To call them ours; and thoughtless of our ease,
Plague the dear self that we were born to please.
Thou tyranness of minds, whose cruel throne
Heaps on poor mortals sorrows not their own:
As though our mother Nature could no more
Find woes sufficient for each son she bore,
Friendship divides the shares, and lengthens out
Yet are we fond of thy imperious reign, [the store.
Proud of thy slavery, wanton in our pain,
And chide the courteous hand when death dis-
solves the chain.

Virtue, forgive the thought! the raving muse,
Wild and despairing, knows not what she does,
Grows mad in grief, and in her savage hours
Affronts the name she loves and she adores.
She is thy vot'ress too; and at thy shrine,
O sacred Friendship, offer'd songs divine,
While Gunston lived, and both our souls were thin
Here to these shades at solemn hours we came,
To pay devotion with a mutual flame,
Partners in bliss. Sweet luxury of the mind!
And sweet the aids of sense! Each ruder wind
Slept in its caverns, while an evening breeze
Fann'd the leaves gently, sporting through the
trees;

The linnet and the lark their vespers sung,
And clouds of crimson o'er the horizon hung;
The slow-declining sun with sloping wheels
Sunk down the golden day behind the western hills.

Mourn, ye young gardens, ye unfinish'd gates,
Ye green inclosures, and ye growing sweets
Lament, for ye our midnight hours have known,
And watch'd us walking by the silent moon
In conference divine, while heavenly fire
Kindling our breasts did all our thoughts inspire
With joys almost immortal; then our zeal
Blazed and burnt high to reach the ethereal hill,
And love refined, like that above the poles,
Threw both our arms round one another's souls
In rapture and embraces. Oh! forbear;
Forbear, my song! this is toomuch to hear,
Too dreadful to repeat; such joys as these
Fled from the earth for ever!-

[air

Oh for a general grief! let all things share Our woes, that knew our loves: the neighbouring Let it be laden with immortal sighs, And tell the gales, that every breath that flies Over these fields should murmur and complain, And kiss the fading grass, and propagate the pain. Weep all ye buildings, and the groves around For ever weep: this is an endless wound, Vast and incurable. Ye buildings knew His silver tongue, ye groves have heard it too: At that dear sound no more shall ye rejoice, And I no more must hear the charming voice: Wo to my drooping soul! that heavenly breath That could speak life lies now congeal'd in death; While on his folded lips, all cold and pale, Eternal chains and heavy silence dwell.

Yet my fond hope would hear him speak again, Once more at least, one gentle word, and then Gunston aloud I call: in vain I cry Gunston aloud; for he must ne'er reply. In vain I mourn, and drop these funeral tears, Death and the grave have neither eyes nor ears: Wandering I tune my sorrows to the groves, And vent my swelling griefs, and tell the winds our loves;

[not;

While the dear youth sleeps fast, and hears them He hath forgot me: In the lonesome vault Mindless of Watts and friendship, cold he lies, Deaf and unthinking clay.

But whither am I led? This artless grief Hurries the muse on, obstinate and deaf To all the nicer rules, and bears her down From the tall fabric to the neighbouring ground; The pleasing hours, the happy moments pass'd In these sweet fields reviving to my taste Suatch me away resistless with impetuous haste. Spread thy strong pinions once again, my song, And reach the turret thou hast left so long: O'er the wide roof its lofty head it rears, Long waiting our converse: but only hears The noisy tumults of the realms on high; The winds salute it whistling as they fly,

Or jarring round the windows: rattling showers Lash the fair sides; above loud thunder roars;

But still the master sleeps; nor hears the voice
Of sacred friendship, nor the tempest's noise:
An iron slumber sits on every sense, [thence.
In vain the heavenly thunders strive to rouse it

