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.

RELIQUIÆ JUVENILES.

[My God, I love and I adore]

III.—TO DORIO. THE FIRST LYRIC HOUR.

IV.—THE HEBREW POET.

V.—THE THANKFUL PHILOSOPHER.

IX.—THE SACRED CONCERT OF PRAISE.

X.—THE WORLD A STRANGER TO GOD.

XIII.—THE MIDNIGHT ELEVATION.

XIV.—THE HONOURABLE MAGISTRATE.

XVIII—YOUTH AND DEATH

XIX.—BABYLON DESTROYED; OR, THE 137TH PSALM TRANSLATED.

XX.—AN EPITAPH ON BIGOTRY, TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN, Which was written by the late pious and ingenious MR. JOHN REYNOLDS, And inserted in the Occasional Paper, Vol. III. Numb. 6 .

XXII.—AN HYMN TO CHRIST JESUS, THE ETERNAL LIFE.

XXIV—DAVID'S LAMENTATION OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN;2 SAM i.19&c.

XXIX.—ON THE SIGHT OF QUEEN MARY, IN THE YEAR 1694.

XXX.—ON THE EFFIGIES OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS GEORGE, LATE PRINCE OF DENMARK, AND LORD HIGH ADMIRAL OF GREAT BRITAIN, MADE IN WAX, AND SEATED AT A BANQUET NEAR THE EFFIGIES OF HER LATE MAJESTY QUEEN ANNE.

Albinus.

[‘Words of eternal truth proclaim]

XXXV.—AGAINST LEWDNESS.

XXXVI.—AGAINST DRUNKENNESS.

XXXVIII.—PASSION AND REASON.

XLVI.—COWARDICE AND SELF-LOVE.

THOUGHTS AND MEDITATIONS IN A LONG SICKNESS.

[Hail, Hebrew psalmist king! Hail, happy hour!]

LIII.—AN ELEGY ON SOPHRONIA, WHO DIED OF THE SMALL-POX, 1711.

LIV.—AN ELEGY ON THE MUCH-LAMENTED DEATH OF MRS. ELIZABETH BURY, LATE WIFE OF THE REV. MR. SAMUEL BURY, OF BRISTOL, ANNEXED TO SOME MEMOIRS OF HER LIFE, DRAWN UP BY HIM; BUT COLLECTED OUT OF HER OWN PAPERS.

At the Death of that excellent Man Sir Thomas Abney.

Death and Heaven. In five Lyric Odes.

LXI.—ON THE CORONATION OF THEIR MAJESTIES KING GEORGE II. AND QUEEN CAROLINE. OCTOBER 11, 1727.

LXII.—A LOYAL WISH ON HER MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, MARCH 1, COMMONLY CALLED ST. DAVID'S DAY.

LXIII.—PIETY IN A COURT. TO PHILOMELA.

1. A Rural Meditation.

2. A Penitential Thought.

3. A Midnight Hymn.

4. The dying Christian's Hope.

LXVI.—FRAGMENTS OF VERSE.

LXVII.—THE INSCRIPTIONS ON SEVERAL SMALL FRENCH PICTURES, TRANSLATED.

LXVIII.—INSCRIPTIONS ON DIALS.

LXVIII.—INSCRIPTIONS ON PORTRAITS.

Various Mottos for an Effigy.

LXX.—EPIGRAMS.

LXXI.—EPITAPHS.

REMNANTS OF TIME EMPLOYED, IN PROSE AND VERSE;

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509

RELIQUIÆ JUVENILES.

MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS, IN PROSE AND VERSE, ON NATURAL, MORAL, AND DIVINE SUBJECTS; WRITTEN CHIEFLY IN YOUNGER YEARS.

ET JUCUNDA SIMUL ET IDONEA DICERE VITÆ. —HOR.

510

[My God, I love and I adore]

My God, I love and I adore:
But souls that love would know thee more.
Wilt thou for ever hide, and stand
Behind the labours of thy hand?
Thy hand unseen sustains the poles
On which this huge creation rolls:
The starry arch proclaims thy pow'r,
Thy pencil glows in ev'ry flow'r:
In thousand shapes and colours rise
Thy painted wonders to our eyes;
While beasts and birds with lab'ring throats,
Teach us a God in thousand notes.
The meanest pin in nature's frame,
Marks out some letter of thy name.
Where sense can reach or fancy rove,
From hill to hill, from field to grove,
Across the waves, around the sky,
There's not a spot, or deep, or high,
Where the Creator has not trod,
And left the footstep of a God.

But are his footsteps all that we,
Poor grov'ling worms, must know or see?
Thou Maker of my vital frame,
Unveil thy face, pronounce thy name,
Shine to my sight, and let the ear
Which thou hast form'd, thy language hear.
Where is thy residence? Oh, why
Dost thou avoid my searching eye,
My longing sense? Thou great Unknown,
Say, do the clouds conceal thy throne?
Divide, ye clouds, and let me see
The pow'r that gives me leave to be.

Or art thou all diffus'd abroad
Thro' boundless space, a present God,
Unseen, unheard, yet ever near?
What shall I do to find thee here?
Is there not some mysterious art
To feel thy presence at my heart?
To hear thy whispers soft and kind,
In holy silence of the mind?
Then rest my thoughts; no longer roam
In quest of joy, for heav'n's at home.

But, oh, thy beams of warmest love!
Sure they were made for worlds above.
How shall my soul her pow'rs extend,
Beyond where time and nature end,
To reach those heights, thy best abode,
And meet thy kindest smiles, my God?
What shall I do? I wait thy call;
Pronounce the word, my life, my all.
Oh for a wing to bear me far
Beyond the golden morning-star!
Fain would I trace th'immortal way,
That leads to courts of endless day,
Where the Creator stands confess'd,
In his own fairest glories dress'd.
Some shining spirit help me rise,
Come waft a stranger through the skies;
Bless'd Jesus, meet me on the road,
First offspring of th'eternal God,
Thy hand shall lead a younger son,
Clothe me with vestures yet unknown,
And place me near my Father's throne.

512

III.—TO DORIO. THE FIRST LYRIC HOUR.

'Twas an unclouded sky: The day-star sat
On highest noon: No breezes fann'd the grove,
Nor the musicians of the air pursu'd
Their artless warblings; while the sultry day
Lay all diffus'd and slumb'ring on the bosom
Of the white lily, the perfum'd jonquil,
And lovely blushing rose. Then first my harp,
Labouring with childish innocence and joy,
Brake silence, and awoke the smiling hour
With infant notes, saluting the fair skies,
(Heaven's highest work) the fair enamell'd meads,
And tall green shades along the winding banks
Of Avon gently flowing. Thence my days
Commenc'd harmonious; there began my skill
To vanquish care by the sweet-sounding string.

Hail happy hour, O blest remembrance, hail!
And banish woes for ever. Harps were made
For heaven's beatitudes: There Jesse's son
Tunes his bold lyre with majesty of sound,
To the creating and all-ruling power
Not unattentive: While ten thousand tongues
Of hymning seraphs and disbodied saints
Echo the joys and graces round the hills
Of paradise, and spread Messiah's name.
Transporting bliss! Make haste, ye rolling spheres,
Ye circling suns, ye winged minutes, haste,
Fulfil my destin'd period here, and raise
The meanest son of harmony to join
In that celestial concert.

513

IV.—THE HEBREW POET.

This Ode represents the Difficulty of a just Translation of the Psalms of David, in all their Hebrew Glory; with an Apology for the Imitation of them in Christian Language.

[_]

(The first Hint borrowed from Casimire, Jessæa quisquis, &c. Book IV. Ode 7.)

I

Show me the man that dares and sings
Great David's verse to British strings:
Sublime attempt! But bold and vain
As building Babel's tower again.

II

The bard that climb'd to Cooper's Hill,
Reaching at Zion, sham'd his skill,
And bids the sons of Albion own,
That Judah's psalmist reigns alone.

III

Blest poet! Now, like gentle Thames,
He sooths our ears with silver streams:
Like his own Jordan, now he rolls,
And sweeps away our captive souls.

IV

Softly the tuneful shepherd leads
The Hebrew flocks to flow'ry meads:
He marks their path with notes divine,
While fountains spring with oil and wine.

V

Rivers of peace attend his song,
And draw their milky train along:
He jars; and lo, the flints are broke,
But honey issues from the rock.

VI

When kindling with victorious fire,
He shakes his lance across the lyre;
The lyre resounds unknown alarms,
And sets the Thunderer in arms.

VII

Behold the God! Th'almighty King
Rides on a tempest's glorious wing:
His ensigns lighten round the sky,
And moving legions sound on high.

VIII

Ten thousand cherubs wait his course,
Chariots of fire and flaming horse;
Earth trembles; and her mountains flow,
At his approach, like melting snow.

IX

But who those frowns of wrath can draw,
That strike heav'n, earth, and hell, with awe?
Red lightning from his eyelids broke;
His voice was thunder, hail and smoke.

X

He spake; the cleaving waters fled,
And stars beheld the ocean's bed:
While the great master strikes his lyre,
You see the frighted floods retire:

XI

In heaps the frighted billows stand,
Waiting the changes of his hand:
He leads his Israel through the sea,
And watry mountains guard their way.

XII

Turning his hand with sov'reign sweep,
He drowns all Egypt in the deep:
Then guides the tribes, a glorious band,
Thro' deserts to the promis'd land.

XIII

Here camps with wide imbattl'd force,
Here gates and bulwarks stop their course:
He storms the mounds, the bulwark falls,
The harp lies strew'd with ruin'd walls.

XIV

See his broad sword flies o'er the strings,
And moves down nations with their kings:
From every chord his bolts are hurl'd,
And vengeance smites the rebel world.

XV

Lo, the great poet shifts the scene,
And shows the face of God serene:
Truth, meekness, peace, salvation ride,
With guards of justice, at his side.

XVI

No meaner muse could weave the light,
To form his robes divinely bright;
Or frame a crown of stars to shine
With beams for majesty divine.

XVII

Now in prophetic light he sees
Ages to come, and dark decrees:
He brings the Prince of glory down,
Stript of his robe and starry crown.

XVIII

See Jews and heathens fir'd with rage;
See their combining pow'rs engage
Against th'Anointed of the Lord,
The man whom angels late ador'd,

514

XIX

God's only Son: Behold, he dies:
Surprising grief! The groans arise,
The lyre complains on ev'ry string,
And mourns the murder of her King.

XX

But heav'n's Anointed must not dwell
In death: The vanquish'd pow'rs of hell
Yield to the harp's diviner lay;
The grave resigns th'illustrious prey.

XXI

Messiah lives! Messiah reigns!
The song surmounts the airy plains,
T'attend her Lord with joys unknown,
And bear the Victor to his throne.

XXII

Rejoice, ye shining worlds on high,
Behold the Lord of glory nigh:
Eternal doors, your leaves display,
To make the Lord of glory way.

XXIII

What mortal bard has skill or force
To paint these scenes, to tread this course,
Or furnish through the ethereal road
A triumph for a rising God?

XXIV

Astonish'd at so vast a flight
Thro' flaming worlds and floods of light,
My muse her awful distance keeps,
Still following but with trembling steps.

XXV

She bids her humble verse explain
The Hebrew harp's sublimer strain;
Points to her Saviour still, and shows
What course the sun of glory goes.

XXVI

Here he ascends behind a cloud
Of incense , there he sets in blood ;
She reads his labours and his names
In spicy smoke , and bleeding lambs .

XXVII

Rich are the graces which she draws
From types, and shades, and jewish laws;
With thousand glories long foretold
To turn the future age to gold.

XXVIII

Grace is her theme, and joy, and love:
Descend, ye blessings, from above,
And crown my song. Eternal God,
Forgive the muse that dreads thy rod.

XXIX

Silent, she hears thy vengeance roll,
That crushes mortals to the soul,
Nor dares assume the bold, nor sheds
Th'immortal curses on their heads.

XXX

Yet since her God is still the same,
And David's son is all her theme,
She begs some humble place to sing
In concert with Judea's king.

