's purple flood and fountain, pure
From vicious taint; and with your innocence
Immortalise the structure of your clay.
On this new paradise the cloudless skies
Shall smile perpetual, while the lamp of day
With flames unsully'd, (as the fabled torch
Of Hymen) measures out your golden hours
Along his azure road. The nuptial moon
In milder rays serene, should nightly rise

484

Full orb'd (if heaven and nature will indulge
So fair an emblem) big with silver joys,
And still forget her wane. The feather'd choir
Warbling their Maker's praise on early wing,
Or perch'd on evening-bough, shall join your worship,
Join your sweet vespers, and the morning song.

O sacred symphony! Hark, thro' the grove
I hear the sound divine! I'm all attention,
All ear, all ecstasy; unknown delight!
And the fair muse proclaims the heav'n below.

Not the seraphic minds of high degree
Disdain converse with men: Again returning
I see the ethereal host on downward wing.
Lo, at the eastern gate young cherubs stand
Guardians, commission'd to convey their joys
To earthly lovers. Go, ye happy pair,
Go taste their banquet, learn the nobler pleasures
Supernal, and from brutal dregs refin'd.
Raphael shall teach thee, friend, exalted thoughts
And intellectual bliss. 'Twas Raphael taught
The patriarch of our progeny the affairs
Of heaven! (So Milton sings, enlight'ned bard!
Nor miss'd his eyes, when in sublimest strain
The angel's great narration he repeats
To Albion's sons high-favour'd.) Thou shalt learn
Celestial lessons from his awful tongue;
And with soft grace and interwoven loves
(Grateful digression) all his words rehearse
To thy Charissa's ear, and charm her soul.
Thus with divine discourse, in shady bowers
Of Eden, our first father entertain'd
Eve his sole auditress; and deep dispute
With conjugal caresses on her lip
Solv'd easy, and abstrusest thoughts reveal'd.

Now the day wears apace, now Mitio comes
From his bright tutor, and finds out his mate.
Behold the dear associates seated low
On humble turf, with rose and myrtle strow'd:
But high their conference! How self-suffic'd
Lives their eternal Maker, girt around
With glories; arm'd with thunders; and his throne
Mortal access forbids, projecting far
Splendors unsufferable and radiant death.
With reverence and abasement deep they fall
Before his sovereign majesty, to pay
Due worship: Then his mercy on their souls
Smiles with a gentler ray, but sov'reign still;
And leads their meditation and discourse
Long ages backward, and across the seas
To Bethlehem of Judah: There the Son,
The filial godhead, character express
Of brightness inexpressible, laid by
His beamy robes, and made descent to earth.
Sprung from the sons of Adam he became
A second father, studious to regain
Lost paradise for men, and purchase heav'n.

The Lovers with indearment mutual thus
Promiscuous talk'd, and questions intricate
His manly judgment still resolv'd, and still
Held her attention fix'd: She musing sat
On the sweet mention of incarnate love,
Till rapture wak'd her voice to softest strains.
‘She sang the Infant God; (mysterious theme)
‘How vile his birth-place, and his cradle vile!
‘The ox and ass his mean companions; there
‘Inhabit vile the shepherds flock around,
‘Saluting the great mother, and adore
‘Israel's anointed King, the appointed Heir
‘Of the creation. How debas'd he lies
‘Beneath his regal state; for thee, my Mitio,
‘Debas'd in servile form; but angels stood
‘Minist'ring round their charge with folded wings
‘Obsequious, tho' unseen; while lightsome hours
‘Fulfill'd the day, and the gray evening rose.
‘Then the fair guardians hov'ring o'er his head
‘Wakeful all night, drive the foul spirits far,
And with their fanning pinions purge the air
‘From busy phantoms, from infectious damps,
‘And impure taint; while their ambrosial plumes
‘A dewy slumber on his senses shed.
‘Alternate hymns the heav'nly watchers sung
‘Melodious, soothing the surrounding shades,
‘And kept the darkness chaste and holy. Then
‘Midnight was charm'd, and all her gazing eyes
‘Wonder'd to see their mighty Maker sleep.
‘Behold the glooms disperse, the rosy morn
‘Smiles in the east with eye-lids opening fair,
‘But not so fair as thine; O I could fold thee,
‘My young Almighty, my creator-babe,
‘For ever in these arms! For ever dwell
‘Upon thy lovely form with gazing joy,
‘And every pulse should beat seraphic love!
‘Around my seat should crowding cherubs come
‘With swift ambition, zealous to attend
‘Their Prince, and form a heav'n below the sky.’

‘Forbear, Charissa, O forbear the thought
‘Of female-fondness, and forgive the man
‘That interrupts such melting harmony!’
Thus Mitio; and awakes her nobler powers
To pay just worship to the sacred King,
Jesus, the God; nor with devotion pure
Mix the caresses of her softer sex;
(Vain blandishment) ‘Come, turn thine eyes aside
‘From Bethle'em, and climb up the doleful steep
‘Of bloody Calvary, where naked sculls
‘Pave the sad road, and fright the traveller.
‘Can my beloved bear to trace the feet
‘Of her Redeemer panting up the hill
‘Hard-burden'd? Can thy heart attend his cross?
‘Nail'd to the cruel wood he groans, he dies,
‘For thee he dies. Beneath thy sins and mine
‘(Horrible load!) the sinful Saviour groans,
‘And in fierce anguish of his soul expires.
‘Adoring angels pry with bending head

485

‘Searching the deep contrivance, and admire
‘This infinite design. Here peace is made
‘'Twixt God the Sov'reign, and the rebel man:
‘Here Satan overthrown with all his hosts
‘In second ruin rages and despairs;
‘Malice itself despairs. The captive prey
‘Long held in slavery hopes a sweet release,
‘And Adam's ruin'd offspring shall revive
‘Thus ransom'd from the greedy jaws of death.’

