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 |
 | IV. |
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| III. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| LXXI.—EPITAPHS. |
|
| VIII. |
 | The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. |  |
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.
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
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.
Inter justissimos amicorum & ecclesiæ
Fletus Harvæo suo parentat.
I. W.
5. An Epitaph on the Reverend Mr. Matthew Clarke.
In English thus:
614
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
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
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.
624
[When death and everlasting things]
I
When death and everlasting thingsApproach 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 concealHer faith, if doth retire?
Shall shame subdue the lively zeal,
And quench th'ethereal fire?
IV
O may my thoughts for ever keepThe 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
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.
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.
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.
| The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. | |