Sir John Denham, who gained great reputation by his poem called Cooper's Hill, failed in his translation of the Psalms of David.

Christ's intercession.

His sacrifice.

521

V.—THE THANKFUL PHILOSOPHER.

I

When God the new-made world survey'd,
His word pronounc'd the building good;
Sun-beams and light the heav'ns array'd,
And the whole earth was crown'd with food.

II

Colours that charm and ease the eye,
His pencil spread all nature round;
With pleasing blue he arch'd the sky,
And a green carpet dress'd the ground.

III

Let envious atheists ne'er complain
That nature wants or skill, or care;
But turn their eyes all round in vain,
T'avoid their Maker's goodness there.

IX.—THE SACRED CONCERT OF PRAISE.

I

Come, pretty birds, fly to this verdant shade,
Here let our different notes in praise conspire:
'Twas the same hand your painted pinions spread,
That form'd my nobler pow'rs to raise his honours higher.

II

Fair songsters, come; beneath the sacred grove
We'll sit and teach the woods our Maker's name:
Men have forgot his works, his power, his love,
Forgot the mighty arm that rear'd their wondrous frame.

III

I search the crowded court, the busy street,
Run thro' the villages, trace every road:
In vain I search; for every heart I meet
Is laden with the world, and empty of its God.

IV

How shall I bear with men to spend my days?
Dear feather'd innocents, you please me best:
My God has fram'd your voices for his praise,
His high designs are answer'd by your tuneful breast.

V

Sweet warblers, come, wake all your cheerful tongues,
We join with angels and their heav'nly choirs;
Our humble airs may imitate their songs,
Tho' bolder are their notes, and purer are their fires.

VI

Had I ten thousand hearts, my God, my Love,
Had I ten thousand voices all are thine:
Where love inflames the soul, the lips must move,
Nor shall the song be mortal where the theme's divine.

522

X.—THE WORLD A STRANGER TO GOD.

I

Infinite beauty, everlasting love,
How are our hearts, our thoughts, estrang'd from thee!
Th'eternal God surrounds us; yet we rove
In chase of airy toys, and follow as they flee.

II

Oh could I cry, and make the nations hear,
From north to south my voice should teach thy name;
I'd tell them, that they buy their joys too dear,
And pay immortal souls for glitt'ring dust or fame.

III

Almighty pow'r, break off these chains of sense,
Melt them away with love's celestial fire,
Create the world anew; let man commence
A seraph here on earth, let man to heav'n aspire.

524

XIII.—THE MIDNIGHT ELEVATION.

I.

Now reigns the night in her sublimest noon,
Nature lies hush'd; the stars their watches keep;
I wait thy influence, gentle sleep,
Come shed thy choicest poppies down,
On every sense, sweet slumbers seal my eyes,
Tir'd with the scenes of day, with painted vanities.

II.

In vain I wish, in vain I try
To close my eyes and learn to die;
Sweet slumbers from my restless pillow fly:
Then be my thoughts serene as day,
Be sprightly as the light,
Swift as the sun's far-shooting ray,
And take a vigorous flight:
Swift fly, my soul, transcend these dusky skies,
And trace the vital world that lies
Beyond those glimmering fires that gild and cheer the night.

III.

There Jesus reigns, adored name!
The second on the throne supreme:
In whose mysterious form combine
Created glories and divine:
The joy and wonder of the realms above:
At his command all their wing'd squadrons move,
Burn with his fire, and triumph in his love.

IV.

There souls releas'd from earth's dark bondage live,
My Reynolds there, with Howe and Boyle are found;

525

Not time nor nature could their genius bound,
And now they soar, and now they dive
In that unlimitable deep where thought itself is drown'd.
They aid the seraphs while they sing,
God is their unexhausted theme;
Light, life and joy for that immortal spring
O'erflow the blessed millions with an endless stream.
Amazing state! Divine abode!
Where spirits find their heaven while they are lost in God.

V.

Hail, holy souls, no more confin'd
To limbs and bones that clog the mind;
Ye have escap'd the snares, and left the chains behind.
We wretched prisoners here below,
What do we see, or learn or know,
But scenes of various folly, guilt and woe?
Life's buzzing sounds and flatt'ring colours play
Round our fond sense, and waste the day,
Inchant the fancy, vex the labouring soul;
Each rising sun, each lightsome hour,
Beholds the busy slavery we endure;
Nor is our freedom full, or contemplation pure,
When night and sacred silence overspread the pole.

VI.

Reynolds, thou late ascended mind,
Employ'd in various thought and tuneful song,
What happy moment shall my soul unbind,
And bid me join th'harmonious throng?
Oh for a wing to rise to thee!
When shall my eyes those heav'nly wonders see?
When shall I taste those comforts with an ear refin'd?

VII.

Roll on apace, ye spheres sublime,
Swift drive thy chariot round, illustrious moon,
Haste, all ye winkling measures of time,
Ye can't fulfil your course too soon.
Kindle my languid pow'rs, celestial love,
Point all my passions to the courts above,
Then send the convoy down to guard my last remove.

VIII.

Thrice happy world, where gilded toys
No more disturb our thoughts, no more pollute our joys!
There light and shade succeed no more by turns,
There reigns th'eternal sun with an unclouded ray,
There all is calm as night, yet all immortal day,
And truth for ever shines, and love for ever burns.

529

XIV.—THE HONOURABLE MAGISTRATE.

[There are a number of us creep]

Paraphrase.

There are a number of us creep
Into this world, to eat and sleep;
And know no reason why they're born,
But merely to consume the corn,
Devour the cattle, fowl and fish,
And leave behind an empty dish:
The crows and ravens do the same,
Unlucky birds of hateful name;
Ravens or crows might fill their plae,
And swallow corn and carcases.
Then if their tomb-stone, when they die,
Ben't taught to flatter and to lie,
There's nothing better will be said,
Than that, ‘They've eat up all their bread,
‘Drank up their drink, and gone to bed.’

[Life's but a feast; and when we die]

Which may be thus put into English.

Life's but a feast; and when we die,
Horace would say, if he were by,
‘Friend, thou hast eat and drank enough,
‘'Tis time now to be marching off:
‘Then like a well-fed guest depart,
‘With cheerful looks, and ease at heart;
‘Bid all your friends good-night, and say,
‘You've done the business of the day.’

[Deluded souls! that sacrifice]

Reflection.

Deluded souls! that sacrifice
Eternal hopes above the skies,
And pour their lives out all in waste,
To the vile idol of their taste!
The highest heav'n of their pursuit
Is to live equal with the brute:
Happy, if they could die as well,
Without a judge, without a hell!

532

XVIII—YOUTH AND DEATH

A milk-white mark its spreading front adorns,
Shaped like a moon of three days old:
The silver curve divides its budding horns,
And all besides is gold.
The pretty creature, wild in wanton play,
Now frisks about the flow'ry mead;
Loose from the dam, it knows no grief to-day,
But must to-morrow bleed.

534

XIX.—BABYLON DESTROYED; OR, THE 137TH PSALM TRANSLATED.

I

When by the flowing brooks we sat,
The brooks of Babylon the proud;
We thought on Zion's mournful state,
And wept her woes, and wail'd aloud.

II

Thoughtless of every cheerful air
(For grief had all our harps unstrung)
Our harps, neglected in despair,
And silent, on the willows hung.

III

Our foes, who made our land their spoil,
Our barbarous lords, with haughty tongues,
Bid us forget our groans awhile,
And give a taste of Zion's songs.

IV

How shall we sing in heathen lands
Our holy songs to ears profane?
Lord, shall our lips at their commands
Pronounce thy dreadful name in vain?

V

Forbid it heaven! O vile abuse!
Zion in dust forbids it too:
Shall hymns inspired for sacred use
Be sung to please a scoffing crew?

VI

O let my tongue grow dry, and cleave
Fast to my mouth in silence still;
Let some avenging pow'r bereave
My fingers of their tuneful skill.

VII

If I thy sacred rites profane,
O Salem, or thy dust despise;
If I indulge one cheerful strain,
Till I shall see thy tow'rs arise.

VIII

'Twas Edom bid the conqu'ring foe,
‘Down with the tow'rs, and rase thy walls:’
Requite her, Lord: But, Babel, know,
Thy guilt for fiercer vengeance calls.

IX

As thou hast spared nor sex nor age,
Deaf to our infants' dying groans,
May some bless'd hand, inspir'd with rage,
Dash thy young babes, and tinge the stones.

535

XX.—AN EPITAPH ON BIGOTRY, TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN, Which was written by the late pious and ingenious MR. JOHN REYNOLDS, And inserted in the Occasional Paper, Vol. III. Numb. 6 .

I.

Here lies (and may it here for ever lie)
The carcase of dead piety,
Shadow of grace, substantial sin,
Religion's mask and gaudy dress,
The form and foe of holiness,
The image and the plague of zeal divine.
Its dwelling was the church; in double shape,
Half was a murdering wolf, and half a mimic ape.

II.

A monster horrid to the sight,
Hideous, deform'd, and void of light;
'Twas born at Rome,
'Twas nurs'd at home,
In the dark cloisters of the Vatican;
Its lungs inspir'd with heaving lies,
Its bulk well-fatten'd to prodigious size
With gun-powder and blood of man.

III.

Ancient inhabitant of Spain,
And long in France a welcome guest;
Over the continent and main,
Over the old world and the new,
Mankind and money to pursue,
On dragons' wings the harpy flew,
And gave its feet no rest.

IV.

All languages the fury spake,
And did of either sex partake:
Flaming enlight'ner of the mind,
And headlong leader of the blind,
Oft has it dragg'd the doubtful tongue to speak,
While the pain'd conscience left the truth behind.
By gibbet, sword and fire,
It made whole tribes of men expire;
And to the skies their groaning ghosts it hurl'd,
A swift converter of the world.
Dext'rous in all the arts of blood:
Skill'd to contrive or counterfeit
Mysterious mischief, plots of state,
Those murd'rous engines to destroy the good.

[_]

[The muse here tiring, begs the reader's leave to release herself from the bonds and labours of rhyme and meter, by a mere imitation of the next thirty lines in prose.]

V.

Under the name and habit of the church,
Under the countenance and clothing of a sheep,
It became the most savage and rampant

536

Plunderer and waster of human society,
Made fearful inroads on all civil commerce,
And left religious liberty expiring.

VI.

A warrior well furnish'd
With all arts politic and polite,
With the knotty embarrassments of criticism,
The hampering chains and subtleties of logic,
And the javelins of pen and tongue,
With the roaring ordinance of councils and canons,
And all the artillery of the schools and gown.

VII.

Fury, hatred and mischief,
Love of this world, pride and disdain,
With perjuries, falsehoods, and pious frauds,
And raging party-zeal,
Were its necessary and everlasting attendants.
High encomiums and endless applause
Of guides infallible, and faith implicit,
Of hereditary and divine right,
Of unlimited power and passive obedience
To tyrant priests and kings,
With the immortal praise and merit
Of stupid ignorance, and blind submission,
Were heralds to prepare its way.

VIII.

Trifles, and tricks, and solemn fooleries,
Legends and silly tales,
Old almanacks, and mouldy musty relics,
Sweepings of ancient tombs,
Vows, pilgrimages, charms and consecrations,
Rites obsolete, and novel ceremonies
Both decent and indecent,
Monkish vows, and superstitious austerities,
With words of sacerdotal absolution,
And sacerdotal vengeance,
Squibs, crackers, excommunications, curses,
Roaring bulls, and vain thunders,
Mixt up with priestly choler, bitter and black,
Were its delicious food.

[_]

[Now metre and rhyme proceed.]

IX.

A purple prelate, chosen to preside
Over the whole Ignatian drove,
And all the clergy-tribes beside,
All but the sacred few that mix their zeal with love.
In ev'ry different sect 'twas known,
It made the cassock and the cowl its own,
Now stalk'd in formal cloak, now flutter'd in the gown.

X.