The fair disciple heard; her passions move
Harmonious to the great discourse, and breathe
Refin'd devotion: While new smiles of love
Repay her teacher. Both with bended knees
Read o'er the covenant of eternal life
Brought down to men; seal'd by the sacred Three
In heav'n; and seal'd on earth with God's own blood,
Here they unite their names again, and sign
Those peaceful articles. (Hail, blest co-heirs
Celestial! Ye shall grow to manly age,
And spite of earth and hell, in season due
Possess the fair inheritance above.)
With joyous admiration they survey
The gospel treasures infinite, unseen
By mortal eye, by mortal ear unheard,
And unconceiv'd by thought: Riches divine
And honours which the Almighty Father God
Pour'd with immense profusion on his Son,
High-Treasurer of heaven. The Son bestows
The life, the love, the blessing, and the joy
On bankrupt mortals who believe and love
His name. ‘Then, my Charissa, all is thine.’
‘And thine, my Mitio,’ the fair saint replies.
‘Life, death, the world below, and worlds on high,
‘And place, and time, are ours; and things to come,
‘And past, and present; for our interest stands
‘Firm in our mystic head, the title sure.
‘'Tis for our health and sweet refreshment (while
‘We sojourn strangers here) the fruitful earth
‘Bears plenteous; and revolving seasons still
‘Dress her vast globe in various ornament.
‘For us this cheerful sun and cheerful light
‘Diurnal shine. This blue expanse of sky
‘Hangs, a rich canopy above our heads
‘Covering our slumbers, all with starry gold
‘Inwrought, when night alternates her return.
‘For us time wears his wings out: Nature keeps
‘Her wheels in motion; and her fabric stands.
‘Glories beyond our ken of mortal sight
‘Are now preparing, and a mansion fair
‘Awaits us, where the saints unbody'd live.
‘Spirits releas'd from clay, and purg'd from sin:
‘Thither our hearts with most incessant wish
‘Panting aspire; when shall that dearest hour
‘Shine and release us hence, and bear us high,
‘Bear us at once unsever'd to our better home?’

O blest connubial state! O happy pair,
Envy'd by yet unsociated souls
Who seek their faithful twins! Your pleasures rise
Sweet as the morn, advancing as the day,
Fervent as glorious noon, serenely calm
As summer evenings. The vile sons of earth
Grov'ling in dust with all their noisy jars
Restless, shall interrupt your joys no more
Than barking animals affright the moon
Sublime, and riding in her midnight way.
Friendship and love shall undistinguish'd reign
O'er all your passions with unrival'd sway
Mutual and everlasting: Friendship knows
No property in good, but all things common
That each possesses, as the light or air
In which we breathe and live: There's not one thought
Can lurk in close reserve, no barriers fix'd,
But every passage open as the day
To one another's breast, and inmost mind.
Thus by communion your delight shall grow,
Thus streams of mingled bliss swell higher as they flow,
Thus angels mix their flames, and more divinely grow.

III. THE THIRD PART: OR,

The Account balanced.

I.

Should sov'reign love before me stand,
With all his train of pomp and state,
And bid the daring muse relate
His comforts and his cares;
Mitio, I would not ask the sand
For metaphors t'express their weight,
Nor borrow numbers from the stars.
Thy cares and comforts, sov'reign love,
Vastly out-weigh the sand below,
And to a larger audit grow
Than all the stars above.
Thy mighty losses and thy gains
Are their own mutual measures;
Only the man that knows thy pains
Can reckon up thy pleasures.

II.

Say, Damon, say, how bright the scene,
Damon is half-divinely blest,
Leaning his head on his Florella's breast,
Without a jealous thought, or busy care between:
Then the sweet passions mix and share;
Florella tells thee all her heart,
Nor can thy soul's remotest part
Conceal a thought or wish from the beloved fair.
Say, what a pitch thy pleasures fly,
When friendship all-sincere grows up to ecstasy
Nor self contracts the bliss, nor vice pollutes the joy,
While thy dear offspring round thee sit,
Or sporting innocently at thy feet
Thy kindest thoughts engage:

486

Those little images of thee.
What pretty toys of youth they be,
And growing props of age!

III.

But short is earthly bliss! The changing wind
Blows from the sickly south, and brings
Malignant fevers on its sultry wings.
Relentless death sits close behind:
Now gasping infants, and a wife in tears,
With piercing groans salutes his ears,
Thro' every vein the thrilling torments roll:
While sweet and bitter are at strife
In those dear miseries of life,
Those tenderest pieces of his bleeding soul.
The pleasing sense of love awhile
Mixt with the heart-ache may the pain beguile,
And make a feeble fight:
Till sorrows like a gloomy deluge rise,
Then every smiling passion dies,
And hope alone with wakeful eyes
Darkling and solitary waits the slow-returning light.

IV.

Here then let my ambition rest,
May I be moderately blest
When I the laws of love obey:
Let but my pleasure and my pain
In equal balance ever reign,
Or mount by turns and sink again,
And share just measures of alternate sway.
So Damon lives, and ne'er complains;
Scarce can we hope diviner scenes
On this dull stage of clay:
The tribes beneath the northern bear
Submit to darkness half the year,
Since half the year is day.

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

An Epigram.

Dryden is dead, Dryden alone could sing
The full-grown glories of a future king.
Now Glo'ster dies: Thus lesser heroes live
By that immortal breath that poets give;
And scarce survive the muse: But William stands,
Nor asks his honours from the poet's hands.
William shall shine without a Dryden's praise,
His laurels are not grafted on the bays.

AN EPIGRAM OF MARTIAL TO CIRINUS.

INSCRIBED TO MR. JOSIAH HORT. NOW LORD BISHOP OF KILMORE IN IRELAND.

Sic tua, Cirini, promas Epigrammata vulgo ut mecum possis, &c.

1694.

So smooth your numbers, Friend, your verse so sweet,
So sharp the jest, and yet the turn so neat,
That with her Martial Rome would place Cirine,
Rome would prefer your sense and thought to mine.
Yet modest you decline the public stage,
To fix your friend alone amidst the applauding age.
So Maro did; the mighty Maro sings
In vast heroic notes of vast heroic things,
And leaves the Ode to dance upon his Flaccus strings.
He scorn'd to daunt the dear Horatian lyre,
Tho' his brave genius flash'd Pindaric fire,
And at his will could silence all the lyric quire.
So to his Varius he resign'd the praise
Of the proud buskin and the tragic bays,
When he could thunder with a loftier vein,
And sing of gods and heroes in a bolder strain.

A handsome treat, a piece of gold, or so,
And compliments will every friend bestow;
Rarely a Virgil, a Cirine we meet,
Who lays his laurels at inferior feet,
And yields the tenderest point of honour, wit.

489

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

On the Sight of some of her divine Poems, never printed.

July 19, 1706.

I.

On the fair banks of gentle Thames
I tun'd my harp; nor did celestial themes
Refuse to dance upon my strings:
There beneath the evening sky
I sung my cares asleep, and rais'd my wishes high
To everlasting things.
Sudden from Albion's western coast
Harmonious notes come gliding by,
The neighb'ring shepherds knew the silver sound;
‘'Tis Philomela's voice,’ the neighb'ring shepherds cry;
At once my strings all silent lie,
At once my fainting muse was lost,
In the superior sweetness drown'd.
In vain I bid my tuneful powers unite;
My soul retir'd, and left my tongue,
I was all ear, and Philomela's song
Was all divine delight.

II.

