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TO THE

REV. MR. JOHN HOWE.

1704.

GREAT man, permit the Muse to climb

And seat her at thy feet,

Bid her attempt a thought sublime,
And consecrate her wit.

1 feel, I feel the' attractive force
Of thy superior soul:

My chariot flies her upward course,
The wheels divinely roll.

Now let me chide the mean affairs
And mighty toil of men:

How they grow grey in trifling cares,
Or waste the motions of the spheres
Upon delights as vain!

A puff of honour fills the mind,

And yellow dust is solid good; Thus like the ass of savage kind, We snuff the breezes of the wind, Or steal the serpent's food. Could all the choirs

That charm the poles,

But strike one doleful sound;
"Twould be employ'd to mourn our souls,
Souls that were fram'd of sprightly fires,
In floods of folly drown'd.

Souls made of glory, seek a brutal joy;

How they disclaim their heavenly birth,

Melt their bright substance down with drossy earth, And hate to be refin'd from that impure alloy.

Oft has thy genius rous'd us hence
With elevated song,

Bid us renounce this world of sense,
Bid us divide the' immortal prize

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With the seraphic throng;

Knowledge and love make spirits bless'd, Knowledge their food, and love their rest ;' But flesh, the unmanageable beast,

Resists the pity of thine eyes,

And music of thy tongue.

Then let the worms of grovelling mind,
Round the short joys of earthly kind
In restless windings roam;

Howe hath an ample orb of soul,

Where shining worlds of knowledge roll,
Where love, the centre and the pole,
Completes the heaven at home.

THE

DISAPPOINTMENT AND RELIEF.

VIRTUE, permit my Fancy to impose
Upon my better pow'rs:

She casts sweet fallacies on half our woes,
And gilds the gloomy hours.

How could we bear this tedious round
Of waning moons, and rolling years,
Of flaming hopes and chilling fears,
If (where no sovereign cure appears)
No opiates could be found.

Love, the most cordial stream that flows,
Is a deceitful good:

Young Doris, who nor guilt nor danger knows,
On the green margin stood,

Pleas'd with the golden bubbles as they rose,

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And with more golden sands her fancy pav'd the
Then fond to be entirely bless'd,
And tempted by a faithless youth,
As void of goodness as of truth,
She plunges in with heedless haste,
And rears the nether mud:
Darkness and nauseous dregs arise

O'er thy fair current, love, with large supplies
Of pain, to tease the heart, and sorrow for the eyes.
The golden bliss that charm'd her sight

Is dash'd, and drown'd, and lost:
A spark, or glimmering streak at most,
Shines here and there, amidst the night,
Amidst the turbid waves, and gives a faint delight.

Recover'd from the sad surprise,
Doris awakes at last,

Grown by the disappointment wise;
And manages with art the' unlucky cast:
When the lowering frown she spies

On her haughty tyrant's brow,

With humble love she meets his wrathful eyes,
And makes her sovereign beauty bow:
Cheerful she smiles upon his grizly form;
So shines the setting sun on adverse skies,
And paints a rainbow on the storm.
Anon, she lets the sullen humour spend,
And with a virtuous book, or friend,
Beguiles the' uneasy hours:
Well-colouring every cross she meets,
With heart serene she sleeps and eats,
She spreads her board with fancied sweets,
And strews her bed with flowers.

THE

HERO'S SCHOOL OF MORALITY.

THERON, amongst his travels, found
A broken statue on the ground;
And searching onward as he went
He trac'd a ruin'd monument.
Mould, moss, and shades, had overgrown
The sculpture of the crumbling stone,
Yet e'er he pass'd, with much ado,

He guess'd, and spell'd out Sci-pio.

6

Enough,' he cried. 'I'll drudge no more

In turning the dull stoics o'er;

Let pedants waste their hours of ease,

To sweat all night at Socrates;

And feed their boys with notes and rules,
Those tedious recipes of schools,
To cure ambition: I can learn
With greater ease the great concern
Of mortals; how we may despise
All the gay things below the skies.
• Methinks a mouldering pyramid
Says all that the old sages said;
For me these shatter'd tombs contain
More morals than the Vatican.
The dust of heroes cast abroad,

And kick'd and trampled in the road,
The relics of a lofty mind,

That lately wars and crowns design'd,
Tost for a jest from wind to wind,
Bid me be humble; and forbear
Tall monuments of fame to rear,
They are but castles in the air.

The towering heights, and frightful falls,
The ruin'd heaps, and funerals,
Of smoking kingdoms and their kings,
Tell me a thousand mournful things
In melancholy silence..........

That living could not bear to see

.............He

An equal, now lies torn and dead;
Here his pale trunk, and there his head:
Great Pompey! while I meditate,

With solemn horror, thy sad fate,
Thy carcass scatter'd on the shore
Without a name, instructs me more
Than my whole library before.

'Lie still, my Plutarch, then, and sleep;

And my good Seneca may keep
Your volumes clos'd for ever too;
I have no further use for you:
For when I feel my virtue fail,
And my ambitious thoughts prevail,
I'll take a turn among the tombs,
And see whereto all glory comes :
There the vile foot of every clown
Tramples the sons of honour down;
Beggars with awful ashes sport.
And tread the Cæsars in the dirt.'

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