At what dark hour soe'er,
The curst divan at Rome were met,
Catholic faith to propagate,
This monster fill'd the chair.

537

The conclave drest in bonnets red,
With three-crown'd tyrant at their head,
Made it their privy-counsellor.
The inquisition court (a bloody crew,
Artful to set the solemn trap
That lets no heretic escape)
Owns it her president and founder too.

XI.

Oft as the church in east or western lands
Rising against herself in arms,
In her own blood imbru'd her hands,
This chief led on th'unnatural war,
Or did the bloody standards bear,
Or sound the fierce alarms;
Victorious still. (And what can more be said
Of all the living warriors, or the heroes dead?)

XII.

Britain, a land well stor'd with every good,
That nature, law, religion gives;
A land where sacred freedom thrives;
Blest isle! If her own weal she understood!
Her sons, immur'd with guardian ocean, sleep,
And castles floating on the deep,
Fenc'd from all foreign foes, O shame! O sin!
Her sons had let this baleful mischief in;
This hellish fury, who with flatt'ring breath
Did first divide, and then devour,
And made wild waste where'er she spread her pow'r,
Behold she meets her fatal hour
And lies inchain'd in death.

XIII.

Shout at thy grave, O traveller;
Triumphant joys that reach the skies
Are here the justest obsequies:
Shout thrice; then flee afar
The pois'nous steams and stenches of the sepulchre;
Go, turn thy face to heaven, and pray,
That such a hateful monster never may
Obtain a resurrection-day.

538

XXII.—AN HYMN TO CHRIST JESUS, THE ETERNAL LIFE.

I

Where shall the tribes of Adam find
The sov'reign good to fill the mind?
Ye sons of moral wisdom, show
The spring whence living waters flow.

II

Say, will the Stoic's flinty heart
Melt, and this cordial juice impart?
Could Plato find these blissful streams,
Amongst his raptures and his dreams?

III

In vain I ask; for nature's power
Extends but to this mortal hour:
'Twas but a poor relief she gave
Against the terrors of the grave.

IV

Jesus, our kinsman, and our God,
Array'd in majesty and blood,
Thou art our life; our souls in thee
Possess a full felicity.

V

All our immortal hopes are laid
In thee, our surety, and our head;
Thy cross, thy cradle, and thy throne,
Are big with glories yet unknown.

VI

Let atheists scoff, and Jews blaspheme
Th'eternal life, and Jesus' name;
A word of his almighty breath
Dooms the rebellious world to death.

VII

But let my soul for ever lie
Beneath the blessings of thine eye;
'Tis heav'n on earth, 'tis heav'n above,
To see thy face, to taste thy love.

541

XXIV—DAVID'S LAMENTATION OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN;2 SAM i.19&c.

Paraphrased thus

I.

Unhappy day! Distressing sight!
Israel, the land of heav'n's delight,
How is thy strength, thy beauty fled!
On the high places of the fight
Behold thy princes fall'n, thy sons of victory dead.

II.

Ne'er be it told in Gath, nor known
Among the streets of Askelon:
How will Philistia's youth rejoice
And triumph in our shame,
And girls with weak unhallowed voice
Chant the dishonours of the Hebrew name!

III.

Mountains of Gilboa, let no dew
Nor fruitful show'rs descend on you:
Curse on your fields thro' all the year,
No flow'ry blessings there appear,
Nor golden ranks of harvest stand
To grace the altar, or to feed the land.
'Twas in those inauspicious fields
Judean heroes lost their shields:
'Twas there (ah base reproach and scandal of the day!)
Thy shield, O Saul, was cast away,
As tho' the prophet's horn had never shed
Its sacred odours on thy head.

IV.

The sword of Saul had ne'er till now,
Awoke to war in vain,
Nor Jonathan withdrawn his bow,
Without an army slain.
Where truth and honour mark'd their way,
Not eagles swifter to their prey,
Nor lions strong or bold as they.

V.

Graceful in arms and great in war
Were Jonathan and Saul,
Pleasant in life, and manly fair;
Nor death divides the royal pair,
And thousands share their fall.
Daughters of Israel, melt your eyes
To softer tears, and swell your sighs,
Disrob'd, disgrac'd, your monarch lies,
On the bleak mountains, pale and cold:
He made rich scarlet your array;
Bright were your looks, your bosoms gay
With gems of regal gift, and interwoven gold.

VI.

How are the princes sunk in death!
Fall'n on the shameful ground!
There my own Jonathan resign'd his breath:
On the high places where he stood,
He lost his honours and his blood;
Oh execrable arm that gave the mortal wound!

VII.

My Jonathan, my better part,
My brother, and (that dearer name) my friend,
I feel the mortal wound that reach'd thy heart,
And here my comforts end.
How pleasant was thy love to me!
Amazing passion, strong and free!
No dangers could thy steady soul remove:
Not the soft virgin loves to that degree,
Nor man to that degree does the soft virgin love.
To name my joys, awakes my pain;
The dying friend runs cold through every vein.
My Jonathan, my dying friend,
How thick my woes arise! Where will my sorrows end?

VIII.

Unhappy day! Distressing sight!
Israel, the land of heaven's delight,
How are thy princes fall'n thy sons of victory slain!
The broken bow, the shiver'd spear,
With all the sully'd pomp of war,
In rude confusion spread,
Promiscuous lie among the dead,
A lamentable rout o'er all the inglorious plain.

546

XXIX.—ON THE SIGHT OF QUEEN MARY, IN THE YEAR 1694.

I

I saw th'illustrious form, I saw
Beauty that gave the nations law:
Her eyes, like mercy on a throne,
In condescending grandeur shone.

II

That blooming face! How lovely fair
Hath nature mix'd her wonders there!
The rosy morn such lustre shows
Glancing along the Scythian snows.

III

Her shape, her motion, and her mien,
All heav'nly; such are angels seen,
When the bright vision grows intense,
And fancy aids our feeble sense.

IV

Earth's proudest idols dare not vie
With such superior majesty:
A kindling vapour might as soon
Rise from the bogs, and mate the moon.

V

I'll call no Raphael from his rest;
Such charms can never be exprest:
Pencil and paint were never made
To draw pure light without a shade.

VI

Britain beholds her Queen with pride,
And mighty William at her side
Gracing the throne, while at their feet
With humble joy three nations meet.

VII

Secure of empire, she might lay
Her crown, her robes, and state away,
And 'midst ten thousand nymphs be seen:
Her beauty would proclaim the queen.

Epanorthosis.

VIII

Her guardian angel heard my song,
Fond man, he cry'd, forbear to wrong
My lovely charge. So vulgar eyes
Gaze at the stars, and praise the skies.

IX

Rudely they praise, who dwell below,
And heav'n's true glories never know,
Where stars and planets are no more
Than pebbles scatter'd on the floor.

X

So, where celestial virtues join'd
Form an incomparable mind,
Crowns, sceptres, beauties, charms and air,
Stand but as shining servants there.

XXX.—ON THE EFFIGIES OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS GEORGE, LATE PRINCE OF DENMARK, AND LORD HIGH ADMIRAL OF GREAT BRITAIN, MADE IN WAX, AND SEATED AT A BANQUET NEAR THE EFFIGIES OF HER LATE MAJESTY QUEEN ANNE.

All happily performed in a very near imitation of the life, by Chrysis. 1705.

So look'd the hero, coming from the board
Of naval counsels, and put off his sword.
So sat the Prince, when with a smiling air
He relish'd life, and pleas'd his Sovereign Fair,
Surprising form! Scarce with a softer mien
Did his first love address his future Queen.
Publish the wonder, fame. But O! forbear
T'approach the palace and the royal ear,
Lest her impatient love and wishing eye
Seek the dear image, gaze, and mourn and die.
Or stay: The royal mourner will believe
Her George restor'd, and so forget to grieve.

547

What cannot Chrysis do? Those artful hands
Shall raise the hero: Lo, in arms he stands:
Fairbourn and Leak submissive shall espy
War on his brow, and orders in his eye,
Auspicious, just, and wise: The fleet obeys,
And the French pirates flee the British seas.

This poem was written just after prince George's death.

Two British admirals.

552

Albinus.

‘Clear as the glass, his spotless fame,
‘And lasting diamond writes his name.’

[‘Words of eternal truth proclaim]

‘Words of eternal truth proclaim,
‘All mortal joys are vain:
‘A diamond-pen engraves the theme
‘Upon a brittle pane.’

XXXV.—AGAINST LEWDNESS.

I

Why should you let your wand'ring eyes
Entice your souls to shameful sin?
Scandal and ruin are the prize,
You take such fatal pains to win.

II

This brutal vice makes reason blind,
And blots the name with hateful stains:
It wastes the flesh, pollutes the mind,
And tears the heart with racking pains.

III

Let David speak, with deepest groans,
How it estrang'd his soul from God,
Made him complain of broken bones,
And fill'd his house with wars and blood.

IV

Let Solomon and Samson tell
Their melancholy stories here,
How bright they shone, how low they fell,
When sin's vile pleasures cost them dear.

V

In vain you choose the darkest time,
Nor let the sun behold the sight:
In vain you hope to hide your crime
Behind the curtains of the night:

VI

The wakeful stars and midnight moon
Watch your foul deeds and know your shame;
And God's own eye, like beams of noon,
Strikes thro' the shade, and marks your name.

VII

What will you do when heav'n enquires
Into those scenes of secret sin?
And lust, with all its guilty fires,
Shall make your conscience rage within?

VIII

How will you curse your wanton eyes,
Curse the lewd partners of your shame,
When death, with horrible surprise,
Shows you the pit of quenchless flame?

IX

Flee, sinners, flee th'unlawful bed,
Lest vengeance send you down to dwell
In the dark regions of the dead,
To feed the fiercest fires of hell.

553

XXXVI.—AGAINST DRUNKENNESS.

I

Is it not strange that every creature
Should know the measure of its thirst,
(They drink but to support their nature,
And give due moisture to their dust;)

II

While man, vile man, whose nobler kind
Should scorn to act beneath the beast,
Drowns all the glories of his mind,
And kills his soul to please his taste!

III

O what a hateful, shameful sight,
Are drunkards reeling through the street!
Now they are fond, and now they fight,
And pour their shame on all they meet.

IV

Is it so exquisite a pleasure
To troll down liquor through the throat,
And swill, and know no bound nor measure,
'Till sense and reason are forgot?

V

Do they deserve th'immortal name
Of man, who sink so far below?
Will God, the maker of their frame,
Endure to see them spoil it so?

VI

Can they e'er think of heav'n and grace,
Or hope for glory when they die?
Can such vile ghosts expect a place,
Among the shining souls on high?

VII

The meanest seat is too refin'd
To entertain a drunkard there.
Ye sinners of this loathsome kind,
Repent, or perish in despair.

556

XXXVIII.—PASSION AND REASON.

557

I

Let Astrapé forbear to blaze,
As lightning does, with dreadful rays,
Nor spoil the beauties of her face,
To arm her tongue with thunder:
That reason hardly looks divine,
Where so much fire and sound combine,
And make the way for wit to shine
By riving sense asunder.

II

Yet if I found her words grow warm,
I'd learn some lesson by the storm,
Or guard myself at least from harm
By yielding, like Tranquillus.
Tempests will tear the stiffest oak,
Cedars with all their pride are broke
Beneath the fury of that stroke
That never hurts the willows.

566

XLVI.—COWARDICE AND SELF-LOVE.

567

Paraphrased thus:

He never was the man that dar'd to swim
Against the rolling tide, or cross the stream;
He was no patriot, nor indulg'd his breath
Bravely to speak his sense, and venture death.
Thus he spun out his supple soul, and drew
A length of life amidst a vicious crew;
Full fourscore years he saw the sun arise,
Guarded by flattery, and intrench'd in lies;
For 'twas his settled judgment from his youth,
One grain of ease was worth a world of truth.

O cursed idol Self!
The wretch that worships thee would dare to tread
With impious feet on his own father's head,
To 'scape a rising wave when seas the land invade.
To gain the safety of some higher ground,
He'd trample down the dikes that fence his country round
Amidst a general flood, and leave the nation drown'd.