Now be my harp for ever dumb,
My muse attempt no more. 'Twas long ago
I bid adieu to mortal things,
To Grecian tales, and wars of Rome,
'Twas long ago I broke all but th'immortal strings;
Now those immortal strings have no employ,
Since a fair angel dwells below,
To tune the notes of heaven, and propagate the joy.
Let all my powers with awe profound
While Philomela sings,
Attend the rapture of the sound,
And my devotion rise on her seraphic wings.

END OF THE SECOND BOOK.

490

BOOK III. SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

AN EPITAPH ON KING WILLIAM III.

OF GLORIOUS MEMORY, Who died March the 8th, 1701–2.

I

Beneath these honours of a tomb,
Greatness in humble ruin lies:
(How earth confines in narrow room
What heroes leave beneath the skies!)

II

Preserve, O venerable pile,
Inviolate thy sacred trust;
To thy cold arms the British isle,
Weeping commits her richest dust.

III

Ye gentlest ministers of fate,
Attend the monarch as he lies,
And bid the softest slumbers wait
With silken cords to bind his eyes.

IV

Rest his dear sword beneath his head;
Round him his faithful arms shall stand:
Fix his bright ensigns on his bed,
The guards and honours of our land.

V

Ye sister-arts of Paint and Verse,
Place Albion fainting by his side,
Her groans arising o'er the hearse,
And Belgia sinking when he dy'd.

VI

High o'er the grave Religion set
In solemn gold; pronounce the ground
Sacred, to bar unhallowed feet,
And plant her guardian Virtues round.

VII

Fair Liberty in sables drest,
Write his lov'd name upon his urn,
‘William, the scourge of tyrants past,
‘And awe of princes yet unborn.’

VIII

Sweet Peace his sacred relics keep,
With olives blooming round her head,
And stretch her wings across the deep
To bless the nations with the shade.

IX

Stand on the pile, immortal Fame,
Broad stars adorn thy brightest robe,
Thy thousand voices sound his name
In silver accents round the globe.

X

Flattery shall faint beneath the sound,
While hoary truth inspires the song;
Envy grow pale and bite the ground,
And slander gnaw her forky tongue.

XI

Night and the grave remove your gloom;
Darkness becomes the vulgar dead;
But glory bids the royal tomb
Disdain the horrors of a shade.

XII

Glory with all her lamps shall burn,
And watch the warrior's sleeping clay,
Till the last trumpet rouse his urn
To aid the triumphs of the day.

ON THE SUDDEN DEATH OF MRS. MARY PEACOCK.

An Elegiac Song, sent in a Letter of Condolence to Mr. N. P. Merchant, at Amsterdam.

I

Hark! She bids all her friends adieu;
Some angel calls her to the spheres;
Our eyes the radiant saint pursue
Thro' liquid telescopes of tears.

II

Farewell, bright soul, a short farewell,
Till we shall meet again above
In the sweet groves where pleasures dwell,
And trees of life bear fruits of love:

491

III

There glory sits on every face,
There friendship smiles in every eye,
There shall our tongues relate the grace
That led us homeward to the sky.

IV

O'er all the names of Christ our King
Shall our harmonious voices rove,
Our harps shall sound from ev'ry string
The wonders of his bleeding love.

V

Come, sov'reign Lord, dear Saviour, come,
Remove these separating days,
Send thy bright wheels to fetch us home;
That golden hour, how long it stays!

VI

How long must we lie ling'ring here,
While saints around us take their flight?
Smiling, they quit this dusky sphere,
And mount the hills of heav'nly light.

VII

Sweet soul, we leave thee to thy rest,
Enjoy thy Jesus and thy God,
Till we, from bands of clay releast,
Spring out and climb the shining road.

VIII

While the dear dust she leaves behind
Sleeps in thy bosom, sacred tomb!
Soft be her bed, her slumbers kind,
And all her dreams of joy to come.

492

AN ELEGIAC THOUGHT ON MRS. ANNE WARNER,

Who died of the Small-pox, Dec. 18, 1707, at one o'Clock in the Morning, a few Days after the Birth and Death of her first Child.

Awake, my muse, range the wide world of souls,
And seek Vernera fled; with upward aim
Direct thy wing; for she was born from heaven,
Fulfill'd her visit, and return'd on high.

The midnight watch of angels that patrole
The British sky, have notic'd her ascent
Near the meridian star; pursue the track
To the bright confines of immortal day
And Paradise, her home. Say, my Urania,
(For nothing 'scapes thy search, nor can'st thou miss
So fair a spirit) say, beneath what shade
Of amarant, or cheerful ever-green
She sits, recounting to her kindred minds
Angelic or humane, her mortal toil
And travels thro' this howling wilderness;
By what divine protections she escap'd
Those deadly snares when youth and Satan leagu'd
In combination to assail her virtue;
(Snares set to murder souls) but heav'n secur'd
The favourite nymph, and taught her victory.

Or does she seek, or has she found her babe
Amongst the infant nation of the blest,
And clasp'd it to her soul, to satiate there
The young maternal passion, and absolve
The unfulfill'd embrace? Thrice happy child!
That saw the light, and turn'd its eyes aside
From our dim regions to th'eternal sun,
And led the parent's way to glory! There
Thou art for ever hers, with powers enlarg'd
For love reciprocal and sweet converse.

Behold her ancestors (a pious race)
Rang'd in fair order, at her sight rejoice
And sing her welcome. She along their seats
Gliding salutes them all with honours due
Such as are paid in heav'n: And last she finds
A mansion fashion'd of distinguish'd light,
But vacant: ‘This,’ with sure presage she cries,
‘Awaits my father; when will he arrive?
‘How long, alas, how long! (Then calls her mate)

493

‘Die, thou dear partner of my mortal cares,
‘Die, and partake my bliss; we are for ever one.’

