TO HER MAJESTY.

QUEEN of the Northern world, whose gentle sway
Commands our love, and charms our hearts t' obey,
Forgive the nation's groan when William died:
Lo, at thy feet in all the loyal pride

Of blooming joy, three happy realms appear,
And William's urn almost without a tear
Stands; nor complains: while from thy gracious

tongue

Peace flows in silver streams amidst the throng.
Amazing balm, that on these lips was found
To sooth the torment of that mortal wound,
And calm the wild affright! The terror dies,
The bleeding wound cements, the danger flies,
And Albion shouts thine honours as her joys arise.
The German eagle feels her guardian dead,
Nor her own thunder can secure her head;
Her trembling eaglets hasten from afar,
And Belgia's lion dreads the Gallic war;
All hide behind thy shield. Remoter lands
Whose lives lay trusted in Nassovian hands
Transfer their souls, and live; secure they play
In thy mild rays, and love the growing day.

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

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

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

AUGUST 1st, 1721.

The established Church of England. The Protestant Dissenters.

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

Let no black scenes affright fair Albion's stage: Thy thread of life prolong our golden age, Long bless the earth, and late ascend thy throne Ethereal; (not thy deeds are there unknown, Nor there unsung; for by thine awful hands Heaven rules the waves, and thunders o'er the lands, [mands.) Creates inferior kings, and gives them their comLegions attend thee at the radiant gates; For thee thy sister-seraph, blest Maria, waits.

But, Oh! the parting stroke! some heavenly Cheer thy sad Britons in the gloomy hour; [power Some new propitious star appear on high The fairest glory of the western sky, And Anna be its name; with gentle sway To check the planets of malignant ray,

Sooth the rude North wind, and the rugged Bear, Calm rising wars, heal the contagious air, [sphere. And reign with peaceful influence to the Southern

PALINODIA.

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

George is the name, that glorious star;
Ye saw his splendours beaming far;
Saw in the East your joys arise,
When Anna sunk in Western skies,
Streaking the heavens with crimson gloom,
Emblems of Tyranny and Rome,
Portending blood and night to come.
'Twas George diffused a vital ray,
And gave the dying nations day:
His influence soothes the Russian Bear,
Calms rising wars, and heals the air;
Join'd with the sun his beams are hurl'd
To scatter blessings round the world,
Fulfil whate'er the Muse has spoke,
And crown the work that Anne forsook.
AUGUST 1st, 1721.

TO JOHN LOCKE, Esq.

RETIRED FROM BUSINESS.

ANGELS are made of heavenly things,
And light and love our souls compose,
Their bliss within their bosom springs,
Within their bosom flows.

But narrow minds still make pretence
To search the coasts of flesh and sense,
And fetch diviner pleasures thence.
Men are akin to ethereal forms,
But they belie their nobler birth,
Debase their honour down to earth,

And claim a share with worms.

He that has treasures of his own May leave the cottage or the throne, May quit the globe, and dwell alone Within his spacious mind. Locke hath a soul wide as the sea, Calm as the night, bright as the day, There may his vast ideas play,

Nor feel a thought confined.

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

On Mr. Locke's dangerous sickness, some time after
he had retired to study the Scriptures.
JUNE, 1704.

AND must the man of wondrous mind
(Now his rich thoughts are just refined,)
Forsake our longing eyes?
Reason at length submits to wear
The wings of Faith; and lo, they rear
Her chariot high, and nobly bear

Her prophet to the skies.

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

Thus when our follies or our faults,
Call for the pity of thy thoughts,

Thy pen shall make us wise:
The sallies of whose youthful wit
Could pierce the British fogs with light,
Place our true interest in our sight,

And open half our eyes.

TO MR. WILLIAM NOKES.

FRIENDSHIP.-1702.

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

Fate has divided a our shares
Of pleasure and of pain;

In love the comforts and the cares
Are mix'd and join'd again.

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

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

Yet never let our hearts divide,
Nor death dissolve the chain:

For love and joy were once allied,
And must be join'd again.

• The Interest of England, written by J. S. Esq.

TO NATHANAEL GOULD, Esq.

NOW

SIR NATHANAEL GOULD.-1704.

'Tis not by splendour, or by state,
Exalted mien, or lofty gait,

My muse takes measure of a king:
If wealth, or height, or bulk will do,
She calls each mountain of Peru

A more majestic thing.
Frown on me, friend, if e'er I boast
O'er fellow-minds enslaved in clay,
Or swell when I shall have engross'd
A larger heap of shining dust,
And wear a bigger load of earth than they
Let the gay world salute me loud,
My thoughts look inward, and forget

The sounding names of High and Great,
The flatteries of the crowd.