568

THOUGHTS AND MEDITATIONS IN A LONG SICKNESS.

1712 AND 1713.

The Hurry of the Spirits, in a Fever and Nervous Disorders.

1712 AND 1713.

My frame of nature is a ruffled sea,
And my disease the tempest. Nature feels
A strange commotion to her inmost centre;
The throne of reason shakes. ‘Be still, my thoughts;
‘Peace and be still.’ In vain my reason gives
The peaceful word, my spirit strives in vain
To calm the tumult and command my thoughts.
This flesh, this circling blood, these brutal powers,
Made to obey, turn rebels to the mind,
Nor hear its laws. The engine rules the man.
Unhappy change! When nature's meaner springs,
Fir'd to impetuous ferments, break all order;
When little restless atoms rise and reign
Tyrants in sov'reign uproar, and impose
Ideas on the mind; confus'd ideas
Of non-existents and impossibles,
Who can describe them? Fragments of old dreams,
Borrow'd from midnight, torn from fairy fields
And fairy skies, and regions of the dead,
Abrupt, ill-sorted! O 'tis all confusion!
If I but close my eyes, strange images
In thousand forms and thousand colours rise,
Stars, rainbows, moons, green dragons, bears and ghosts,
An endless medley rush upon the stage,
And dance and riot wild in reason's court
Above control. I'm in a raging storm,
Where seas and skies are blended, while my soul
Like some light worthless chip of floating cork
Is tost from wave to wave: Now overwhelm'd
With breaking floods, I drown, and seem to lose
All being: Now high-mounted on the ridge
Of a tall foaming surge, I'm all at once
Caught up into the storm, and ride the wind,
The whistling wind; unmanageable steed,
And feeble rider! Hurried many a league
Over the rising hills of roaring brine,
Thro' airy wilds unknown, with dreadful speed
And infinite surprise; till some few minutes
Have spent the blast, and then perhaps I drop
Near to the peaceful coast; some friendly billow
Lodges me on the beach, and I find rest:
Short rest I find; for the next rolling wave
Snatches me back again; then ebbing far
Sets me adrift, and I am borne off to sea,
Helpless, amidst the bluster of the winds,
Beyond the ken of shore.

Ah, when will these tumultuous scenes be gone?
When shall this weary spirit, tost with tempests,
Harass'd and broken, reach the port of rest,
And hold it firm? When shall this wayward flesh
With all th'irregular springs of vital movement
Ungovernable, return to sacred order,
And pay their duties to the ruling mind?

Peace of Conscience and Prayer for Health.

Yet gracious God, amidst these storms of nature,
Thine eyes beheld a sweet and sacred calm
Reign thro' the realms of conscience: All within
Lies peaceful, and compos'd. 'Tis wondrous grace
Keeps off thy terrors from this humble bosom,
Tho' stain'd with sins and follies, yet serene
In penitential peace and cheerful hope,
Sprinkled and guarded with atoning blood.
Thy vital smiles amidst this desolation
Like heav'nly sun-beams hid behind the clouds,
Break out in happy moments, with bright radiance
Cleaving the gloom; the fair celestial light
Softens and gilds the horrors of the storm,
And richest cordials to the heart conveys.

569

O glorious solace of immense distress,
A conscience and a God! A friend at home,
And better friend on high! This is my rock
Of firm support, my shield of sure defence
Against infernal arrows. Rise, my soul,
Put on thy courage: Here's the living spring
Of joys divinely sweet and ever new,
‘A peaceful conscience and a smiling heaven.’

My God, permit a creeping worm to say,
‘Thy Spirit knows I love thee.’ Worthless wretch,
To dare to love a God! But grace requires,
And grace accepts. Thou seest my labouring soul:
Weak as my zeal is, yet my zeal is true;
It bears the trying furnace. Love divine
Constrains me; I am thine. Incarnate love
Has seiz'd and holds me in almighty arms:
Here's my salvation, my eternal hope,
Amidst the wreck of worlds and dying nature,
‘I am the Lord's, and he for ever mine.’

O thou all-powerful Word, at whose first call
Nature arose; this earth, these shining heavens,
These stars in all their ranks came forth, and said,
‘We are thy servants:’ Didst thou not create
My frame, my breath, my being, and bestow
A mind immortal on thy feeble creature
Who faints before thy face? Did not thy pity
Dress thee in flesh to die, that I might live,
And with thy blood redeem this captive soul
From guilt and death? O thrice adored name,
My King, my Saviour, my Immanuel, say,
Have not thy eyelids mark'd my painful toil,
The wild confusions of my shatter'd powers,
And broken fluttering thoughts? Hast thou not seen
Each restless atom, that with vexing influence
Works thro' the mass of man? Each noxious juice,
Each ferment that infects the vital humours,
That heaves the veins with huge disquietude
And spreads the tumult wide? Do they not lie
Beneath thy view, and all within thy reach?
Yes, all at thy command, and must obey
Thy sovereign touch: Thy touch is health and life,
And harmony to nature's jarring strings.

When shall my midnight-sighs and morning groans
Rise thro' the heights of heaven, and reach thy ear
Propitious? See, my spirit's feeble powers
Exhal'd and breathing upward to thy throne,
Like early incense climbing thro' the sky
From the warm altar. When shall grace and peace
Descend with blessings, like an evening shower
On the parch'd desert, and renew my bloom?
Or must thy creature breathe his soul away
In fruitless groans, and die?
Come, blest physician, come attend the moan
Of a poor suffering wretch, a plaintive worm,
Crush'd in the dust and helpless. O descend,
Array'd in power and love, and bid me rise.
Incarnate goodness, send thy influence down
To these low regions of mortality
Where thou hast dwelt, and clad in fleshly weeds
Learnt sympathetic sorrows; send and heal
My long and sore distress. Ten thousand praises
Attend thee: David's harp is ready strung
For the Messiah's name: A winged flight
Of songs harmonious, and new honours wait
The steps of moving mercy.

At this time my Imitation of David's Psalms in christian language was not half done: As fast as I recovered strength after this long illness, I applied myself by degrees to finish it.

Encouraged to hope for Health in May.

DECEMBER 1712.

Confin'd to sit in silence, here I waste
The golden hours of youth. If once I stir,
And reach at active life, what sudden tremors
Shake my whole frame, and all the poor machine
Lies fluttering? What strange wild convulsive force
O'erpowers at once the members and the will;
Here am I bound in chains, a useless load
Of breathing clay, a burthen to the seat
That bears these limbs, a borderer on the grave.
Poor state of worthless being! While the lamp
Of glimmering life burns languishing and dim,
The flame just hovering o'er the dying snuff
With doubtful alternations, half disjoin'd,
And ready to expire with every blast.

Yet my fond friends would speak a word of hope:
Love would forbid despair: ‘Look out,’ they cry,
‘Beyond these glooming damps, while winter hangs
‘Heavy on nature, and congeals her powers:
‘Look cheerful forward to the vital influence
‘Of the returning spring!’ I rouse my thoughts
At friendship's sacred voice, I send my soul
To distant expectation, and support
The painful interval with poor amusements.

My watch, the solitary kind companion
Of my imprisonment, my faithful watch
Hangs by; and with a short repeated sound

570

Beats like the pulse of time, and numbers off
My woes, a long succession; while the finger
Slow moving, points out the slow-moving minutes;
The slower hand, the hours. O thou dear engine,
Thou little brass accomptant of my life,
Would but the mighty wheels of heaven and nature
Once imitate thy movements, how my hand
Should drive thy dented pinions round their centres
With more than ten-fold flight, and whirl away
These clouded wintry suns, these tedious moons,
These midnights; every star should speed its race,
And the slow bears precipitate their way
Around the frozen pole: Then promis'd health
That rides with rosy cheek and blooming grace
On a May sun-beam should attend me here
Before to-morrow sheds its evening-dew.

Ah foolish ravings of a fruitless wish
And spirit too impatient! Know'st thou not,
My soul, the Power that made thee? He alone
Who form'd the spheres, rolls them in destin'd rounds
Unchangeable. Adore, and trust, and fear him:
He is the Lord of life. Address his throne,
And wait before his foot, with awful hope
Submissive; at his touch distemper flies:
His eyelids send beams of immortal youth
Thro' heaven's bright regions. His all-powerful word
Can create health, and bid the blessing come
Amid the wintry frost, when nature seems
Congeal'd in death; or with a sovereign frown
(Tho' nature blooms all round) he can forbid
The blessing in the spring, and chain thee down
To pains, and maladies, and grievous bondage
Thro' all the circling seasons.

The Wearisome Weeks of Sickness.

1712 OR 1713.

Thus pass my days away. The cheerful sun
Rolls round the gilds the world with lightsome beams,
Alas, in vain to me; cut off alike
From the bless'd labours, and the joys of life:
While my sad minutes in their tiresome train
Serve but to number out my heavy sorrows.
By night I count the clock; perhaps eleven,
Or twelve, or one; then with a wishful sigh
Call on the ling'ring hours, ‘Come two, come five:
‘When will the day-light come?’ Make haste, ye mornings,
Ye evening-shadows haste; wear out these days,
These tedious rounds of sickness, and conclude
The weary week for ever—
Then the sweet day of sacred rest returns,
Sweet day of rest, devote to God and heaven,
And heav'nly business, purposes divine,
Angelic work: But not to me returns
Rest with the day: Ten thousand hurrying thoughts
Bear me away tumultuous far from heaven
And heavenly work. In vain I heave, and toil,
And wrestle with my inward foes in vain,
O'erpower'd and vanquish'd still: They drag me down
From things celestial, and confine my sense
To present maladies. Unhappy state,
Where the poor spirit is subdu'd t'endure
Unholy idleness, a painful absence!
And bound to bear the agonies and woes
From God, and heaven, and angel's blessed work,
That sickly flesh on shatter'd nerves impose.
How long, O Lord, how long?

A Hymn of Praise for Recovery.

Happy for man, that the slow circling moons
And long revolving seasons measure out
The tiresome pains of nature! Present woes
Have their sweet periods. Ease and cheerful health
With slow approach (so Providence ordains)
Revisit their forsaken mansion here,
And days of useful life diffuse their dawn
O'er the dark cottage of my weary soul.
My vital powers resume their vigour now,
My spirit feels her freedom, shakes her wings,
Exults and spatiates o'er a thousand scenes,
Surveys the world, and with full stretch of thought
Grasps her ideas; while impatient zeal
Awakes my tongue to praise. What mortal voice
Or mortal hand can render to my God
The tribute due? What altars shall I raise?
What grand inscription to proclaim his mercy
In living lines? Where shall I find a victim
Meet to be offered to his sovereign love,
And solemnize the worship and the joy?

Search well, my soul, thro' all the dark recesses
Of nature and self-love, the plies, the folds,
And hollow winding caverns of the heart,
Where flattery hides our sins; search out the foes
Of thy almighty friend; what lawless passions,
What vain desires, what vicious turns of thought

571

Lurk there unheeded: Bring them forth to view,
And sacrifice the rebels to his honour.
Well he deserves this worship at thy hands,
Who pardons thy past follies, who restores
Thy mouldring fabric, and withholds thy life
From the near borders of a gaping grave.

Almighty power, I love thee, blissful name,
My healer God; and may my inmost heart
Love and adore for ever! O 'tis good
To wait submissive at thy holy throne,
To leave petitions at thy feet, and bear
Thy frowns and silence with a patient soul.
The hand of mercy is not short to save,
Nor is the ear of heavenly pity deaf
To mortal cries. It notic'd all my groans,
And sighs, and long complaints, with wise delay,
Tho' painful to the sufferer, and thy hand
In proper moment brought desired relief.