[night

One labour more, my muse, the golden sphere
Seems to demand: See through the dusky air
Downward it shines upon the rising moon;
And, as she labours up to reach her noon,
Pursues her orb with repercussive light,
And streaming gold repays the paler beams of
But not one ray can reach the darksome grave,
Or pierce the solid gloom that fills the cave
Where Gunston dwells in death. Behold it flames
Like some new meteor with diffusive beams
Through the mid-heaven, and overcomes the stars,
"So shines thy Gunston's soul above the spheres."
Raphael replies, and wipes away my tears.
"We saw the flesh sink down with closing eyes,
We heard thy grief shriek out, He dies, he dies.
Mistaken grief! to call the flesh the friend!
On our fair wings did the bright youth ascend,
All heaven embraced him with immortal love,
And sung his welcome to the courts above.
Gentle Ithuriel led him round the skies,
The buildings struck him with immense surprise;
The spires all radiant, and the mansion bright,
The roof high vaulted with ethereal light:
Beauty and strength on the tall bulwarks sate
In heavenly diamond; and for every gate
On golden hinges a broad ruby turns,
Guards off the foe, and as it moves it burns;
Millions of glories reign through every part;
Infinite power, and uncreated art

Stand here display'd, and to the stranger show
How it out-shines the noblest seats below.
The stranger fed his gazing powers a while
Transported: Then with a regardless smile,
Glanced his eye downward through the crystal
floor,

And took eternal leave of what he built before."

Rocks shall have eyes, and stones have ears, While Gouge's death is mourn'd in melody and

tears.

Heaven was impatient of our crimes,
And sent his minister of death
To scourge the bold rebellion of the times,
And to demand our prophet's breath:
He came commission'd for the fates
Of awful Mead, and charming Bates;
There he essay'd the vengeance first,
[to dust.
Then took a dismal aim, and brought great Gouge

Great Gouge to dust! how doleful is the sound!
How vast the stroke is! and how wide the wound!
Oh, painful stroke! distressing death!
A wound immeasurably wide:

No vulgar mortal died

When he resign'd his breath.
The muse that mourns a nation's fall,
Should wait at Gouge's funeral.
Should mingle majesty and groans,
Such as she sings to sinking thrones,
And in deep sounding numbers tell
How Sion trembled, when this pillar fell.
Sion grows weak, and England poor,
Nature herself, with all her store,

Can furnish such a pomp for death no more.

The reverend man let all things mourn;
Sure he was some ethereal mind,
Fated in flesh to be confined,

And order'd to be born.

His soul was of th' angelic frame,
The same ingredients, and the mould the same,
When the Creator makes a minister of flame,
He was all form'd of heavenly things,
Mortals, believe what my Urania sings,
For she has seen him rise upon his flamy wings.

How would he mount, how would he fly,
Up through the ocean of the sky,

Toward the celestial coast!

With what amazing swiftness soar,

Till earth's dark ball was seen no more,

And all its mountains lost!

Scarce could the muse pursue him with her sight:

But, angels, you can tell,

For oft you met his wondrous flight, And knew the stranger well;

Say, how he pass'd the radiant spheres And visited your happy seats,

[streets,

And traced the well-known turnings of the golden And walk'd among the stars.

[wheels

Tell how he climb'd the everlasting hills,
Surveying all the realms above,
Borne on a strong-wing'd faith, and on 'the fiery

Of an immortal love.

'Twas there he took a glorious sight

Of the inheritance of saints in light,

And read their title in their Saviour's right.
How oft the humble scholar came,

And to your songs he raised his ears

To learn th' unutterable name,
To view th' eternal, base that bears
The new creation's frame.

The countenance of God he saw,
Full of mercy; full of awe,

The glories of his power, and glories of his grace:
There he beheld the wondrous springs,

Of those celestial sacred things,

The peaceful gospel and the fiery law

In that majestic face.

That face did all his gazing powers employ,

With most profound abasement and exalted joy. The rolls of fate were half unseal'd,

He stood adoring by;

The volumes open'd to his eye,

And sweet intelligence he held

With all his shining kindred of the sky.

Ye seraphs that surround the throne,

Tell how his name was through the palace known,
How warm his zeal was, and how like your own;
Speak it aloud, let half the nation hear,
And bold blasphemers shrink and fear:
Impudent tongues! to blast a prophet's name!

The poison sure was fetch'd from hell,
Where the old blasphemers dwell,

To taint the purest dust, and blot the whitest fame
Impudent tongues! You should be darted through,
Nail'd to your own black mouths, and lie
Useless and dead till Slander die,
Till Slander die with you.

