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

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

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

Watts, Isaac (1674-1748)

IV.

VOL. IV.

HORÆ LYRICÆ.

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

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

TO DR. WATTS, On reading his Horæ Lyricæ.

TO DR. WATTS, On his Divine Poems.

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

BOOK I. SACRED TO DEVOTION AND PIETY.

II.

BOOK II. SACRED TO VIRTUE, HONOUR AND FRIENDSHIP.

TO HER MAJESTY.

PALINODIA.

TO JOHN LOCKE, ESQ.

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

TO MR. WILLIAM NOKES.

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

TO DR. THOMAS GIBSON.

False Greatness.

TO SARISSA.

TO MR. T. BRADBURY.

Strict Religion very rare.

TO MR. C. AND S. FLEETWOOD.

TO WILLIAM BLACKBOURN, ESQ.

True Monarchy.

True Courage.

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

TO THE REV. MR. BENONI ROWE.

TO THE REV. MR. JOHN HOWE.

The Disappointment and Relief.

The Hero's School of Morality.

Freedom.

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

True Riches.

The Adventurous Muse.

TO MR. NICHOLAS CLARK.

The Afflictions of a Friend.

The Reverse; or, the Comforts of a Friend.

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

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

TO MRS. B. BENDISH.

Few Happy Matches.

TO DAVID POLHILL, ESQ.

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

The Indian Philosopher.

The happy Man.

TO DAVID POLHILL, ESQ.

To the Discontented and Unquiet.

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

TO THOMAS GUNSTON, ESQ.

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

TO MITIO, MY FRIEND.

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

AN EPIGRAM OF MARTIAL TO CIRINUS.

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

III.

BOOK III. SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.

RELIQUIÆ JUVENILES.

REMNANTS OF TIME EMPLOYED, IN PROSE AND VERSE;

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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.

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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.

University of Virginia Library

BOOK II. SACRED TO VIRTUE, HONOUR AND FRIENDSHIP.

TO HER MAJESTY.

PALINODIA.

TO JOHN LOCKE, ESQ.

Retired from Business.

I.

II.

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

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

I

II

III

TO MR. WILLIAM NOKES.

Friendship.

I

II

III

IV

V

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

I.

II.

III.

TO DR. THOMAS GIBSON.

The Life of Souls.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

False Greatness.

I.

II.

III.

TO SARISSA.

An Epistle.

TO MR. T. BRADBURY.

Paradise.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

Strict Religion very rare.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

TO MR. C. AND S. FLEETWOOD.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

TO WILLIAM BLACKBOURN, ESQ.

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

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

True Monarchy.

True Courage.

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

Free Philosophy.

I.

II.

III.

TO THE REV. MR. BENONI ROWE.

The Way of the Multitude.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

TO THE REV. MR. JOHN HOWE.

I.