Rise from my couch, ye late enfeebled limbs,
Prove your new strength, and show the effective skill
Of the divine physician; bear away
This tottering body to his sacred threshold:
There, laden with his honours, let me bow
Before his feet; let me pronounce his grace,
Pronounce salvation thro' his dying Son,
And teach this sinful world the Saviour's name.
Then rise, my hymning soul, on holy notes
Tow'rd his high throne; awake, my choicest songs,
Run echoing round the roof, and while you pay
The solemn vows of my distressful hours,
A thousand friendly lips shall aid the praise.

Jesus, great Advocate, whose pitying eye
Saw my long anguish, and with melting heart
And powerful intercession spread'st my woes
With all my groans before the Father-God,
Bear up my praises now; thy holy incense
Shall hallow all my sacrifice of joy,
And bring these accents grateful to his ear.
My heart and life, my lips and every power
Snatch'd from the grasp of death, I here devote
By thy bless'd hands an offering to his name.

Amen, Hallelujah.

580

[Hail, Hebrew psalmist king! Hail, happy hour!]

Hail, Hebrew psalmist king! Hail, happy hour!
I see, I hear, I feel the sov'reign pow'r
Of language so devout. Th'immortal sound
Thrills thro' my vitals with a pleasing wound,
And mortal passions die. Devotion reigns,
Earth disappears, her mountains and her plains;
I soar, I pray, I praise in David's heavenly strains.
Here thoughts divine in living words exprest,
Pour'd and copy'd glowing from the breast,
Spread o'er the sacred page; what eye, what heart,
Can read the rapture, and not bear its part
In holy elevation?
Where love and joy exult, the glorious line
Gives the same passions, spreads the fire divine,

581

And kindles all the reader. See him rise
On wings of ecstasy, shoot thro' the skies,
And mix with angels: Hail, ye choirs above,
Where all is holy joy, where all is heav'nly love.

If sins review'd in trickling sorrows flow;
The page conveys the penitential woe,
And strikes the inmost spirit. Conscience hears
The words of anguish, and dissolves in tears.
Ev'n iron souls relent, and hearts of stone
Burst at these mournings, and repeat the groan:
God and his power are there.

583

LIII.—AN ELEGY ON SOPHRONIA, WHO DIED OF THE SMALL-POX, 1711.

Sophron is introduced speaking.]

I

Forbear, my friends, forbear, and ask no more,
Where all my cheerful airs are fled?
Why will ye make me talk my torments o'er?
My life, my joy, my comfort's dead.

II

Deep from my soul, mark how the sobs arise,
Hear the long groans that waste my breath,
And read the mighty sorrow in my eyes,
Lovely Sophronia sleeps in death.

III

Unkind disease, to veil that rosy face
With tumours of a mortal pale,
While mortal purples with their dismal grace
And double horror spot the veil.

IV

Uncomely veil, and most unkind disease!
Is this Sophronia, once the fair?
Are these the features that were born to please?
And beauty spread her ensigns there?

V

I was all love, and she was all delight.
Let me run back to seasons past;
Ah flow'ry days, when first she charm'd my sight!
But roses will not always last.

VI

Yet still Sophronia pleas'd. Nor time, nor care,
Could take her youthful bloom away:
Virtue has charms which nothing can impair;
Beauty like hers could ne'er decay.

VII

Grace is a sacred plant of heav'nly birth:
The seed descending from above
Roots in a soil refin'd, grows high on earth,
And blooms with life, and joy and love.

VIII

Such was Sophronia's soul. Celestial dew,
And angels' food were her repast:
Devotion was her work; and thence she drew
Delights which strangers never taste.

IX

Not the gay splendors of a flatt'ring court
Could tempt her to appear and shine:
Her solemn airs forbid the world's resort:
But I was blest and she was mine.

X

Safe on her welfare all my pleasures hung,
Her smiles could all my pains control;
Her soul was made of softness, and her tongue
Was soft and gentle as her soul.

XI

She was my guide, my friend, my earthly all;
Love grew with every waning moon:
Had heav'n a length of years delay'd its call,
Still I had thought it call'd too soon.

XII

But peace, my sorrows! Nor with murmuring voice
Dare to accuse heav'n's high decree:
She was first ripe for everlasting joys;
Sophron, she waits above for thee.

LIV.—AN ELEGY ON THE MUCH-LAMENTED DEATH OF MRS. ELIZABETH BURY, LATE WIFE OF THE REV. MR. SAMUEL BURY, OF BRISTOL, ANNEXED TO SOME MEMOIRS OF HER LIFE, DRAWN UP BY HIM; BUT COLLECTED OUT OF HER OWN PAPERS.

She must ascend; her treasure lies on high,
And there her heart is. Bear her thro' the sky
On wings of harmony, ye sons of light,
And with surrounding shields protect her flight.
Teach her the wondrous songs yourselves compose
For you bright world; she'll learn 'em as she goes;
The sense was known before: Those sacred themes,
The God, the Saviour, and the flowing streams
That ting'd the cursed tree with blood divine,
Purchas'd a heav'n, and wash'd a world from sin;
The beams, the bliss, the vision of that face
Where the whole godhead shines in mildest grace;
These are the notes for which your harps are strung,
These were the joy and labour of her tongue
In our dark regions. These exalted strains
Brought paradise to earth, and sooth'd her pains.
‘Souls made of pious harmony and love,
‘Can be no strangers to their work above.’

584

But must we lose her hence? The muse in pain
Regrets her flight, and calls the saint again.
Stay, gentle spirit, stay. Can nature find
No charms to hold the once unfetter'd mind?
Must all those virtues, all those graces soar
Far from our sight, and bless the earth no more?
Must the fair saint to worlds immortal climb,
For ever lost to all the sons of time?
O, no; she is not lost. Behold her here,
How just the form! how soft the lines appear!
The features of her soul, without disguise,
Drawn by her own bless'd pen: a sweet surprise
To mourning friends. The partner of her cares
Seiz'd the fair piece, and wash'd it o'er with tears,
Dress'd it in flow'rs, then hung it on her urn,
A pattern for her sex in ages yet unborn.

Daughters of Eve, come, trace these heav'nly lines,
Feel with what power the bright example shines;
She was what you should be. Young virgins, come,
Drop a kind tear, and dress you at her tomb:
Gay silks and diamonds are a vulgar road;
Her radiant virtues should create the mode.
Matrons, attend her hearse with thoughts refin'd,
Gaze and transcribe the beauties of her mind,
And let her live in you. The meek, the great,
The chaste, yet free; the cheerful, yet sedate:
Swift to forgiveness, but to anger slow,
And rich in solid learning more than show,
With charity and zeal, that rarely join,
And all the human graces and divine,
Reign'd in her breast, and held a pleasing strife
Thro' every shifting scene of various life,
The maid, the bride, the widow, and the wife.

Nor need a manly spirit blush to gain
Exalted thoughts from her superior vein.
Attend her hints, ye sages of the schools,
And by her nobler practice frame your rules.
Let her inform you to address the ear
With conquering suasion, or reproof severe,
And still without offence. Thrice happy soul,
That could our passions, and her own control;
Could wield and govern that unruly train,
Sense, fancy, pleasure, fear, grief, hope and pain,
And live sublimely good! Behold her move
Thro' earth's rude scenes, yet point her thoughts above.
‘Seraphs on earth pant for their native skies,
‘And nature feels it painful not to rise.’

Ye venerable tribes of holy men,
Read the devotions of her heart and pen,
And learn to pray and die. Burissa knew
To make life happy, and resign it too.
The soul that oft had walk'd the ethereal road,
Pleas'd with her summons, took her farewell flight to God.

But ne'er shall words, or lines, or colours paint
Th'immortal passions of th'expiring saint.
What beams of joy, angelic airs, arise
O'er her pale cheeks, and sparkle thro' her eyes
In that dark hour! How all serene she lay
Beneath the openings of celestial day!
Her soul retires from sense, refines from sin,
While the descending glory wrought within;
Then in a sacred calm resign'd her breath,
And as her eyelids clos'd, she smil'd in death.

O may some pious friend, who weeping stands
Near my last pillow with uplifted hands,
Or wipes the mortal dew from off my face,
Witness such triumphs in my soul; and trace
The dawn of glory in my dying mien,
While on my lifeless lips such heav'nly smiles are seen!

September 29, 1720.

585

At the Death of that excellent Man Sir Thomas Abney.

A SOLILOQUY, OR MOURNING MEDITATION.

‘Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus
‘Tam chari capitis? Præcipe lugubres
‘Cantus, Melpomene. [OMITTED]
‘Ergone Abneium perpetuus sopor
‘Urget? Cui pudor & justitiæ soror
‘Incorrupta fides, nudaque veritas,
‘Quando ullum invenient parem?’
HOR.

586

PART I. His private Life.

I

Abney expires. A general groan
Sounds thro' the house. How must a friend behave
Where death and grief have rais'd a throne,
And the sad chambers seem th'apartments of the grave?

II

Shall I appear amongst the chief
Of mourners, wailing o'er the dear deceas'd?
Or must I seek to charm their grief,
And in distress of soul to comfort the distress'd?

III

I mourn by turns, and comfort too;
He that can feel, can ease another's smart:
The drops of sympathetic woe
Convey the heav'nly cordial warmer to the heart.

IV

We mourn a thousand joys deceas'd,
We name the husband with a mournful tongue;
He, when the pow'rs of life decreas'd,
Felt the diviner flames of love for ever young.

V

Thrice happy man! Thrice happy pair!
If love could bid approaching death remove,
The painful name of widow here
Had ever been unknown: But death is deaf to love.

VI

Albina mourns, she mourns alone,
Her grief unrivall'd in a house of tears,
The partner of her soul is gone,
Who doubled all her joys, and half sustain'd her cares.

VII

See the fair offspring of the dead,
With their young griefs Albina they inclose,
Beside the father's dying bed;
And as her woes increase, their love and duty grows.

VIII

The children feel the mother's pain,
Down their pale cheeks the trickling sorrows roll;
The mother sees and weeps again,
With all the tender passions struggling in her soul.

IX

The tender passions reign and spread
Thro' the whole house, and to the courts descend:
We mourn the best of brothers dead;
We mourn the kindest master, and the firmest friend.

X

We mourn; but not as wretches do,
Where vicious lives all hope in death destroy:
A falling tear is nature's due;
But hope climbs high, and borders on celestial joy.

XI

There sits the late departed saint;
There dwells the husband, father, brother, friend:
Then let us cease the sore complaint,
Or mingled with our groans let notes of praise ascend.

XII

Great God, to thee we raise our song,
Thine were the graces that enrich'd his mind;
We bless thee, that he shone so long,
And left so fair a track of pious life behind.

PART II. His public Character and Death.

I

But can domestic sorrow show
A nation's loss? Can private tears suffice
To mourn the saint and ruler too,
Great names, so rarely join'd below the blissful skies?

II

Could Abney in our world be born,
Could Abney live, and not Britannia smile?
Or die, and not Britannia mourn,
When such ethereal worth left our degenerate isle?

III

'Twas heav'nly wisdom, zeal divine,
Taught him the balance and the sword to hold:
His looks with sacred justice shine
Beyond the scarlet honours, or the wreathen gold.

IV

Truth, freedom, courage, prudence stood
Attending, when he fill'd the solemn chair:
He knew no friendships, birth, nor blood,
Nor wealth, nor gay attire, when criminals were there.

V

He sign'd their doom with steady hand;
Yet drops of pity from his eyelids roll:
He punish'd to reform the land,
With terror on his brow, and mercy in his soul.

587

VI

His tongue was much unskill'd to chide;
Soft were his lips, and all his language sweet:
His soul disdain'd the airs of pride,
Yet love and reverence greet him thro' the crowded street.

VII

Godlike he lived and acted here,
Moving unseen, and still sublimely great;
Yet when his country claim'd his care,
Descending he appear'd, and bore the pomp of state.

VIII

He more than once oblig'd the throne,
And sav'd the nation; yet he shunn'd the fame,
Careless to make his merit known.
The christian hath enough, that heav'n records his name.

IX

His humble soul convers'd on high;
Heav'n was his hope, his rest, his native home:
His treasures lay above the sky;
Much he possess'd on earth, but more in worlds to come.

