You wrest the bolt from Heaven's avenging hand; Stop ready Death, and save a sinking land.
O! save us still: still bless us with thy stay: O! want thy heav'n, till we have learnt the way: Refuse to leave thy destin'd charge too soon: And for the church's good, defer thy own. O! live; and let thy works urge our belief; Live to explain thy doctrine by thy life; Till future infancy, baptiz'd by thee, Grow ripe in years, and old in piety; Till Christians, yet unborn, be taught to die. Then in full age, and hoary holiness, Retire, great teacher, to thy promis'd bliss: Untouch'd thy tomb, uninjur'd be thy dust, As thy own fame among the future just; Till in last sounds the dreadful trumpet speaks; Till Judgment calls; and quicken'd Nature wakes: Till through the utmost earth, and deepest sea, Our scatter'd atoms find their destin'd way, In haste to clothe their kindred souls again, Perfect our state, and build immortal man: Then fearless thou, who well sustain'dst the fight, To paths of joy, or tracts of endless light, Lead up all those who heard thee, and believ'd; 'Midst thy own flock, great shepherd, be receiv'd; And glad all heav'n with millions thou hast sav'd.
DEAR Thomas, didst thou never pop
Thy head into a tinman's shop?
There, Thomas, didst thou never see
('Tis but by way of simile)
A squirrel spend his little rage
In jumping round a rolling cage?
The cage, as either side turn'd up,
Striking a ring of bells a-top.
Mov'd in the orb, pleas'd with the chimes,
The foolish creature thinks he climbs:
But here or there, turn wood or wire,
He never gets two inches higher.
So fares it with those merry blades,
That frisk it under Pindus' shades.
In noble songs, and lofty odes,
They tread on stars, and talk with gods;
Still dancing in an airy round,
Still pleas'd with their own verses' sound;
Brought back, how fast soe'er they go,
Always aspiring, always low.
To John I owed great obligation;
But John unhappily thought fit
To publish it to all the nation :
Sure John and I are more than quit.
YES, every poet is a fool:
By demonstration Ned can show it.
Happy, could Ned's inverted rule
Prove every fool to be a poet.
THY nags, the leanest things alive,
So very hard thou lov'st to drive,
I heard thy anxious coachman say,
It costs thee more in whips, than hay.
HENRY AND EMMA, A POEM, UPON THE MODEL OF THE NUT-BROWN MAID.*
THOU, to whose eyes I bend, at whose command
(Though low my voice, though artless be my hand)
I take the sprightly reed, and sing, and play,
Careless of what the cens'ring world may say;
Bright Chloe, object of my constant vow,
Wilt thou awhile unbend thy serious brow?
Wilt thou with pleasure hear thy lover's strains,
And with one heav'nly smile o'erpay his pains?
No longer shall the Nut-brown Maid be old,
Though since her youth three hundred years have roll'd;
At thy desire she shall again be rais'd,
And her reviving charms in lasting verse be prais'd.
No longer man of woman shall complain,
That he may love, and not be lov'd again:
* An ancient English poem.
That we in vain the fickle sex pursue,
Who change the constant lover for the new;
Whatever has been writ, whatever said,
Of female passion feign'd, or faith decay'd,
Henceforth shall in my verse refuted stand,
Be said to winds, or writ upon the sand.
And while my notes to future times proclaim
Unconquer'd love, and ever-during flame;
O fairest of the sex! be thou my muse;
Deign on my work thy influence to diffuse;
Let me partake the blessings I rehearse;
And grant me, Love, the just reward of verse.
As beauty's potent queen, with ev'ry grace
That once was Emma's, has adorn'd thy face,
And as her son has to my bosom dealt
That constant flame, which faithful Henry felt,
O let the story with thy life agree;
Let men once more the bright example see;
What Emma was to him, be thou to me.
Nor send me by thy frown from her I love,
Distant and sad, a banish'd man to rove.
But oh! with pity, long entreated, crown
My pains and hopes; and when thou say'st that one
Of all mankind thou lov'st, oh! think on me alone.
Where beauteous Isis and her husband Thame
With mingled waves for ever flow the same,
In times of yore an ancient baron liv'd;
Great gifts bestow'd, and great respect receiv'd.
When dreadful Edward with successful care
Led his free Britons to the Gallic war,
This lord had headed his appointed bands,
In firm allegiance to his king's commands;
And (all due honours faithfully discharg'd)
Had brought back his paternal coat enlarg'd
With a new mark, the witness of his toil,
And no inglorious part of foreign spoil.
From the loud camp retir'd, and noisy court, In honourable ease and rural sport,
The remnant of his days he safely pass'd;
Nor found they lagg'd too slow, nor flew too fast;
He made his wish with his estate comply,
Joyful to live, yet not afraid to die.
One child he had, a daughter chaste and fair,
His age's comfort, and his fortune's heir.
They called her Emma; for the beauteous dame
Who gave the virgin birth, had borne the name,
The name th' indulgent father doubly lov'd;
For in the child the mother's charms improv'd.
Yet as, when little, round his knees she play'd,
He call'd her oft, in sport, his Nut-brown Maid,
The friends and tenants took the fondling word,
As still they please, who imitate their lord:
Usage confirm'd what fancy had begun:
The mutual terms around the lands were known;
And Emma and the Nut-brown Maid were one.
As, with her stature, still her charms increas'd,
Through all the isle her beauty was confess'd.
Oh! what perfections must that virgin share,
Who fairest is esteem'd, where all are fair?
From distant shires repair the noble youth,
And find report, for once, had lessen'd truth.
By wonder first, and then by passion mov'd,
They came, they saw, they marvell'd, and they lov'd.
By public praises, and by secret sighs,
Each own'd the gen'ral pow'r of Emma's eyes.
In tilts and tournaments the valiant strove
By glorious deeds to purchase Emma's love.
In gentle verse the witty told their flame,
And grac'd their choicest songs with Emma's name.
In vain they combated, in vain they writ:
Useless their strength, and impotent their wit.
Great Venus only must direct the dart,
Which else will never reach the fair one's heart,
Spite of th' attempts of force, and soft effects of art.
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