Ah me! where roves my fancy! What kind dreams
Crowd with sweet violence on my waking mind!
Perhaps illusions all! Inform me, muse,
Chooses she rather to retire apart
To recollect her dissipated pow'rs,
And call her thoughts her own: So lately freed
From earth's vain scenes, gay visits, gratulations,
From Hymen's hurrying and tumultuous joys,
And fears and pangs, fierce pangs that wrought her death.
Tell me on what sublimer theme she dwells
In contemplation, with unerring clue
Infinite truth pursuing. (When, my soul,
O when shall thy release from cumb'rous flesh
Pass the great seal of heav'n? What happy hour
Shall give thy thoughts a loose to soar and trace
The intellectual world? Divine delight!
Vernera's lov'd employ!) Perhaps she sings
To some new golden harp th'almighty deeds,
The names, the honours of her Saviour-God,
His cross, his grave, his victory, and his crown:
Oh could I imitate th'exalted notes,
And mortal ears could bear them!—

Or lies she now before th'eternal throne
Prostrate in humble form, with deep devotion
O'erwhelm'd, and self-abasement at the sight
Of the uncover'd godhead face to face?
Seraphic crowns pay homage at his feet,
And hers amongst them, not of dimmer ore,
Nor set with meaner gems: But vain ambition,
And emulation vain, and fond conceit,
And pride for ever banish'd flies the place,
Curst pride, the dress of hell. Tell me, Urania,
How her joys heighten, and her golden hours
Circle in love. O stamp upon my soul
Some blissful image of the fair deceas'd
To call my passions and my eyes aside
From the dear breathless clay, distressing sight!
I look and mourn and gaze with greedy view
Of melancholy fondness: Tears bedewing
That form so late desir'd, so late belov'd,
Now loathsome and unlovely. Base disease,
That leagu'd with nature's sharpest pains, and spoil'd
So sweet a structure! The impoisoning taint
O'erspreads the building wrought with skill divine,
And ruins the rich temple to the dust!

Was this the countenance, where the world admir'd
Features of wit and virtue? This the face
Where love triumph'd? and beauty on these cheeks,
As on a throne, beneath her radiant eyes
Was seated to advantage; mild, serene,
Reflecting rosy light? So sits the sun
(Fair eye of heaven!) upon a crimson cloud
Near the horizon, and with gentle ray
Smiles lovely round the sky, till rising fogs,
Portending night, with foul and heavy wing
Involve the golden star, and sink him down
Opprest with darkness.—

On the Death of an aged and honoured Relative, Mrs. M. W. July 13, 1693.

I.

I know the kindred mind. 'Tis she, 'tis she;
Among the heav'nly forms I see
The kindred mind from fleshly bondage free;
O how unlike the thing was lately seen
Groaning and panting on the bed,
With ghastly air, and languish'd head,
Life on this side, there the dead,
While the delaying flesh lay shivering between!

II.

Long did the earthy house restrain
In toilsome slavery that ethereal guest;
Prison'd her round in walls of pain,
And twisted cramps and aches with her chain;
Till by the weight of num'rous days opprest
The earthy house began to reel,
The pillars trembled, and the building fell;
The captive soul became her own again:
Tir'd with the sorrows and the cares,
A tedious train of fourscore years,
The pris'ner smil'd to be releast,
She felt her fetters loose, and mounted to her rest.

III.

Gaze on, my soul, and let a perfect view
Paint her idea all anew;
Rase out those melancholy shapes of woe
That hang around thy memory, and becloud it so.
Come, Fancy, come, with essences refin'd,
With youthful green, and spotless white;
Deep be the tincture, and the colours bright
T'express the beauties of a naked mind.
Provide no glooms to form a shade;
All things above of vary'd light are made,
Nor can the heav'nly piece require a mortal aid.
But if the features too divine
Beyond the power of fancy shine,
Conceal th'inimitable strokes behind a graceful shrine.

IV.

Describe the saint from head to feet,
Make all the lines in just proportion meet;
But let her posture be
Filling a chair of high degree;
Observe how near it stands to the almighty seat.
Paint the new graces of her eyes;
Fresh in her looks let sprightly youth arise,
And joys unknown below the skies.

494

Virtue that lives conceal'd below,
And to the breast confin'd,
Sits here triumphant on the brow,
And breaks with radiant glories through
The features of the mind.
Express her passion still the same,
But more divinely sweet;
Love has an everlasting flame,
And makes the work complete.

V.

The painter-muse with glancing eye
Observ'd a manly spirit nigh ,
That death had long disjoin'd:
‘In the fair tablet they shall stand
‘United by a happier band:’
She said, and fix'd her sight, and drew the manly mind,
Recount the years, my song, (a mournful round!)
Since he was seen on earth no more:
He fought in lower seas and drown'd;
But victory and peace he found
On the superior shore.
There now his tuneful breath in sacred songs
Employs the European and the Eastern tongues.
Let th'awful truncheon and the flute,
The pencil and the well-known lute,
Powerful numbers, charming wit
And every art and science meet,
And bring their laurels to his hand, or lay them at his feet.

VI.

'Tis done. What beams of glory fall
(Rich varnish of immortal art)
To gild the bright Original!
'Tis done. The muse has now perform'd her part.
Bring down the piece, Urania, from above,
And let my honour and my love
Dress it with chains of gold to hang upon my heart.

My grandfather Mr. Thomas Watts had such acquaintance with the mathematics, painting, music, and poesy, &c. as gave him considerable esteem among his contemporaries. He was commander of a ship of war 1656, and by blowing up of the ship in the Dutch war he was drowned in his youth.

495

To the dear Memory of my honoured Friend, Thomas Gunston, Esq. who died November 11, 1700, when he had just finished his Seat at Newington.

Of blasted hopes, and of short withering joys,
Sing, heav'nly muse. Try thine ethereal voice
In funeral numbers and a doleful song;
Gunston the just, the generous and the young,
Gunston the friend is dead. O empty name
Of earthly bliss! 'Tis all an airy dream,
All a vain thought! Our soaring fancies rise
On treacherous wings! And hopes that touch the skies
Drag but a longer ruin thro' the downward air,
And plunge the falling joy still deeper in despair.

How did our souls stand flatter'd and prepar'd
To shout him welcome to the seat he rear'd!
There the dear man should see his hopes complete,
Smiling, and tasting ev'ry lawful sweet
That peace and plenty brings, while num'rous years
Circling delightful play'd around the spheres:
Revolving suns should still renew his strength,
And draw th'uncommon thread to an unusual length,
But hasty fate thrusts her dread shears between,
Cuts the young life off, and shuts up the scene.
Thus airy pleasure dances in our eyes,
And spreads false images in fair disguise,
T'allure our souls, till just within our arms
The vision dies, and all the painted charms
Flee quick away from the pursuing sight,
Till they are lost in shades, and mingle with the night.

Muse, stretch thy wings, and thy sad journey bend
To the fair Fabric that thy dying friend
Built nameless: 'Twill suggest a thousand things
Mournful and soft as my Urania sings.

