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But narrow minds ftill make pretence
And claim a fhare with worms.
He that has treasures of his own
Locke hath a foul wide as the fea,
Nor feel a thought confin'd.
To JOHN SHUTE, Efq; (afterwards Lord BARRINGTON.)
On Mr. LOCKE's dangerous Sickness, fome time after he had retired to ftudy the Scriptures.
ND must the man of wondrous mind
(Now his rich thoughts are juft refin'd)
Reafon at length fubmits to wear
The wings of Faith; and lo, they rear
Her prophet to the skies.
Go, friend, and wait the prophet's flight,
Shute is the darling of his years,
Thus when our follies, or our faults,
The fallies of whofe youthful wit
Place our true * Intereft in our fight,
To Mr. WILLIAM
RIENDSHIP, thou charmer of the mind,
Thou sweet deluding ill,
The brigheft minute mortals find,
And sharpest hour we feel.
Fate has divided all our fhares
In love the comforts and the cares
* The Interest of England, written by Mr. Shute,
But whilft in floods our forrow rolls,
This dear delight of mingling fouls
Oh! why should blifs depart in hafte,
Yet never let our hearts divide,
Nor death diffolve the chain:
For love and joy were once ally'd,
And must be join'd again..
To NATHANAEL GOULD, Efq; afterwards Sir NATHANAEL GOULD,
IS not by fplendour, or by ftate,
My Mufe takes measures of a king:
A more majestic thing.
Frown on me, friend, if e'er I boast
And wear a bigger load of earth than they.
Let the vain world falute me loud,
My thoughts look inward, and forget
When Gould commands his fhips to run
Yet ftill the man's the fame :
But trust me, Gould, 'tis lawful pride
Of flesh and fenfe, to which we 're ty'd;
We fteer our courfe up through the skies
Farewell this barren land :
We ken the heavenly shore with longing eyes,
And beckoning angels stand.
* Member of parliament for a port in Suffex.
To Dr. THOMAS GIBSON.
The Life of Souls.
WIFT as the fun revolves the day
We haften to the dead,
Slaves to the wind we puff away,
And to the ground we tread.
'Tis air that lends us life, when firft
The vital bellows heave:
Our flesh we borrow of the duft;
And when a mother's care has nurt
Rich juleps drawn from precious ore
And plants, and roots, of barbarous name,
Torn from the Indian fhore.
Thus we fupport our tottering flesh,
Our cheeks refume the rofe afresh,
To fave our finking breath,
And Gibfon, with his awful power,
Refcues the poor precarious hour
From the demands of death.