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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
Acrofs the road a feraph flew,
When kindred minds their God purfue "They break with double vigour through "The dull incumbent air."
Charm'd with the pleafure and furprize,
"Bleft be the power that fprings their flight,
"That turns their love to facrifice,
"And joins their zeal for wings."
To Mr. C. and S. FLEETWOOD.
FLEETWOODS, young generous pair,
Bubbles are light and brittle too,
Try'd by a standard bold and juft
Honour and gold and paint and duft;
Titles and names, and life and breath,
The foul's the only thing we have
The foul! 'tis of th' immortal kind,
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,
There's nothing in her frame kin to the dress she wears a
She ftands eternally diftin&t, and must for ever be.
Rife then, my thoughts, on high,
Soar beyond all that's made to die;
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,
Think of the fands run down to waste,
None but the prefent is our own;
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
Then cold, and winter, and your aged fnow,
The chace of pleasures is not worth the pains,
'Tis but one youth, and fhort, that mortals have,
Thus, Blackbourn, we should leave our names our heirs ; Old time and waning moons fweep all the reft away.
THE rifing year beheld th' imperious Gaul
Stretch his dominion, while a hundred towns
Crouch'd to the victor: but a steady foul
We are a little kingdom; but the man
Forms it a large one, whilft his royal mind
'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
In vain the harlot, pleafure, fpreads her charms,
He lives above the crowd, nor hears the noise Of wars and triumphs, nor regards the fhouts Of popular applaufe, that empty found;