On heaven, their home, they fix their eyes,

The temple of their God:

With morning incenfe up they rife

Sublime, and through the lower skies
Spread the perfumes abroad.

Acrofs the road a feraph flew,
"Mark, (faid he) that happy pair,
"Marriage helps devotion there :

When kindred minds their God purfue "They break with double vigour through "The dull incumbent air."

Charm'd with the pleafure and furprize,
My foul adores and fings,

"Bleft be the power that fprings their flight,
"That freaks their path with heavenly light,

"That turns their love to facrifice,

"And joins their zeal for wings."

To Mr. C. and S. FLEETWOOD.

FLEETWOODS, young generous pair,
Defpife the joys that fools purfue;

Bubbles are light and brittle too,
Born of the water and the air.

Try'd by a standard bold and juft

Honour and gold and paint and duft;
How vile the laft is, and as vain the first!
Things that the crowd call great and brave,
With me how low their value 's brought!

C

M

Titles and names, and life and breath,
Slaves to the wind and born for death;

The foul's the only thing we have
Worth an important thought.

The foul! 'tis of th' immortal kind,
Nor form'd of fire, or earth, or wind,

[behind.

Out-lives the mouldering corpfe, and leaves the globe In limbs of clay though the appears,

Array'd in rofy skin, and deck'd with ears and eyes,
The flesh is but the foul's difguife,

There's nothing in her frame kin to the dress she wears a
From all the laws of matter free,
From all we feel, and all we fee,

She ftands eternally diftin&t, and must for ever be.

Rife 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 fouls,

Whirling the planets round the poles,

Winds off our threads of life, and brings our periods on. Swift the approach, and folemn is the day,

When this immortal mind

Stript of the body's coarse array

To endless pain, or endless joy,
Must be at once confign'd.

Think of the fands run down to waste,
We poffefs none of all the past,

None

None but the prefent is our own;
Grace is not plac'd within our power,
'Tis but one fhort, one shining hour,
Bright and declining as a fetting fun.
See the white minutes wing'd with hafte;
The Now that flies may be the last
Seize the falvation e'er 'tis paft,
Nor mourn the bleffing gone :
A thought's delay is ruin here,
A clofing eye, a gafping breath,
Shuts up the golden fcene in death,
And drowns you in despair.

To WILLIAM BLACKBOURN, Efq; CASIMIR. Lib. II. Od. 2. imitated.

"Quæ tegit canas modo Bruma valles, &c."

how it fnows! how fast the valley fills!

And the fweet groves the hoary garment wear; Yet the warm fun-beams bounding from the hills Shall melt the vail away, and the young green appear.

But when old age has on your temples fhed

Her filver-froft, there's no returning fun;

Swift flies our autumn, fwift our fummer 's fled,

When youth, and love, and fpring, and golden joys are

gone.

Then

Then cold, and winter, and your aged fnow,
Stick faft upon you; not the rich array,
Not the green garland, nor the rofy bough,
Shall cancel or conceal the melancholy grey.

The chace of pleasures is not worth the pains,
While the bright fands of health run wafting down ;
And honour calls you from the fofter fcenes,
To fell the gaudy hour for ages of renown.

'Tis but one youth, and fhort, that mortals have,
And one old age diffolves our feeble frame;
But there's a heavenly art t' elude the grave,
And with the hero-race immortal kindred claim.
The man that has his country's facred tears
Bedewing his cold hearfe, has liv'd his day:

Thus, Blackbourn, we should leave our names our heirs ; Old time and waning moons fweep all the reft away.

TRUE MONARCHY.

THE rifing year beheld th' imperious Gaul

1701

Stretch his dominion, while a hundred towns

Crouch'd to the victor: but a steady foul
Stands firm on its own bafe, and reigns as wide,
As abfolute; and fways ten thousand flaves,
Lufts and wild fancies with a fovereign hand.

We are a little kingdom; but the man
That chains his rebel will to reafon's throne,

Forms

Forms it a large one, whilft his royal mind
Makes heaven its council, from the rolls above
Draws its own ftatutes, and with joy obeys.

'Tis not a troop of well-appointed guards Create a monarch, not a purple robe

Dy'd in the people's blood, not all the crowns
Or dazzling tiars that bend about the head,
Though gilt with, fun-beams and fet 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 flumbers, and fecure his dreams.
Now dawns the light; he ranges all his thoughts
In fquare battalions, bold to meet th' attacks
Of time and chance, himself a numerous hoft,
All eye, all ear, all wakeful as the day,
Firm as a rock, and movelefs as the centre.

In vain the harlot, pleafure, fpreads her charms,
To lull his thoughts in luxury's fair lap,
To fenfual eafe (the bane of little kings,
Monarchs whofe waxen images of fouls
Are moulded into softness); still his mind
Wears its own fhape, nor can the heavenly form
Stoop to be model'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 fhouts Of popular applaufe, that empty found;

Nor