496

How did he lay the deep foundations strong,
Marking the bounds, and rear the walls along
Solid and lasting; there a numerous train
Of happy Gunstons might in pleasure reign,
While nations perish, and long ages run,
Nations unborn, and ages unbegun:
Not time itself should waste the blest estate,
Nor the tenth race rebuild the ancient seat.
How fond our fancies are! The founder dies
Childless; his sisters weep and close his eyes,
And wait upon his hearse with never-ceasing cries.
Lofty and slow it moves to meet the tomb,
While weighty sorrow nods on ev'ry plume;
A thousand groans his dear remains convey,
To his cold lodging in a bed of clay,
His country's sacred tears well-watering all the way.
See the dull wheels roll on the sable load;
But no dear son to tread the mournful road,
And fondly kind drop his young sorrows there,
The father's urn bedewing with a filial tear.
O had he left us one behind, to play
Wanton about the painted hall, and say,
‘This was my father's,’ with impatient joy
In my fond arms I'd clasp the smiling boy,
And call him my young friend: But awful fate
Design'd the mighty stroke as lasting as 'twas great.

And must this building then, this costly frame
Stand here for strangers? Must some unknown name
Possess these rooms, the labours of my friend?
Why were these walls rais'd for this hapless end?
Why these apartments all adorn'd so gay?
Why his rich fancy lavish'd thus away?
Muse, view the paintings, how the hov'ring light
Plays o'er the colours in a wanton flight,
And mingled shades wrought in by soft degrees,
Give a sweet foil to all the charming piece;
But night, eternal night, hangs black around
The dismal chambers of the hollow ground,
And solid shades unmingled round his bed
Stand hideous: Earthy fogs embrace his head,
And noisome vapours glide along his face
Rising perpetual. Muse, forsake the place,
Flee the raw damps of the unwholesome clay,
Look to his airy spacious hall, and say,
‘How has he chang'd it for a lonesome cave,
‘Confin'd and crowded in a narrow grave!’

Th'unhappy house looks desolate and mourns,
And every door groans doleful as it turns;
The pillars languish; and each lofty wall
Stately in grief, laments the master's fall,
In drops of briny dew; the fabric bears
His faint resemblance, and renews my tears.
Solid and square it rises from below:
A noble air without a gaudy show
Reigns thro' the model, and adorns the whole,
Manly and plain. Such was the builder's soul.

O how I love to view the stately frame,
That dear memorial of the best-lov'd name!
Then could I wish for some prodigious cave
Vast as his seat, and silent as his grave,
Where the tall shades stretch to the hideous roof,
Forbid the day, and guard the sun-beams off;
Thither, my willing feet, should ye be drawn
At the grey twilight, and the early dawn.
There sweetly sad should my soft minutes roll,
Numb'ring the sorrows of my drooping soul.
But these are airy thoughts! Substantial grief
Grows by those objects that should yield relief;
Fond of my woes I heave my eyes around,
My grief from ev'ry prospect courts a wound;
Views the green gardens, views the smiling skies,
Still my heart sinks, and still my cares arise;
My wand'ring feet round the fair mansion rove,
And there to sooth my sorrows I indulge my love.

Oft have I laid the awful Calvin by,
And the sweet Cowley, with impatient eye
To see those walls, pay the sad visit there,
And drop the tribute of an hourly tear:
Still I behold some melancholy scene,
With many a pensive thought, and many a sigh between.
Two days ago we took the evening air,
I, and my grief, and my Urania there;
Say, my Urania, how the western sun
Broke from black clouds, and in full glory shone
Gilding the roof, then dropt into the sea,
And sudden night devour'd the sweet remains of day;
Thus the bright youth just rear'd his shining head
From obscure shades of life, and sunk among the dead.
The rising sun adorn'd with all his light
Smiles on these walls again: But endless night
Reigns uncontrol'd where the dear Gunston lies,
He's set for ever, and must never rise.
Then why these beams, unseasonable star,
These lightsome smiles descending from afar,
To greet a mourning house? In vain the day
Breaks thro' the windows with a joyful ray,
And marks a shining path along the floors
Bounding the evening and the morning hours;
In vain it bounds 'em: While vast emptiness
And hollow silence reigns thro' all the place,
Nor heeds the cheerful change of nature's face.
Yet nature's wheels will on without control,
The sun will rise, the tuneful spheres will roll,
And the two nightly bears walk round and watch the pole.

See while I speak, high on her sable wheel
Old Night advancing climbs the eastern hill:

497

Troops of dark clouds prepare her way; behold,
How their brown pinions edg'd with evening gold
Spread shadowing o'er the house, and glide away
Slowly pursuing the declining day;
O'er the broad roof they fly their circuit still,
Thus days before they did, and days to come they will;
But the black cloud that shadows o'er his eyes,
Hangs there unmoveable, and never flies:
Fain would I bid the envious gloom be gone;
Ah fruitless wish! How are his curtains drawn
For a long evening that despairs the dawn!

Muse, view the turret: Just beneath the skies
Lonesome it stands, and fixes my sad eyes,
As it would ask a tear. O sacred seat
Sacred to friendship! O divine retreat!
Here did I hope my happy hours t'employ,
And fed before-hand on the promis'd joy,
When weary of the noisy town, my friend
From mortal cares retiring, should ascend
And lead me thither. We alone wou'd sit
Free and secure of all intruding feet:
Our thoughts should stretch their longest wings, and rise,
Nor bound their soarings by the lower skies:
Our tongues should aim at everlasting themes,
And speak what mortals dare, of all the names
Of boundless joys and glories, thrones and seats,
Built high in heaven for souls: We'd trace the streets
Of golden pavement, walk each blissful field,
And climb and taste the fruits the spicy mountains yield:
Then would we swear to keep the sacred road,
And walk right upwards to that blest abode;
We'd charge our parting spirits there to meet,
There hand in hand approach th'almighty seat,
And bend our heads adoring at our Maker's feet.
Thus should we mount on bold advent'rous wings
In high discourse, and dwell on heavenly things,
While the pleas'd hours in sweet succession move,
And minutes measur'd, as they are above,
By ever-circling joys, and ever-shining love.

Anon our thoughts shou'd lower their lofty flight,
Sink by degrees, and take a pleasing sight,
A large round prospect of the spreading plain,
The wealthy river, and his winding train,
The smoky city, and the busy men.
How we should smile to see degenerate worms
Lavish their lives, and fight for airy forms
Of painted honour, dreams of empty sound
Till envy rise, and shoot a secret wound
At swelling glory, straight the bubble breaks,
And the scenes vanish, as the man awakes;
Then the tall titles insolent and proud
Sink to the dust, and mingle with the crowd.

Man is a restless thing: Still vain and wild,
Lives beyond sixty, nor outgrows the child:
His hurrying lusts still break the sacred bound
To seek new pleasures on forbidden ground,
And buy them all too dear. Unthinking fool,
For a short dying joy to sell a deathless soul!
'Tis but a grain of sweetness they can sow,
And reap the long sad harvest of immortal woe.