"We saw him," say the ethereal throng,
"We saw his warm devotions rise,
We heard the fervour of his cries,
And mix'd his praises with our song:
We knew the secret flights of his refiring hours,
Nightly he waked his inward powers,
Young Israel rose to wrestle with his God, [towers
And with unconquer'd force scal'd the celestial
To reach the blessing down for those that sought his
Oft we beheld the thunderer's hand
Raised high to crush the factious foe;
As oft we saw the rolling vengeance stand
Doubtful t' obey the dread command,
While his ascending prayer upheld the falling

Draw the past scenes of thy delight,

[blood.

[blow."

My muse, and bring the wondrous man to sight.
Place him surrounded as he stood

With pious crowds, while from his tongue

A stream of harmony ran soft along,

And every ear drank in the flowing good:

Softly it ran its silver way,

Till warm devotion raised the current strong:
Then fervid zeal on the sweet deluge rode,

Life, love and glory, grace and joy,

Divinely roll'd promiscuous on the torrent-flood, And bore our raptured sense away, and thoughts and souls to God.

O might we dwell for ever there!
No more return to breathe this grosser air,
This atmosphere of sin, calamity, and care.

But heavenly scenes soon leave the sight
While we belong to clay,
Passions of terror and delight!
Demand alternate sway.

Behold the man whose awful voice
Could well proclaim the fiery law,
Kindle the flames that Moses saw,
And swell the trumpet's warlike noise.

He stands the herald of the threatening skies,
Lo, on his reverend brow the frowns divinely rise,
All Sinai's thunder on his tongue, and lightning in
Round the high roof the curses flew
[his eyes.
Distinguishing each guilty head,

Far from th' unequal war the Atheist fled,
His kindled arrows still pursue,

His arrows strike the Atheist through, [spread. And o'er his inmost powers a shuddering horror The marble heart groans with an inward wound: Blaspheming souls of harden'd steel

Shriek out amazed at the new pangs they feel,
And dread the echoes of the sound.
The lofty wretch arm'd and array'd

In gaudy pride sinks down his impious head,
Plunges in dark despair, and mingles with the dead.

Now, muse, assume a softer strain, Now soothe the sinner's raging smart, Borrow of Gouge the wondrous art

[pain;

To calm the surging conscience, and assuage the He from a bleeding God derives

Life for the souls that guilt had slain, And straight the dying rebel lives,

The dead arise again;

The opening skies almost obey

His powerful song; a heavenly ray

Awakes despair to light, and sheds a cheerful day. His wondrous voice rolls back the spheres,

Recalls the scenes of ancient years,

To make the Saviour known;

Sweetly the flying charmer roves
Through all his labours and his loves,

The anguish of his cross, and triumphs of his

throne.

Come, he invites our feet to try
The steep ascent of Calvary,

And sets the fatal tree before our eye:

See, here celestial sorrow reigns; Rude nails and ragged thorns lie by, Tinged with the crimson of redeeming veins.

did not escape censure.

Where all our sins were drown'd,

Gouge was his envoy to the realms below, Vast was his trust, and great his skill, Bright the credentials he could show,

And thousands own'd the seal. His hallowed lips could well impart The grace, the promise, and command: He knew the pity of Immanuel's heart, And terrors of Jehovah's hand. How did our souls start out to hear The embassies of love he bare, While every ear in rapture hung Upon the charming wonders of his tongue! Life's busy cares a sacred silence bound, Attention stood with all her powers, With fixed eyes and awe profound, Chain'd to the pleasure of the sound, Nor knew the flying hours.

But, O my everlasting grief!

Heaven has recall'd his envoy from our eyes, Hence deluges of sorrow rise,

Nor hope th' impossible relief.

Ye remnants of the sacred tribe,

Who feel the loss, come share the smart,

And mix your groans with mine:

Where is the tongue that can describe
Infinite things with equal art,

Or language so divine?

Our passions want the heavenly flame.
Almighty love breathes faintly in our songs.
And awful threatenings languish on our tongues;
Howe is a great but single name:

Amidst the crowd he stands alone;
Stands yet, but with his starry pinions on,
Dress'd for the flight, and ready to be gone.
Eternal God, command his stay,
Stretch the dear months of his delay;

O we could wish his age were one immortal day'
But when the flaming chariots come,

And shining guards, t' attend the prophet home,
Amidst a thousand weeping eyes,
Send an Elisha down, a soul of equal size,
Or burn this worthless globe, and take us to the

[skies.