When Gould commands his ships to run And search the traffic of the sea, His fleet o'ertakes the falling day, And bears the Western mines away, Or richer spices from the rising sun: While the glad tenants from the shore Shout, and pronounce him Senator,*

Yet still the man's the same:
For well the happy merchant knows
The soul with treasure never grows,
Nor swells with airy fame.

But trust me, Gould, 'tis lawful pride,
To rise above the mean control

Of flesh and sense, to which we're tied;
This is ambition that becomes a soul.

We steer our course up through the skies;
Farewell this barren land:

We ken the heavenly shore with longing eyes
There the dear wealth of spirits lies,
And beckoning angels stand.

TO DR. THOMAS GIBSON.
THE LIFE OF SOULS.-1704.
SWIFT as the sun revolves the day
We hasten to the dead,
Slaves to the wind we puff away
And to the ground we tread."
'Tis air that lends us life, when first
The vital bellows heave:
Our flesh we borrow of the dust;
And when a mother's care has nurs'd
The babe to manly size, we must
With usury pay the grave.

Rich julaps drawn from precious ore
Still tend the dying flame:

And plants, and roots, of barbarous name,
Torn from the Indian shore.

Thus we support our tott'ring flesh,
Our cheeks resume the rose afresh,
When bark and steel play well their game

To save our sinking breath,

And Gibson, with his awful power,
Rescues the poor precarious hour

From the demands of death.

But art and nature, powers and charms,
And drugs, and recipes, and forms,
Yield us, at last, to greedy worms

A despicable prey;

I'd have a life to call my own,
That shall depend on heaven alone:
Nor air, nor earth, nor sea
Mix their base essences with mine,
Nor claim dominion so divine

To give me leave to Be.

Sure there's a mind within, that reigns O'er the dull current of my veins;

I feel the inward pulse beat high

With vigorous immortality:

Let earth resume the flesh it gave,

• Member of Parliament for a port in Sussex.

C

And let my roving wonder loose
O'er all the empyreal plains.

Noon stands eternal here; here may thy sight
Drink in the rays of primogenial light;
Here breathe immortal air:
Joy must beat high in every vein,
Pleasure through all thy bosom reign:
The laws forbid the stranger, Pain,
And banish every care.

See how the bubbling springs of love
Beneath the throne arise;

The streams in crystal channels move,
Around the golden streets they rove,
And bless the mansions of the upper skies.
There fair grove of knowledge grows,
Nor sin nor death infects the fruit:
Young life hangs fresh on all the boughs,

And springs from every root; Here may thy greedy senses feast While extasy and health attends on every taste. With the fair prospect charm'd I stood: Fearless I feed on the delicious fare, And drink profuse salvation from the silver flood, Nor can excess be there.

In sacred order ranged along

Saints, new-released by death
Join the bold seraph's warbling breath,
And aid th' immortal song.
Each has a voice that tunes his strings
To mighty sounds, and mighty things,
Things of everlasting weight,
Sounds, like the softer viol, sweet,
And, like the trumpet, strong.
Divine attention held my soul,

I was all ear!

Through all my powers the heavenly accents roll, I long'd and wish'd my Bradbury there; "Could he but hear these notes" I said, "His tuneful soul would never bear The dull unwinding of life's tedious thread, But burst the vital chords to reach the happy dead."

And now my tongue prepares to join

The harmony, and with a noble aim

Attempts th' unutterable name,

But faints, confounded by the notes divine:
Again my soul th' unequal honour sought,

Again her utmost force she brought,

And bow'd beneath the burden of th' unwieldy

thought.

Thrice I essay'd, and fainted thrice; Th' immortal labour strain'd my feeble frame, Broke the bright vision, and dissolved the dream: I sunk at once and lost the skies: In vain I sought the scenes of light Rolling abroad my longing eyes,

For all around them stood my curtains and the night.

STRICT RELIGION VERY RARE.
I'm borne aloft, and leave the crowd,
I sail upon a morning cloud

Skirted with dawning gold:
Mine eyes beneath the morning day
Command the globe with wide survey,
Where ants in busy millions play,

And tug and heave the mould.

"Are these the things," my passion cried, "That we call men? Are these allied To the fair worlds of light? They have razed out their Maker's name, Graven on their minds with pointed flame In strokes divinely bright.

"Wretches! they hate their native skies; If an ethereal thought arise,

Or spark of virtue shine,
With cruel force they damp its plumes,
Choke the young fire with sensual fumes,
With business, lust, or wine.