Another tribe toil in a different strife,
And banish all the lawful sweets of life,
To sweat and dig for gold, to hoard the ore,
Hide the dear dust yet darker than before,
And never dare to use a grain of all the store.

Happy the man that knows the value just
Of earthly things, nor is enslav'd to dust.
'Tis a rich gift the skies but rarely send
To fav'rite souls. Then happy thou, my friend,
For thou hadst learnt to manage and command
The wealth that heav'n bestow'd with liberal hand:
Hence this fair structure rose; and hence this seat
Made to invite my not unwilling feet:
In vain 'twas made! For we shall never meet,
And smile, and love, and bless each other here,
The envious tomb forbids thy face t'appear,
Detains thee, Gunston, from my longing eyes,
And all my hopes lie bury'd, where my Gunston lies.

Come hither, all ye tenderest souls, that know
The heights of fondness, and the depths of woe,
Young mothers, who your darling babes have found
Untimely murder'd with a ghastly wound;
Ye frighted nymphs, who on the bridal bed
Clasp'd in your arms your lovers cold and dead,
Come; in the pomp of all your wild despair,
With flowing eye-lids, and disorder'd hair,
Death in your looks; come, mingle grief with me,
And drown your little streams in my unbounded sea.

You sacred mourners of a nobler mould,
Born for a friend, whose dear embraces hold
Beyond all nature's ties; you that have known
Two happy souls made intimately one,
And felt a parting stroke: 'Tis you must tell
The smart, the twinges, and the racks I feel:
This soul of mine that dreadful wound has borne,
Off from its side its dearest half is torn,
The rest lies bleeding, and but lives to mourn.
O infinite distress! Such raging grief
Should command pity, and despair relief.
Passion, methinks, should rise from all my groans,
Give sense to rocks, and sympathy to stones.

Ye dusky woods and echoing hills around,
Repeat my cries with a perpetual sound:
Be all ye flow'ry vales with thorns o'ergrown,
Assist my sorrows, and declare your own;

498

Alas! your lord is dead. The humble plain
Must ne'er receive his courteous feet again;
Mourn, ye gay smiling meadows, and be seen
In wintry robes, instead of youthful green;
And bid the brook, that still runs warbling by,
Move silent on, and weep his useless channel dry.
Hither methinks the lowing herd should come,
And moaning turtles murmur o'er his tomb:
The oak shall wither, and the curling vine
Weep his young life out, while his arms untwine
Their amorous folds, and mix his bleeding soul with mine.
Ye stately elms, in your long order mourn,
Strip off your pride to dress your master's urn:
Here gently drop your leaves, instead of tears:
Ye elms, the reverend growth of ancient years,
Stand tall and naked to the blustering rage
Of the mad winds: Thus it becomes your age
To show your sorrows. Often ye have seen
Our heads reclin'd upon the rising green;
Beneath your sacred shade diffus'd we lay,
Here Friendship reign'd with an unbounded sway:
Hither our souls the constant off'rings brought,
The burdens of the breast, and labours of the thought;
Our opening bosoms on the conscious ground
Spread all the sorrows and the joys we found,
And mingled ev'ry care; nor was it known
Which of the pains and pleasures were our own;
Then with an equal hand and honest soul
We share the heap, yet both possess the whole,
And all the passions there thro' both our bosoms roll.
By turns we comfort, and by turns complain,
And bear and ease by turns the sympathy of pain.

Friendship! mysterious thing, what magic pow'rs
Support thy sway, and charm these minds of ours?
Bound to thy foot we boast our birthright still,
And dream of freedom, when we've lost our will,
And chang'd away our souls: At thy command
We snatch new miseries from a foreign hand,
To call them ours; and, thoughtless of our ease,
Plague the dear self that we were born to please.
Thou tyranness of minds, whose cruel throne
Heaps on poor mortals sorrows not their own;
As though our mother nature could no more
Find woes sufficient for each son she bore,
Friendship divides the shares, and lengthens out the store.
Yet are we fond of thine imperious reign,
Proud of thy slavery, wanton in our pain,
And chide the courteous hand when death dissolves the chain.

Virtue, forgive the thought! The raving muse
Wild and despairing knows not what she does,
Grows mad in grief, and in her savage hours
Affronts the name she loves and she adores.
She is thy vot'ress too; and at thy shrine,
O sacred Friendship, offer'd songs divine,
While Gunston liv'd, and both our souls were thine.
Here to these shades at solemn hours we came,
To pay devotion with a mutual flame,
Partners in bliss. Sweet luxury of the mind!
And sweet the aids of sense! Each ruder wind
Slept in its caverns, while an evening breeze
Fann'd the leaves gently, sporting thro' the trees;
The linnet and the lark their vespers sung
And clouds of crimson o'er th'horizon hung;
The slow-declining sun with sloping wheels
Sunk down the golden day behind the western hills.

Mourn, ye young gardens, ye unfinish'd gates,
Ye green inclosures, and ye growing sweets
Lament, for ye our midnight hours have known,
And watch'd us walking by the silent moon
In conference divine, while heav'nly fire
Kindling our breasts did all our thoughts inspire
With joys almost immortal; then our zeal
Blaz'd and burnt high to reach th'ethereal hill,
And love refin'd, like that above the poles,
Threw both our arms round one another's souls
In rapture and embraces. Oh forbear,
Forbear, my song! This is too much to hear,
Too dreadful to repeat; such joys as these
Fled from the earth for ever!—

Oh for a general grief! Let all things share
Our woes, that knew our loves: The neighbouring air
Let it be laden with immortal sighs,
And tell the gales, that ev'ry breath that flies
Over these fields should murmur and complain,
And kiss the fading grass, and propagate the pain.
Weep all ye buildings, and the groves around
For ever weep: This is an endless wound,
Vast and incurable. Ye buildings knew
His silver tongue, ye groves have heard it too:
At that dear sound no more shall ye rejoice,
And I no more must hear the charming voice:
Woe to my drooping soul! that heav'nly breath
That could speak life lies now congeal'd in death;
While on his folded lips all cold and pale
Eternal chains and heavy silence dwell.