X

With silent steps he trac'd the way
To the fair courts of light, his wish'd abode;
Nor would he ask a moment's stay,
Nor make the convoy wait, that call'd his soul to God.

XI

See the good man with head reclin'd,
And peaceful heart, resign his precious breath:
No guilty thoughts oppress his mind;
Calm and serene his life, serene and calm his death.

XII

Laden with honours and with years,
His vigorous virtue shot a youthful ray;
And while he ends his race, appears
Bright as the setting-sun of a long cloudless day.

XIII

Spent with the toil of busy hours,
Nature retir'd and life sunk down to sleep:
Come, dress the bed with fadeless flow'rs,
Come, angels, round his tomb immortal vigils keep.

XIV

The heart of every Briton rears
A monument to Abney's spotless fame;
The pencil faints, the muse despairs;
His country's grief and love must eternise his name.

Sic cecinit mœrens,
Inter mœrores domesticos,
Et patriæ suæ luctus,

I. W.

The Lady Abney.

Justum & tenacem propositi virum, &c.
Hac arte—Enixus arces attigit igneas.

Hor.

Cunctis ille bonis flebilis occidit.

Hor.

—Est animus tibi
Rerumque prudens, & secundis
Temporibus, dubiisque rectus;
Vindex avaræ fraudis, & abstinens
Ducentis ad se cuncta pecuniæ.
—Bonus atque fidus
Judex honestum prætulit utili, &
Rejecit alto dona nocentium
Vultu ------

Hor.

Qui quærit Pater urbium
Subscribi statuis, indomitam audeat
Refrenare licentiam,
Cædes, & rabiem tollere civium.

Hor.

593

Death and Heaven. In five Lyric Odes.

ODE I. The Spirit's Farewell to the Body after long Sickness.

I

How am I held a prisoner now,
Far from my God! This mortal chain
Binds me to sorrow: All below
Is short-liv'd ease or tiresome pain.

II

When shall that wondrous hour appear,
Which frees me from this dark abode,
To live at large in regions, where
Nor cloud nor veil shall hide my God?

III

Farewell this flesh, these ears, these eyes,
These snares and fetters of the mind;
My God, nor let this frame arise
Till every dust be well refin'd.

IV

Jesus, who mak'st our natures whole,
Mould me a body like thy own:
Then shall it better serve my soul
In works of praise and worlds unknown.

ODE II. The Departing Moment; or, Absent from the Body.

I

Absent from flesh! O blissful thought!
What unknown joys this moment brings!
Freed from the mischiefs sin hath wrought,
From pains, and tears, and all their springs.

II

Absent from flesh! Illustrious day!
Surprising scene! Triumphant stroke,
That rends the prison of my clay,
And I can feel my fetters broke!

III

Absent from flesh! Then rise, my soul,
Where feet or wings could never climb,
Beyond the heav'ns where planets roll,
Measuring the cares and joys of time.

IV

I go where God and glory shine:
His presence makes eternal day.
My all that's mortal I resign,
For Uriel waits and points my way.

ODE III. Entrance into Paradise; or, Present with the Lord.

I

And is this heav'n? And am I there?
How short the road! How swift the flight!
I am all life, all eye, all ear;
Jesus is here,—my soul's delight.

II

Is this the heav'nly Friend who hung
In blood and anguish on the tree,
Whom Paul proclaim'd, whom David sung,
Who dy'd for them, who dy'd for me?

III

How fair thou offspring of my God!
Thou first-born image of his face!
Thy death procur'd this blest abode,
Thy vital beams adorn the place.

IV

Lo, he presents me at the throne
All spotless; there the godhead reigns
Sublime and peaceful thro' the Son:
Awake, my voice, in heav'nly strains.

ODE IV. The Sight of God in Heaven.

I

Creator-God, eternal light,
Fountain of good, tremendous power,
Ocean of wonders, blissful sight!
Beauty and love unknown before!

II

Thy grace, thy nature, all unknown
In yon dark region whence I came;
Where languid glimpses from thy throne
And feeble whispers teach thy name.

III

I'm in a world where all is new;
Myself, my God; O blest amaze!
Not my best hopes or wishes knew
To form a shadow of this grace.

IV

Fix'd on my God, my heart, adore:
My restless thoughts, forbear to rove:
Ye meaner passions, stir no more;
But all my powers be joy and love.

594

ODE V. A Funeral Ode at the Interment of the Body, supposed to be sung by the Mourners.

I

Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb;
Take this new treasure to thy trust,
And give these sacred relics room.
To seek a slumber in the dust.

II

Nor pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear
Invade thy bounds. No mortal woes
Can reach the lovely sleeper here,
And angels watch her soft repose.

III

So Jesus slept: God's dying Son
Past through the grave, and blest the bed.
Rest here, fair saint; till from his throne
The morning break and pierce the shade.

IV

Break from his throne, illustrious morn;
Attend, O earth, his sov'reign word;
Restore thy trust, a glorious form;
She must ascend to meet her Lord.

599

LXI.—ON THE CORONATION OF THEIR MAJESTIES KING GEORGE II. AND QUEEN CAROLINE. OCTOBER 11, 1727.

The Coronation-Day. An Ode.

‘Ergo armis invicte heros age: Fortibus apta
‘Ensem humeris; meritam clementia temperet iram
‘Dum regis, & leges molli clementer acerbas.
‘Te super æquævos omnes regnator olympi
‘Diligit, & læto vultum exhilaravit olivo;
‘Ille tuum sacro cingit diademate crinem,
‘Transmittetque tuam longæva in sæcula famam. [OMITTED]
‘En regina tori consors tibi dextera adhæret,
‘Auro picta sinus, auro radiata capillos;
‘Tota decens, tota est gemmisque insignis & auro:
‘At facies cultum illustrat, facieque decorâ
‘Pulchrior est animus.
Buchan.

I

Rise, happy morn; fair sun, arise;
Shed radiant gold around the skies,
And rich in beams and blessings shine
Profuse on George and Caroline.

II

Illustrious pair! No tear to-day
Bedew the royal parents' clay!
'Tis George the blest remounts the throne,
With double vigour in his son.

III

Lo, the majestic form appears,
Sparkling in life and manly years:
The kingdom's pride, the nation's choice,
And heav'n approves Britannia's voice.

IV

Monarch, assume thy pow'rs, and stand
The guardian-hero of our land:
Let Albion's sons thy style proclaim,
And distant realms revere thy name.

V

Bear on thy brows th'imperial crown;
Rebellion dies beneath thy frown:
A thousand gems of lustre shed
Their lights and honours round thy head.

VI

Lift up thy rod of majesty,
The foes of God and man shall flee:
Vice with her execrable band
Shakes at the sword in George's hand.

VII

Law, justice, valour, mercy ride
In arms of triumph at his side;
And each celestial grace is seen
In milder glories round the Queen.

VIII

Hail, royal fair! divinely wise!
Not Austrian crowns could tempt thy eyes
To part with truth. 'Twas brave disdain,
When Cæsar sigh'd, and lov'd in vain.

IX

But heav'n provides a rich reward:
George is thy lover and thy lord:
The British lion bears thy fame,
Where Austrian eagles have no name.

600

X

See the fair train of princes near:
Come, Frederic, royal youth, appear,
And grace the day. Shall foreign charms
Still hold thee from thy country's arms.

XI

Britain, thy country ? Prince arise,
The morning-star to gild our skies;
(O may no cloud thy lustre stain!)
Come, lead along the shining train.

XII

Each in parental virtues dress'd,
Each born to make a nation bless'd:
What kings, what heroes yet ungrown,
Shall court the nymphs to grace their throne!

XIII

Mark that young branch of rising fame,
Proud of our great deliverer's name:
He promises in infant bloom,
To scourge some tyrant-power of Rome.

XIV

Bloom on, fair stem! Each flow'r that blows,
Adds new despair to Albion's foes,
And kills their hearts. O glorious view
Of joys for Albion, ever new!

XV

Religion, duty, truth and love,
In ranks of honours shine and move;
Pale envy, slander, fraud and spite,
Retire, and hide in caves of night.

XVI

Europe, behold th'amazing scene:
Empire and liberty convene
To join their joys and wishes here,
While Rome and hell consent to fear.

XVII

Eternal God, whose boundless sway
Angels and starry worlds obey,
Command thy choicest favours down,
Where thy own hands have fix'd the crown.

XVIII

Come, light divine, and grace unknown,
Come, aid the labours of the throne:
Let Britain's golden ages run
In circles lasting as the sun.

XIX

Bid some bright legion from the sky
Assist the glad solemnity:
Ye hosts, that wait on favourite kings,
Wave your broad swords, and clap your wings.

XX

Then rise, and to your realms convey
The glorious tidings of the day:
Great William shall rejoice to know,
That George the second reigns below.

The sceptre.

Archducal and Imperial.

That ingenious device of the figures of Great Britain and the protestant religion attending her majesty on her coronation medal, with the motto, Hic amor, Hæc patria, may support and justify these expressions.

Prince William.

LXII.—A LOYAL WISH ON HER MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, MARCH 1, COMMONLY CALLED ST. DAVID'S DAY.

Borrowed from Psalm cxxxii. 10, 11.

I

Silence, ye nations; Israel, hear:
Thus hath the Lord to David sworn,
‘Train up thy sons to learn my fear,
‘And Judah's crown shall all thy race adorn;
‘Theirs by the royal honours thou hast won,
‘Long as the starry wheels of nature run;
‘Nature, be thou my pledge; my witness be the sun.’

II

Now, Britain, let thy vows arise,
May George the royal saint assume!
Then ask permission of the skies,
To put the favourite name in David's room:
Fair Carolina, join thy pious cares
To train in virtue's path your royal heirs,
And be the British crown with endless honour theirs.

LXIII.—PIETY IN A COURT. TO PHILOMELA.

601

Is there a lovely soul, so much divine,
Can act her glorious part, and move and shine
On this enchanted spot of treach'rous ground,
Nor give her virtue nor her fame a wound?

Is there a soul so temper'd, so refin'd,
That pomp nor feeds her sense, nor fires the mind,
That soars above the globe with high disdain,
While earth's gay trifles tempt her thoughts in vain?

Is there a soul can fix her raptur'd eyes,
And glance warm wishes at her kindred skies
Thro' roofs of vaulted gold, while round her burn
Love's wanton fires, and die beneath her scorn?

Is there a soul at court that seeks the grove
Or lonely hill to muse on heav'nly love;
And when to crowds and state her hour descends,
She keeps her conscience and her God her friends?

Have ye not met her, angels, in her flight,
Wing'd with devotion, thro' meridian night,
Near heav'ns high portal?—Angels, speak her name,
Consign Eusebia to celestial fame:
While Philomel in language like your own
To mortal ears makes her young vict'ries known;
Let Raphael to the skies her honours sing,
And triumphs daily new. With friendly wing
Gabriel in arms attend her thro' the field
Of sacred war, and mercy be her shield,
While with unsully'd charms she makes her way
Thro' scenes of dangerous life, to realms of endless day.

602

1. A Rural Meditation.

Here in the tuneful groves and flow'ry fields,
Nature a thousand various beauties yields:
The daisy and tall cowslip we behold
Array'd in snowy white, or freckled gold.
The verdant prospect cherishes our sight,
Affording joy unmix'd, and calm delight;
The forest-walks and venerable shade,
Wide-spreading lawns, bright rills, and silent glade,
With a religious awe our souls inspire,
And to the heav'ns our raptur'd thoughts aspire,
To him who sits in majesty on high,
Who turn'd the starry arches of the sky;
Whose word ordain'd the silver Thames to flow,
Rais'd all the hills, and laid the vallies low;
Who taught the nightingale in shades to sing,
And bid the sky-lark warble on the wing;
Makes the young steer obedient till the land,
And lowing heifers own the milker's hand;
Calms the rough sea, and stills the raging wind,
And rules the passions of the human mind.

