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 |
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 | REMNANTS OF TIME EMPLOYED, IN PROSE AND VERSE;
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 | The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. |  |
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REMNANTS OF TIME EMPLOYED, IN PROSE AND VERSE;
OR, SHORT ESSAYS AND COMPOSURES ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS.
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IV.—THE BRITISH FISHERMAN.
I
Let Spain's proud traders, when the mastBends groaning to the stormy blast,
Run to their beads with wretched plaints,
And vow and bargain with their saints,
Lest Turkish silks or Tyrian wares
Sink in the drowning ship,
Or the rich dust Peru prepares,
Defraud their long projecting cares,
And add new treasures to the greedy deep.
II
My little skiff, that skims the shores,With half a sail and two short oars,
Provides me food in gentler waves:
But if they gape in watery graves,
I trust th'eternal power, whose hand
Has swell'd the storm so high,
To waft my boat and me to land,
Or give some angel swift command
To bear the drowning sailor to the sky.
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V.—REDEMPTION.
I
The mighty frame of glorious grace,That brightest monument of praise
That e'er the God of love design'd,
Employs and fills my labouring mind.
II
Begin, my muse, the heav'nly song,A burden for an angel's tongue:
When Gabriel sounds these awful things,
He tunes and summons all his strings.
III
Proclaim inimitable love:Jesus, the Lord of worlds above,
Puts off the beams of bright array,
And veils the God in mortal clay.
IV
What black reproach defil'd his name,When with our sin he took our shame!
The pow'r whom kneeling angels blest
Is made the impious rabble's jest.
V
He that distributes crowns and thronesHangs on a tree and bleeds and groans:
The Prince of life resigns his breath,
The King of glory bows to death.
VI
But see the wonders of his pow'r,He triumphs in his dying hour,
And whilst by Satan's rage he fell
He dash'd the rising hopes of hell.
VII
Thus were the hosts of death subdu'd,And sin was drown'd in Jesus' blood:
Then he arose, and reigns above,
And conquers sinners by his love.
[VIII]
Who shall fulfil this boundless song?What vain pretender dares?
The theme surmounts an angel's tongue,
And Gabriel's harp despairs.
In this ode there are three or four lines taken from Mr Stennet's Sacramental Hymns; for when I found they expressed my thought and design in proper and beautiful language, I chose rather to borrow and to acknowledge the debt, than to labour hard for worse lines that I might have the poor pleasure of calling them my own.
VI. COMPLAINT AND HOPE UNDER GREAT PAIN. 1736.
I
Lord, I am pain'd; but I resignTo thy superior will:
'Tis grace, 'tis wisdom all divine,
Appoints the pains I feel.
II
Dark are thy ways of providence,While those that love thee groan:
Thy reasons lie conceal'd from sense,
Mysterious and unknown.
III
Yet nature may have leave to speak,And plead before her God,
Lest the o'er-burden'd heart should break
Beneath thy heavy rod.
IV
Will nothing but such daily painSecure my soul from hell?
Canst thou not make my health attain
Thy kind designs as well?
V
How shall my tongue proclaim thy graceWhile thus at home confin'd?
What can I write, while painful flesh
Hangs heavy on the mind?
VI
These groans and sighs and flowing tearsGive my poor spirit ease,
While every groan my Father hears,
And every tear he sees.
VII
Is not some smiling hour at handWith peace upon its wings?
Give it, O God, thy swift command,
With all the joys it brings.
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VII.—ON AN ELEGY WRITTEN BY THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE COUNTESS OF HERTFORD, ON THE DEATH OF MRS. ROWE. 1737.
Struck with the sight of Philomela's urnEusebia weeps, and calls her muse to mourn:
While from her lips the tuneful sorrows fell
The groves confess a rising Philomel.
VIII.—DR. YOUNG'S ADMIRABLE DESCRIPTION OF THE PEACOCK ENLARGED.
View next the peacock: What bright glories runFrom plume to plume, and vary in the sun?
Proudly he boasts them to the heav'nly ray,
Gives all his colours, and adorns the day.
Was it thy pencil, Job, divinely bold,
Drest his rich form in azure, green and gold?
Thy hand his crest with starry radiance crown'd,
Or spread his sweepy train? His train disdains the ground,
And kindles living lamps thro' all the spacious round.
Mark with what conscious state the bird displays
His native gems, and 'midst the waving blaze
On the slow step of majesty he moves,
Asserts his honours, and demands his loves.
| The Works of the Reverend and Learned Isaac Watts, D. D. | |