Yet my fond hope would hear him speak again,
Once more at least, one gentle word, and then
Gunston aloud I call: In vain I cry
Gunston aloud; for he must ne'er reply.
In vain I mourn, and drop these funeral tears,
Death and the grave have neither eyes nor ears:
Wand'ring I tune my sorrows to the groves,
And vent my swelling griefs, and tell the winds our loves;

499

While the dear youth sleeps fast, and hears them not:
He hath forgot me: In the lonesome vault
Mindless of Watts and friendship, cold he lies,
Deaf and unthinking clay.—

But whither am I led? This artless grief
Hurries the muse on, obstinate and deaf
To all the nicer rules, and bears her down
From the tall fabric to the neighbouring ground:
The pleasing hours, the happy moments past
In these sweet fields reviving on my taste
Snatch me away resistless with impetuous haste.
Spread thy strong pinions once again, my song,
And reach the turret thou hast left so long:
O'er the wide roofs its lofty head it rears,
Long waiting our converse; but only hears
The noisy tumults of the realms on high;
The winds salute it whistling as they fly,
Or jarring round the windows: Rattling showers
Lash the fair sides; above loud thunder roars;
But still the master sleeps; nor hears the voice
Of sacred friendship, nor the tempest's noise:
An iron slumber sits on every sense,
In vain the heav'nly thunders strive to rouse it thence.

One labour more, my muse, the golden sphere
Seems to demand: See thro' the dusky air
Downward it shines upon the rising moon;
And, as she labours up to reach her noon,
Pursues her orb with repercussive light,
And streaming gold repays the paler beams of night:
But not one ray can reach the darksome grave,
Or pierce the solid gloom that fills the cave
Where Gunston dwells in death. Behold it flames
Like some new meteor with diffusive beams
Thro' the mid-heaven, and overcomes the stars;
‘So shines thy Gunston's soul above the spheres,’
Raphael replies, and wipes away my tears.
‘We saw the flesh sink down with closing eyes,
‘We heard thy grief shriek out, He dies, He dies!
‘Mistaken grief! to call the flesh the friend!
‘On our fair wings did the bright youth ascend,
‘All heav'n embrac'd him with immortal love,
‘And sung his welcome to the courts above.
‘Gentle Ithuriel led him round the skies,
‘The buildings struck him with immense surprise;
‘The spires all radiant, and the mansions bright,
‘The roof high vaulted with ethereal light:
‘Beauty and strength on the tall bulwarks sat
‘In heav'nly diamond; and for every gate
‘On golden hinges a broad ruby turns,
‘Guards off the foe, and as it moves it burns;
‘Millions of glories reign thro' every part;
‘Infinite power, and uncreated art
‘Stand here display'd, and to the stranger show
‘How it outshines the noblest seats below.
‘The stranger fed his gazing pow'rs awhile
‘Transported: Then, with a regardless smile,
‘Glanc'd his eyes downward thro' the crystal floor,
‘And took eternal leave of what he built before.’

Now, fair Urania, leave the doleful strain;
Raphael commands: Assume thy joys again.
In everlasting numbers sing, and say,
‘Gunston has mov'd his dwelling to the realms of day;
‘Gunston the friend lives still:’ And give thy groans away.

There was a long row of tall elms then standing where some years after the lower garden was made.

500

TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. MR. THOMAS GOUGE,

WHO DIED JANUARY THE 8TH, 1699–700.

I.

Ye virgin souls, whose sweet complaint
Could teach Euphrates not to flow,
Could Sion's ruin so divinely paint,
Array'd in beauty and in woe:
Awake, ye virgin-souls, to mourn,
And with your tuneful sorrows dress a prophet's urn.
O could my lips or flowing eyes
But imitate such charming grief,
I'd teach the seas, and teach the skies
Wailings, and sobs, and sympathies;
Nor should the stones or rocks be deaf;
Rocks shall have eyes, and stones have ears,
While Gouge's death is mourn'd in melody and tears.

II.

Heav'n was impatient of our crimes,
And sent his minister of death
To scourge the bold rebellion of the times,
And to demand our prophet's breath;
He came commission'd for the fates
Of awful Mead, and charming Bates;
There he essay'd the vengeance first,
Then took a dismal aim, and brought great Gouge to dust.

III.

Great Gouge to dust! How doleful is the sound!
How vast the stroke is! and how wide the wound!
Oh painful stroke! distressing death
A wound unmeasurably wide!
No vulgar mortal dy'd
When he resign'd his breath.
The muse that mourns a nation's fall,
Should wait at Gouge's funeral,
Should mingle majesty and groans,
Such as she sings to sinking thrones,
And in deep-sounding numbers tell,
How Sion trembled, when this pillar fell.
Sion grows weak, and England poor,
Nature herself, with all her store,
Can furnish such a pomp for death no more.

IV.

The reverend man let all things mourn;
Sure he was some æthereal mind,
Fated in flesh to be confin'd,
And order'd to be born.
His soul was of th'angelic frame,
The same ingredients, and the mould the same,
When the Creator makes a minister of flame.
He was all form'd of heav'nly things.
Mortals, believe what my Urania sings,
For she has seen him rise upon his flamy wings.

V.

How would he mount, how would he fly
Up thro' the ocean of the sky,
Tow'rd the celestial coast!
With what amazing swiftness soar,
Till earth's dark ball was seen no more,
And all its mountains lost!
Scarce could the muse pursue him with her sight:
But, angels, you can tell,
For oft you meet his wondrous flight,
And knew the stranger well;
Say, how he past the radiant spheres
And visited your happy seats,
And trac'd the well-known turnings of the golden streets,
And walk'd among the stars.

VI.

Tell how he climb'd the everlasting hills,
Surveying all the realms above,
Borne on a strong-wing'd faith, and on the fiery wheels
Of an immortal love.
'Twas there he took a glorious sight
Of the inheritance of saints in light,
And read their title in their Saviour's right.
How oft the humble scholar came,
And to your songs he rais'd his ears
To learn th'unutterable name,
To view th'eternal base that bears
The new creation's frame.
The countenance of God he saw,
Full of mercy, full of awe,
The glories of his power, and glories of his grace:
There he beheld the wondrous springs
Of those celestial sacred things,
The peaceful gospel and the fiery law,
In that majestic face.
That face did all his gazing powers employ,
With most profound abasement and exalted joy.
The rolls of fate were half unseal'd,
He stood adoring by;
The volumes open'd to his eye,
And sweet intelligence he held
With all his shining kindred of the sky.

VII.

Ye seraphs that surround the throne,
Tell how his name was thro' the palace known,
How warm his zeal was, and how like your own;
Speak it aloud, let half the nation hear,
And bold blasphemers shrink and fear:

501

Impudent tongues! to blast a prophet's name!
The poison sure was fetch'd from hell,
Where the old blasphemers dwell,
To taint the purest dust, and blot the whitest fame!
Impudent tongues! You should be darted thro',
Nail'd to your own black mouths, and lie
Useless and dead till slander die,
Till slander die with you.

VIII.

