VI.

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 thro'
"The dull incumbent air."

Charm'd with the pleasure and surprize
My soul adore and sings,

"Blest be the Pow'r that springs their flight
"That streaks their path with heavenly light,
"That turns their love to sacrifice,

22

"And joins their zeal for wings."

To MR. C. & S. FLEETWOOD.

I.

LEETWOODS, young and generous pair,
Despise the joys that fools pursue;

Bubbles are light and brittle too,

Born of the water and the air.

Try'd 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..

II.

[behind.

The soul! 'tis of the immortal kind, Nor form'd of fire, or earth, or wind, Out-lives the mould'ring corps, and leaves the globe

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,

[wears

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

From all the laws of matter free,

From all we feel, and all we see,

She stands eternally distinct, and must forever be.

III.

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 periods on
Swift the approach, and solemu is the day,

When this immortal mind

Stript of the body's coarse array
To endless pain, or endless joy,
Must be at once consign'd.

IV.

Think of the sands run down to waste,
We possess none of all the past,
None but the present is our own;
Grace is not plac'd within our power,
"Tis but one short, one shining hour,
Bright and declining as a setting sun,
See the white minutes wing'd with haste;
The Now that flies may be the last;
Seize the salvation ere 'tis past,

Nor mourn the blessing gone:
A thought's delay is ruin here,
A closing eye, a gasping breath
Shuts up the golden scene in death,
And drowns you in despair.

To WILLIAM BLACKBOURN, Esq.

Casimir, Lib. II. Od. 2. Imitated..

Que tegit canas modo Bruma valles, &c.

I.

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 appear.

II.

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.

III.

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 grey

IV.

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.

V.

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

VI.

The man that has his country's sacred tears
Bedewing his cold hearse, has liv'd his day:

Thys Blackbourn, we should leave our names our

heirs ;

Old time and waning moons sweep all the rest away.

True Monarchy.

1701.

HE rising year beheld th? imperious Gaul Stretch his dominion, 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 sov❜reign 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 his own statutes, and with joy obeys.

'Tis not a troop of well appointed guards Create a monarch, nor a purple robe

Dy'd in the people's blood, not all the crowns
Or dazzling tiars that bend about the head,
Tho' 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 num'rous 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 softnefs) 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, Wisdom 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 Virtues 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 thy thoughts Up to thyself to feed on joys unknown, Rich without gold, and great without renown.