Lo! how they throng with panting breath
The broad descending road,
That leads unerring down to death,
Nor miss the dark abode !"

Thus while I drop a tear or two
On the wild herd, a noble few
Dare to stray upward, and pursue
Th' unbeaten way to God.

I meet Myrtillo mounting high,
I know his candid soul afar;
Here Dorylus and Thyrsis fly
Each like a rising star,
Charin I saw and Fidea there,
I saw them help each other's flight,
And bliss them as they go;
They soar beyond my labouring sight,
And leave their loads of mortal care,
But not their love below.

On heaven, their home, they fix their eyes,
The temple of their God:

With morning incense up they rise
Sublime, and through the lower skies
Spread the perfumes abroad.

Across the road a seraph flew,
"Mark," said he, "that happy pair,
Marriage helps devotion there;
When kindred minds their God pursue
They break with double vigour through
The dull incumbent air."

Charm'd with the pleasure and surprise

My soul adores and sings,

"Bless'd be the Power that springs their flight That streaks their path with heavenly light, That turns their love to sacrifice,

And joins their zeal for wings."

TO MR. C. AND S. FLEETWOOD.
FLEETWOODS, young and generous pair,
Despise the joys that fools pursue;
Bubbles are light and brittle too,
Born of the water and the air.

Tried by a standard bold and just
Honour and gold, and paint and dust;
How vile the last is, and as vain the first?
Things that the crowd call great and brave,
With me how low their values brought;
Titles and names, and life and breath,
Slaves to the wind, and born for death;
The soul's the only thing we have

Worth an important thought.

The soul! 'tis of th' immortal kind, Nor form'd of fire, or earth, or wind, Out-lives the mouldering corpse, and leaves the globe behind.

In limbs of clay though she appears, Array'd in rosy skin, and deck'd with ears and eyes, The flesh is but the soul's disguise,

There's nothing in her frame kin to the dress she

wears;

From all the laws of matter free,
From all we feel, and all we see,

She stands eternally distinct, and must for ever be.

Rise then, my thoughts, on high,
Soar beyond all that's made to die;
Lo! on an awful throne

Sits the Creator and the Judge of souls,
Whirling the planets round the poles,
Winds off our threads of life, and brings our pe-

riods on.

TO WILLIAM BLACKBOURN, ESQ;

CASIMIR. LIB. II. OD. 2. IMITATED.
Quæ legit canas modo bruma valles, &c.

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

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

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

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

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

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

TRUE MONARCHY.-1701.

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

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

"Tis not a troop of well appointed guards
Create a monarch, nor a purple robe
Died in the people's blood, not all the crowns
Or dazzling tiars that bend about the head,
Though gilt with sun-beams and set round with

stars.

A monarch he that conquers all his fears,
And treads upon them; when he stands alone,
Makes his own camp; four guardian virtues wait
His nightly slumbers, and secure his dreams.
Now dawns the light; he ranges all his thoughts
In square battalions, bold to meet th' attacks
Of time and chance, himself a numerous host,
All eye, all ear, all wakeful as the day,
Firm as a rock, and moveless as the centre.

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

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

Now my ambition swells, my wishes soar,
This be my kingdom: sit above the globe
My rising soul, and dress thyself around

And shine in Virtue's armour, climb the height
Of Wisdom's lofty castle, there reside
Safe from the smiling and the frowning world.

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

TRUE COURAGE.

HONOUR demands my song. Forget the ground,
My generous muse, and sit among the stars!
There sing the soul, that, conscious of her birth,
Lives like a native of the vital world,
Amongst her dying clods, and bears her state
Just to herself: how nobly she maintains
Her character, superior to the flesh,

She wields her passion like her limbs, and knows
The brutal powers were only born t' obey.

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

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

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

Thither, when Fate has brought our willing
souls,

No matter whether 'twas a sharp disease,
Or a sharp sword that help'd the travellers on,
And push'd us to our home. Bear up, my friend,
Serenely, and break through the stormy brine
With steady prow; know, we shall once arrive
At the fair haven of eternal bliss,

To which we ever steer; whether as kings
Of wide command, we've spread the spacious sea,
With a broad painted fleet, or row'd along
In a thin cock-boat with a little oar.

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

TO THE MUCH HONOURED

MR. THOMAS ROWE,

THE DIRECTOR OF MY YOUTHFUL STUDIES.
FREE PHILOSOPHY.

CUSTOM, that tyranness of fools,
That leads the learned round the schools,
In magic chains of forms and rules!
My genius storms her throne;
No more, ye slaves, with awe profound
Beat the dull track, nor dance the round;