‘We saw him,’ say th'ethereal throng,
‘We saw his warm devotions rise,
‘We heard the fervour of his cries,
‘And mix'd his praises with our song:
‘We knew the secret flights of his retiring hours:
‘Nightly he wak'd his inward powers;
‘Young Israel rose to wrestle with his God,
‘And with unconquer'd force scal'd the celestial towers,
‘To reach the blessing down for those that sought his blood.
‘Oft we beheld the thunderer's hand
‘Rais'd high to crush the factious foe;
‘As oft we saw the rolling vengeance stand
‘Doubtful t'obey the dread command,
‘While his ascending pray'r upheld the falling blow.’

IX.

Draw the past scenes of thy delight,
My muse, and bring the wondrous man to sight.
Place him surrounded as he stood
With pious crowds, while from his tongue
A stream of harmony ran soft along,
And every ear drank in the flowing good:
Softly it ran its silver way,
Till warm devotion rais'd the current strong:
Then fervid zeal on the sweet deluge rode,
Life, love and glory, grace and joy,
Divinely roll'd promiscuous on the torrent flood,
And bore our raptur'd sense away, and thoughts and souls to God.
O might we dwell for ever there!
No more return to breathe this grosser air,
This atmosphere of sin, calamity and care.

X.

But heav'nly scenes soon leave the sight
While we belong to clay,
Passions of terror and delight,
Demand alternate sway.
Behold the man, whose awful voice
Could well proclaim the fiery law,
Kindle the flames that Moses saw,
And swell the trumpet's warlike noise.
He stands the herald of the threat'ning skies,
Lo, on his reverend brow the frowns divinely rise,
All Sinai's thunder on his tongue, and lightning in his eyes.
Round the high roof the curses flew
Distinguishing each guilty head,
Far from th'unequal war the atheist fled,
His kindled arrows still pursue,
His arrows strike the atheist thro',
And o'er his inmost powers a shudd'ring horror spread.
The marble heart groans with an inward wound:
Blaspheming souls of harden'd steel
Shriek out amaz'd at the new pangs they feel,
And dread the echoes of the sound.
The lofty wretch arm'd and array'd
In gaudy pride sinks down his impious head,
Plunges in dark despair, and mingles with the dead.

XI.

Now, muse, assume a softer strain,
Now sooth the sinner's raging smart,
Borrow of Gouge the wondrous art
To calm the surging conscience, and assuage the pain;
He from a bleeding God derives
Life for the souls that guilt had slain,
And straight the dying rebel lives,
The dead arise again;
The opening skies almosto bey
His powerful song; a heav'nly ray
Awakes despair to light, and sheds a cheerful day.
His wond'rous voice rolls back the spheres,
Recals the scenes of ancient years,
To make the Saviour known;
Sweetly the flying charmer roves
Thro' all his labours and his loves,
The anguish of his cross, and triumphs of his throne.

XII.

Come, he invites our feet to try
The steep ascent of Calvary,
And sets the fatal tree before our eye:
See here celestial sorrow reigns;
Rude nails and ragged thorns lay by,
Ting'd with the crimson of redeeming veins.
In wondrous words he sung the vital flood
Where all our sins were drown'd,
Words fit to heal and fit to wound,
Sharp as the spear, and balmy as the blood.
In his discourse divine
Afresh the purple fountain flow'd;
Our falling tears kept sympathetic time,
And trickled to the ground,
While ev'ry accent gave a doleful sound,
Sad as the breaking heart-strings of th'expiring God.

XIII.

Down to the mansions of the dead,
With trembling joy our souls are led,
The captives of his tongue;
There the dear Prince of light reclines his head
Darkness and shades among.

502

With pleasing horror we survey
The caverns of the tomb,
Where the belov'd Redeemer lay,
And shed a sweet perfume.
Hark! the old earthquake roars again
In Gouge's voice, and breaks the chain
Of heavy death, and rends the tombs:
The rising God! he comes, he comes,
With throngs of waking saints, a long triumphing train.

XIV.

See the bright squadrons of the sky.
Downward on wings of joy and haste they fly,
Meet their returning Sovereign, and attend him high.
A shining car the Conqueror fills,
Form'd of a golden cloud;
Slowly the pomp moves up the azure hills,
Old Satan foams and yells aloud,
And gnaws th'eternal brass that binds him to the wheels.
The opening gates of bliss receive their King,
The Father-God smiles on his Son,
Pays him the honours he has won,
The lofty thrones adore, and little cherubs sing.
Behold him on his native throne,
Glory sits fast upon his head;
Dress'd in new light, and beamy robes,
His hand rolls on the seasons, and the shining globes,
And sways the living worlds, and regions of the dead.

XV.

Gouge was his envoy to the realm below,
Vast was his trust, and great his skill,
Bright the credentials he could show,
And thousands own'd the seal.
His hallowed lips could well impart
The grace, the promise, and command:
He knew the pity of Immanuel's heart,
And terrors of Jehovah's hand.
How did our souls start out to hear
The embassies of love he bare,
While every ear in rapture hung
Upon the charming wonders of his tongue.
Life's busy cares a sacred silence bound,
Attention stood with all her powers,
With fixed eyes and awe profound,
Chain'd to the pleasure of the sound,
Nor knew the flying hours.

XVI.

But, O my everlasting grief!
Heav'n has recall'd his envoy from our eyes,
Hence deluges of sorrow rise,
Nor hope th'impossible relief.
Ye remnants of the sacred tribe
Who feel the loss, come share the smart,
And mix your groans with mine:
Where is the tongue that can describe
Infinite things with equal art,
Or language so divine?
Our passions want the heav'nly flame,
Almighty love breathes faintly in our songs,
And awful threat'nings languish on our tongues;
Howe is a great but single name:
Amidst the crowd he stands alone;
Stands yet, but with his starry pinions on,
Drest for the flight, and ready to be gone;
Eternal God, command his stay,
Stretch the dear months of his delay;
O we could wish his age were one immortal day!
But when the flaming chariots come,
And shining guards, t'attend thy prophet home,
Amidst a thousand weeping eyes,
Send an Elisha down, a soul of equal size,
Or burn this worthless globe, and take us to the skies.

Psalm cxxxvii.

Lament. i. 2, 3.

Though he was so great and good a man he did not escape censure.

END OF THE THIRD BOOK.

University of Virginia Library

HORÆ LYRICÆ.

POEMS, CHIEFLY OF THE LYRIC KIND; IN THREE BOOKS: SACRED TO DEVOTION AND PIETY—TO VIRTUE, HONOUR AND FRIENDSHIP— TO THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

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

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

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

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.

Worshipping with Fear.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

Asking Leave to Sing.

I

II

III

IV

V

Divine Judgments.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

Earth and Heaven.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

Felicity Above.

I

II

III

IV

V

God's Dominion and Decrees.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

Self-Consecration.

I

II

III

IV

V

The Creator and Creatures.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

The Nativity of Christ.