But narrow minds ftill make pretence
To fearch the coafts of flesh and fenfe,
And fetch diviner pleasures thence.
Men are akin to ethereal forms,
But they belye their nobler birth,
Debafe their honour down to earth,

And claim a fhare with worms.

He that has treasures of his own
May leave the cottage or the throne,
May quit the globe, and dwell alone
Within his fpacious mind.

Locke hath a foul wide as the fea,
Calm as the night, bright as the day,
There may his vaft ideas play,

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

AN

June, 1704.

(Now his rich thoughts are juft refin'd)
Forfake our longing eyes?

Reafon at length fubmits to wear

The wings of Faith; and lo, they rear
Her chariot high, and nobly bear

Her prophet to the skies.

Go,

Go, friend, and wait the prophet's flight,
Watch if his mantle chance to light,
And feize it for thy own;

Shute is the darling of his years,
Young Shute his better likeness bears;
All but his wrinkles and his hairs
Are copy'd in his fon.

Thus when our follies, or our faults,
Call for the pity of thy thoughts,
Thy pen fhall make us wife:

The fallies of whofe youthful wit
Could pierce the British fogs with light,

Place our true * Intereft in our fight,
And open half our eyes.

To Mr. WILLIAM

NOKES

FRIENDSHIP.

17023

F

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
Of pleasure and of pain;

In love the comforts and the cares
Are mix'd and join'd again.

But

* The Interest of England, written by Mr. Shute,

But whilft in floods our forrow rolls,
And drops of joy are few,

This dear delight of mingling fouls
Serves but to fwell our woe.

Oh! why should blifs depart in hafte,
And friendship stay to moan?
Why the fond paffion cling fo faft,
When every joy is gone?

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,

'TIS

IS not by fplendour, or by ftate,
Exalted mein, or lofty gait,

My Mufe takes measures of a king:
If wealth, or height, or bulk will do,
She calls each mountain of Peru

A more majestic thing.

Frown on me, friend, if e'er I boast
O'er fellow-minds enflav'd in clay,
Or fwell when I shall have engrost
A larger heap of fhining duft,

And wear a bigger load of earth than they.

1704.

Let

Let the vain world falute me loud,

My thoughts look inward, and forget
The founding names of High and Great,
The flatteries of the crowd.

When Gould commands his fhips to run
And fearch the traffic of the fea,
His fleet o'ertakes the falling day,
And bears the western mines away,
Or richer fp ces from the rifing fun :
While the glad tenants of the fhore
Shout, and pronounce him fenator

Yet ftill the man's the fame :
For well the happy merchant knows
The foul with treafure never grows,
Nor fwells with airy fame.

But trust me, Gould, 'tis lawful pride
To rife above the mean control

Of flesh and fenfe, to which we 're ty'd;
This is ambition that becomes a foul.

We fteer our courfe up through the skies

Farewell this barren land :

We ken the heavenly shore with longing eyes,
There the dear wealth of fpirits lies,

And beckoning angels stand.

* Member of parliament for a port in Suffex.

To

To Dr. THOMAS GIBSON.

The Life of Souls.

WIFT as the fun revolves the day

SW

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
The babe to manly fize, we muft
With ufury pay the grave.

Rich juleps drawn from precious ore
Still tend the dying flame:

And plants, and roots, of barbarous name,

Torn from the Indian fhore.

Thus we fupport our tottering flesh,

Our cheeks refume the rofe afresh,
When bark and steel play well their game

To fave our finking breath,

And Gibfon, with his awful power,

Refcues the poor precarious hour

From the demands of death.

1704

But