2. A Penitential Thought.

Can I then grieve for ev'ry wretch's woe,
And weep if I but hear a tale of sorrow?
Say, can I share in ev'ry one's affection,
Yet still remain thus stupid to my own?
Is then my heart to all the world beside
Softer than melting wax or summer snow,
But to myself harder than adamant?
Can I behold the ruin Sin has made,
And feel God's image in my soul defac'd;
Nor heave a sigh, nor drop a pitying tear
At my sad fate, nor lift my eyes to heav'n
For aid against the flatt'ries of the world,
The wiles of Satan and the joys of sense?
Give me, ye springs, O give me all your streams
That I may weep; nor thus with stupid gaze
Behold my ruin, like a wretch inchanted
Whose faculties are bound with pow'rful charms,
To some accursed spot of earth confin'd.
Give me, ye gentle winds, your balmy breath
To heave my bosom with continued sighs.—
Teach me, ye wood-doves, your complaining note,
To mourn my fall, to mourn my rocky heart,
My headstrong will, and every sinful thought.
In silent shades retir'd I long to dwell,
Far from the tumults of the busy world,
And all the sounds of mirth and clamorous joy,
Till every stormy passion is subdu'd,
And God has full possession of my soul;
Till all my wishes centre in his will,
And I no more am fetter'd to the world;
Till all the business of my life is praise,
And my full heart o'erflows with heav'nly love,
While all created beauties lose their charms,
And God is all in all.

3. A Midnight Hymn.

To thee, all glorious, ever blessed Pow'r,
I consecrate this silent midnight hour,
While solemn darkness covers o'er the sky,
And all things wrapp'd in gentle slumbers lie,
Unwearied let me praise thy holy name,
And ev'ry thought with gratitude inflame,
For the rich mercies which thy hands impart,
Health to my flesh, and comfort to my heart.
O may my prayers before thy throne arise,
An humble but accepted sacrifice!
And when thou shalt my weary eyelids close,
And to my body grant a soft repose,
May my ethereal guardian kindly spread
His wings, and from the tempter screen my head!
Grant of celestial light some piercing beams,
To bless my sleep and sanctify my dreams.

4. The dying Christian's Hope.

When faint and sinking to the shades of death,
I gasp with pain for ev'ry lab'ring breath,
O may my soul by some blest foretaste know
That she's deliver'd from eternal woe!
May hope in Christ dispel each gloomy fear,
And thoughts like these my drooping spirits cheer.
What tho' my sins are of a crimson stain,
My Saviour's blood can wash me white again:
Tho' numerous as the twinkling stars they be,
Or sands along the margin of the sea;
Or as smooth pebbles on some beachy shore,
The mercies of th'Almighty still are more:
He looks upon my soul with pitying eyes,
Sees all my fears, and listens to my cries:
He knows the frailty of each human breast,
What passions our unguarded hearts molest,
And for the sake of his dear dying Son
Will pardon all the ills that I have done.
Arm'd with so bright a hope, I shall not fear
To see my death hourly approach more near;
But my faith strength'ning as my life decays,
My dying breath shall mount to heav'n in praise.

607

LXVI.—FRAGMENTS OF VERSE.

1. The Preface of a Letter, written August, 1692.

E'er since the morning of that day
Which bid my dearest friends adieu,
And rolling wheels bore me away
Far from my native town and you,
E'er since I lost through distant place,
The pleasures of a parent's face,
This is the first whose language sues
For your release from waxen bands;
Laden with humble love it bows
To kiss a welcome from your hands:
Accept the duty which it brings,
And pardon its delaying wings.

608

2. The Sun in Eclipse.—To Horatio.

Now, now 'tis just at hand—
Now the bright sun leaves his meridian stage,
Rolls down the hill, and meets his sister's rage;
Her gloomy wheels full at his chariot run,
And join fierce combat with her brother sun.
The gentle monarch of the azure plain
Still paints and silvers her rebellious wain,
And shoots his wonted fires, but shoots his fires in vain.
Th'ungrateful planet does as fast requite
Th'o'erflowing measures of her borrow'd light
With an impetuous deluge of her resistless night.
His flaming coursers toss their raging heads,
And heave and grapple with the stubborn shades;
Their eyeballs flash, their brazen bellows puff,
And belch ethereal fire to guard the darkness off;
In vain their brazen lungs, in vain their eyes,
Night spreads her banners o'er the wond'ring skies.

Say, peaceful muse, what fury did excite
The kindred stars to this prodigious fight?
Are these the rules of nature? Will the skies
Let such dark scenes of dreadful battle rise?
What dire events hang threat'ning o'er the earth?
What plagues, what wars, just bursting into birth?
Now for his teeming glebe the ploughman fears,
Lest it should yield a crop of iron spears:
Shepherds see death spread o'er the fleecy downs,
Monarchs grow pale, and tremble for their crowns:
Vain dreams of mortal weakness!

Awake, Philosophy, with radiant eye,
Who searcheth all that's deep, and all that's high;
Awake, survey the spheres, explain the laws
Of heav'n, and bring to light th'eternal cause
Of present darkness, &c.

Southampton, June, 1695.

3. In a Letter to Marinda, speaking concerning our blessed Saviour.

Let your immortal thoughts arise,
Survey him crown'd with every grace,
Jesus, the wonder of the skies,
The great, the meek, the lovely and the wise,
The joy and glory of the place.
Here angels fix their gazing sight,
Here saints releas'd from earth and sin,
Dwell on his face divinely bright,
Copy his beauties with intense delight,
And with advancing lustre shine.

609

LXVII.—THE INSCRIPTIONS ON SEVERAL SMALL FRENCH PICTURES, TRANSLATED.

Angelica singing.

What, music and devotion too?
This is the business angels do:
When hearts, and hymns, and voices join,
It makes the pleasant work divine.

Chloris stringing of Pearls.

Virtue and truth in heart and head,
Which teach you how to act and speak,
Are brighter pearls than those you thread,
Chloris, to tie about your neck.

Phyllis playing with a Parrot.

If women will not be inclin'd
To seek th'improvements of the mind,
Believe me, Phyllis, for 'tis true,
Parrots will talk as well as you.

Claudina the Cook-maid.

The cook, who in her humble post
Provides the family with food,
Excels those empty dames that boast
Of charms and lovers, birth and blood.

Florella singing to her Harp.

Florella sings and plays so well,
Which she doth best is hard to tell;
But 'tis a poor account to say,
All she can do is sing and play.

Amaryllis spinning.

O what a pretty spinner's here!
How sweet her looks! How neat her linen!
If love and youth came both to see her,
Youth wou'd at once set love a spinning.

Dorinda sewing.

We stand expos'd to every sin
While idle, and without employ;
But business holds our passions in,
And keeps out all unlawful joy.

Iris suckling three Lap-dogs.

Fond foolish woman! While you nurse
Those puppies at your breast,
Your name and credit fares the worse
For every drop they taste.
Iris, for shame, those brutes remove,
And better learn to place your love.

Pomona the Market-maid.

Virtue adorns her soul within,
Her homely garb is ever clean:
Such innocence disdaining art
Gives love an honourable dart.

LXVIII.—INSCRIPTIONS ON DIALS.

Written on a Sun-dial in a Circle.

Afterwards turned into English.

Thus steal the silent hours away,
The sun thus hastes to reach the sea,
And men to mingle with their clay.
Thus light and shade divide the year,
Thus, till the last great day appear,
And shut the starry theatre.

Another.

So slide the hours, so wears the day,
These moments, measure life away
With all its trains of hope and fear,
Till shifting scenes of shade and light
Rise to eternal day, or sink in endless night,
Where all is joy or all despair.

On a Ceiling-dial, usually called a Spot-dial, made at a western Window at Theobalds.

Little sun upon the ceiling,
Ever moving, ever stealing
Moments, minutes, hours away;
May no shade forbid thy shining,
While the heav'nly sun declining,
Calls us to improve the day.

Another for a Spot-dial.

Shining spot, but ever sliding!
Brightest hours have no abiding:
Use the golden moments well:
Life is wasting,
Death is hasting,
Death consigns to heav'n or hell.

610

Another.

See the little day-star moving;
Life and time are worth improving,
Seize the moments while they stay;
Seize and use them,
Lest you lose them,
And lament the wasted day.

LXVIII.—INSCRIPTIONS ON PORTRAITS.

The Lines under Dr. Owen's Picture, written by himself.

Englished thus:

Behold the shade, the frail remains
Of sickness, cares, and studious pains.
The mind in humble posture waits
At sacred Truth's celestial gates,
And keeps those bounds with holy fear,
While he who gave it, sees it there.

Various Mottos for an Effigy.

3. [Seeking the things above]

Seeking the things above,
And speaking truth and love.

611

LXX.—EPIGRAMS.

2. On the wondrous Rise of the South-Sea Stock, 1720.

'Tis said the citizens have sold
Faith, truth and trade, for South-Sea gold:
'Tis false; for those that know can swear
‘All is not gold that glisters there.’

4. Sabina and her Companions travelling together to see fine Buildings and Gardens.

While round the gardens and the groves
Your foot, your eye, your fancy roves,
With still new forms of pleasure in a warm pursuit,
Let every tree yield knowledge too,
Safer than that in Eden grew,
Where your own mother Eve found poison in the fruit.

5. The same.

[Go, view the dwellings of the great]

Go, view the dwellings of the great,
The spacious court, the tow'ring seat,
The roofs of costly form, the fret-work and the gold;
Mark the bright tap'stry scenes, and say,
Will these make wrinkled age delay,
Or warm the cheek, and paint it gay,
When death spreads o'er the face her frightful pale and cold?

612

6. The same.

[In vain to search the verdant scenes]

In vain to search the verdant scenes,
The shaded walks, the flow'ry greens,
The trees of golden fruit for what can ne'er be found:
You search for bliss where 'twill not grow,
There is no paradise below,
Since life's immortal tree is perish'd from the ground.

LXXI.—EPITAPHS.

1. An Inscription on a Monumental Stone in Chessunt Church, in Hertfordshire. In Memory of Thomas Pickard, Esq. Citizen of London, who died suddenly, Jan. 29, A.D. 1719. Æt. 50.

A soul prepar'd needs no delays,
The summons come, the saint obeys:
Swift was his flight, and short the road,
He clos'd his eyes, and saw his God.
The flesh rests here till Jesus come,
And claims the treasure from the tomb.

2. On the Grave-stone of Mr. John May, a young Student in Divinity, who died after a lingering and painful Sickness, and was buried in Chessunt Church-yard, in Hertfordshire.

So sleep the saints, and cease to groan,
When sin and death have done their worst.
Christ hath a glory like his own,
Which waits to clothe their waking dust.

3. Written for a Grave-stone of a near Relation.

In faith she died; in dust she lies;
But faith foresees that dust shall rise
When Jesus calls, while hope assumes
And boasts her joy among the tombs.

Or thus

Beneath this stone death's prisoner lies,
The stone shall move, the prisoner rise,
When Jesus with almighty word
Calls his dead saints to meet their Lord.

4. To the pious Memory of the Reverend Mr. Samuel Harvey of London, who died April 17, 1729. Æt. 30.

An Epitaph.

[_]

He was a person of a very low stature, but of an excellent spirit, adorned with all the graces of a minister and a christian in a most uncommon degree. His sickness was a slow fever; but while the disorder was upon him, he ventured abroad, according to a promise made some time before, and his zeal exhausted all his spirits in pious and profitable conversation with some younger persons who greatly valued his ministry; in a few days the distemper prevailed beyond the reach and power of medicine.

613

Here lie the ruins of a lowly tent,
Where the seraphic soul of Harvey spent
Its mortal years. How did his genius shine,
Like heav'n's bright envoy, clad in pow'rs divine!
When from his lips the grace or vengeance broke,
'Twas majesty in arms, 'twas melting mercy spoke.
What worlds of worth lay crowded in that breast!
Too strait the mansion for th'illustrious guest.
Zeal, like a flame shot from the realms of day,
Aids the slow fever to consume the clay,
And bears the saint up through the starry road
Triumphant. So Elijah went to God.
What happy prophet shall his mantle find,
Heir to the double portion of his mind?

Sic musâ jam veterascenti
Inter justissimos amicorum & ecclesiæ
Fletus Harvæo suo parentat.

I. W.

5. An Epitaph on the Reverend Mr. Matthew Clarke.

In English thus:

614

Sacred to memory.
In this sepulchre lies buried
MATTHEW CLARKE,
A son bearing the name
of his venerable father,
nor less venerable himself:
Train'd up from his youngest years
in sacred and human learning:
Very skilful in the languages:
In the gift of preaching
excellent, laborious and successful:
In the pastoral office
faithful and vigilant:
Among the controversies of divines
moderate always and pacific:
Ever ready for all the duties of piety:
Among husbands, brothers, fathers, friends,
he had few equals:
And his carriage toward all mankind was
eminently benevolent.
But what rich stores of grace lay hid behind
The veil of modesty, no human mind
Can search, no friend declare, nor fame reveal,
Nor has this mournful marble power to tell.
Yet there's a hast'ning hour, it comes, it comes,
To rouse the sleeping dead, to burst the tombs
And set the saint in view. All eyes behold:
While the vast records of the skies unroll'd,
Rehearse his works, and spread his worth abroad;
The Judge approves, and heav'n and earth applaud.
Go, traveller; and wheresoe'er
Thy wand'ring feet shall rest
In distant lands, thy ear shall hear
His name pronounc'd and blest.
He was born in Leicestershire, in the year 1664.
He died at London, March 27, 1726,
Aged sixty-two years,
Much beloved and much lamented.

6. An Epitaph on the Reverend Mr. Edward Brodhurst.

Done into English by another hand.

615

This marble calls to our remembrance
A person of superior skill in divinity,
Nor less acquainted with human literature:
Inclined from his infancy to things sacred,
An impartial enquirer after truth,
An able defender of the christian faith,
A truly pious and devout man.
A preacher that excelled
In force of reason and art of persuasion:
A pastor vigilant beyond his strength
Over the flock committed to his charge:
Of courteous behaviour and beneficent life:
A pattern of charity in all its branches:
A man adorn'd with many virtues,
Conceal'd under a veil of modesty;
But shall not for ever be concealed.
Go, reader, expect the day,
When heaven and earth at once shall know
How deserving a person
Mr. EDWARD BRODHURST was.
He was born in Derbyshire, 1691.
Dy'd at Birmingham, July 21, 1730.
His soul ascending to the blest above,
The church on earth bemoans,
The church triumphant congratulates,
Is received by Christ, approved of God;
‘Well done, good and faithful servant.’

622

LXXIV.—A DYING WORLD, AND A DURABLE HEAVEN.

623

All born on earth must die. Destruction reigns
Round the whole globe, and changes all its scenes.
Time brushes off our lives with sweeping wing:
But heav'n defies its power. There angels sing
Immortal. To that world direct thy sight,
My soul, ethereal-born, and thither aim thy flight:
There virtue finds reward; eternal joy,
Unknown on earth, shall the full soul employ.
This glebe of death we tread, these shining skies,
Hold out the moral lesson to our eyes.
The sun still travels his illustrious round,
While ages bury ages under ground:
While heroes sink forgotten in their urns,
Still Phosphor glitters, and still Syrius burns.
Light reigns thro' worlds above, and life with all her springs:
Yet man lies grov'ling on the earth,
The soul forgets its heav'nly birth,
Nor mourns her exile thence, nor homeward tries her wings.

The morning-star and the dog-star.

624

[When death and everlasting things]

I

When death and everlasting things
Approach and strike the sight,
The soul unfolds itself, and brings
Its hidden thoughts to light.

II

The silent christian speaks for God,
With courage owns his name,
And spreads the Saviour's grace abroad:
The zeal subdues the shame.

III

Lord, shall my soul again conceal
Her faith, if doth retire?
Shall shame subdue the lively zeal,
And quench th'ethereal fire?

IV

O may my thoughts for ever keep
The grave and heav'n in view,
Lest if my zeal and courage sleep,
My lips grow silent too!

LXXV.—THE REWARDS OF POESY.

Damon, Thalia, Urania.
DAMON.
Muse, 'tis enough that in the fairy bow'rs
My youth has lost a thousand sprightly hours,
Attending thy vagaries, in pursuit
Of painted blossoms or inchanted fruit.
Forbear to teize my riper age: 'Tis hard
To be a slave so long, and find so small reward.

THALIA.
Man, 'tis enough that in the books of fame
On brazen leaves the muse shall write thy name,
Illustrious as her own, and make thy years the same.
Fame with her silver trump shall spread the sound
Of Damon's verse, wide as the distant bound
Of British empire, or the world's vast round.
I see, I see from far the falling oars,
And flying sails that bear to western shores
Thy shining name; it shoots from sea to sea;
Envy pursues, but faints amidst the way.
In vision my prophetic tube descries
Behind five hundred years new ages rise,
Who read thy works with rapture in their eyes.
Cities unbuilt shall bless the lyric bard.
O glorious memory! O immense reward!

DAMON.
Ah flatt'ring muse! How fruitless and how fair
These visionary scenes and sounding air?
Fruitless and vain to me! Can noisy breath
Or fame's loud trumpet reach the courts of death?
I shall be stretch'd upon my earthy bed,
Unthinking dust, nor know the honours paid
To my surviving song. Thalia, say,
Have I no more to hope? Hast thou no more to pay?

THALIA.
Say, what had Horace, what had Homer more,
My favourite sons, whom men almost adore;
And youth in learned ranks for ever sings,
While perish'd heroes and forgotten kings
Have lost their names? 'Tis sov'reign wit has bought
This deathless glory: This the wise have thought
Prodigious recompence—

DAMON.
—Prodigious fools,
To think the hum and buz of paltry schools,
And awkward tones of boys are prizes meet
For Roman harmony and Grecian wit!
Rise from thy long repose, old Homer's ghost!
Horace arise! Are these the palms you boast
For your victorious verse? Great poets, tell,
Can echos of a name reward you well,
For labours so sublime? Or have you found
Praise make your slumbers sweeter in the ground?

THALIA.
Yes, their sweet slumbers, guarded by my wing,
Are lull'd and soften'd by th'eternal spring
Of bubbling praises from th'Aonian hill,
Whose branching streams divide a silver rill
To every kindred urn: And thine shall share
These purling blessings under hallow'd air:
The poets' dreams in death are still the muse's care.

DAMON.
Once, thou fair tempter of my heedless youth,
Once and by chance thy tropes have hit the truth;
Praise is but empty air, a purling stream,
Poets are paid with bubbles in a dream.
Hast thou no songs to entertain thy dead?
No phantom-lights to glimmer round my shade?

THALIA.
Believe me, mortal, where thy relics sleep,
My nightingales shall tuneful vigils keep,
And cheer thy silent tomb: The glow-worm shine
With evening lamp, to mark which earth is thine:
While midnight fairies tripping round thy bed,
Collect a moon-beam glory for thy head.
Fair hyacinths thy hilloc shall adorn,
And living ivy creep about thy urn:

625

Sweet violets scent the ground, while laurels throw
Their leafy shade o'er the green turf below,
And borrow life from thee to crown some poet's brow.

DAMON.
Muse, thy last blessings sink below the first;
Ah wretched trifler! To array my dust
In thy green flow'ry forms, and think the payment just!
Poor is my gain should nations join to praise;
And now must chirping birds reward my lays?
What! shall the travels of my soul be paid
With glow-worm light, and with a leafy shade,
Violets and creeping ivies? Is this all
The muse can promise, or the poet call
His glorious hope and joy?—
Are these the honours of thy favourite sons,
To have their flesh, their limbs, their mould'ring bones
Fatten the glebe to make a laurel grow,
Which the foul carcase of a dog might do,
Or any vile manure? Away, be gone;
Tempt me no more: I now renounce thy throne:
My indignation swells. Here, fetch me fire,
Bring me my odes, the labours of the lyre;
I doom them all to ashes.—

URANIA.

Rash man, restrain thy wrath, these odes are mine;
Small is thy right in gifts so much divine.
Was it thy skill that to a Saviour's name
Strung David's harp, and drew th'illustrious theme
From smoking altars and a bleeding Lamb?
Who form'd thy sounding shell? Who fix'd the strings,
Or taught thy hand to play eternal things?
Was't not my aid that rais'd thy notes so high?
And they must live till time and nature die.
Here heav'n and virtue reign: Here joy and love
Tune the retir'd devotion of the grove,
And train up mortals for the thrones above.
Sinners shall start, and, struck with dread divine,
Shrink from the vengeance of some flaming line,
Shall melt in trickling woes for follies past;
Yet all amidst their piercing sorrows taste
The sweets of pious hope: Emanuel's blood
Flows in the verse, and seals the pardon good.
Salvation triumphs here, and heals the smart
Of wounded conscience and a breaking heart.
Youth shall learn temp'rance from these hallow'd strains,
Shall bind their passions in harmonious chains;
And virgins learn to love with cautious fear,
Nor virtue needs her guard of blushes here.
Matrons, grown reverend in their silver hairs,
Sooth the sad memory of their ancient cares
With these soft hymns; while on their trembling knee
Sits their young offspring of the fourth degree
With list'ning wonder, till their infant tongue
Stammers and lisps, and learns th'immortal song,
And lays up the fair lesson to repeat
To the fourth distant age, when sitting round their feet.

Each heav'n-born heart shall choose a favourite ode
To bear their morning homage to their God,
And pay their nightly vows. These sacred themes
Inspire the pillow with ethereal dreams:
And oft amidst the burdens of the day
Some devout couplet wings the soul away,
Forgetful of this globe: Adieu, the cares
Of mortal life! Adieu, the sins, the snares!
She talks with angels, and walks o'er the stars.
Amidst th'exalted raptures of the lyre
O'erwhelm'd with bliss, shall aged saints expire,
And mix their notes at once with some celestial choir.

DAMON.
What holy sounds are these? What strains divine?
Is it thy voice, O blest Urania, thine?
Enough: I claim no more. My toils are paid,
My midnight-lamp, and my o'er-labour'd head,
My early sighs for thy propitious pow'r,
And my wing'd zeal to seize the lyric hour:
Thy words reward them all. And when I die,
May the great Ruler of the rolling sky
Give thy predictions birth, with blessings from his eye.
I lay my flesh to rest, with heart resign'd
And smiling hope. Arise, my deathless mind,
Ascend, where all the blissful passions flow
In sweeter numbers; and let mortals know,
Urania leaves these odes to cheer their toils below.

University of Virginia Library

RELIQUIÆ JUVENILES.

MISCELLANEOUS THOUGHTS, IN PROSE AND VERSE, ON NATURAL, MORAL, AND DIVINE SUBJECTS; WRITTEN CHIEFLY IN YOUNGER YEARS.

[My God, I love and I adore]

III.—TO DORIO. THE FIRST LYRIC HOUR.

IV.—THE HEBREW POET.

This Ode represents the Difficulty of a just Translation of the Psalms of David, in all their Hebrew Glory; with an Apology for the Imitation of them in Christian Language.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

V.—THE THANKFUL PHILOSOPHER.

I

II

III

IX.—THE SACRED CONCERT OF PRAISE.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

X.—THE WORLD A STRANGER TO GOD.

I

II

III

XIII.—THE MIDNIGHT ELEVATION.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

XIV.—THE HONOURABLE MAGISTRATE.

[There are a number of us creep]

Paraphrase.

[Life's but a feast; and when we die]

Which may be thus put into English.

[Deluded souls! that sacrifice]

Reflection.

XVIII—YOUTH AND DEATH

XIX.—BABYLON DESTROYED; OR, THE 137TH PSALM TRANSLATED.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

XX.—AN EPITAPH ON BIGOTRY, TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN, Which was written by the late pious and ingenious MR. JOHN REYNOLDS, And inserted in the Occasional Paper, Vol. III. Numb. 6 .