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Nor feels the flying arrows of reproach,

Or fpite or envy. In himself fecure,

Wisdom his tower, and confcience is his fhield,
His peace all inward, and his joys his own.



ambition fwells, my wifhes foar,
This be my kingdom: fit above the globe
My rifing foul, and drefs thyfelf around
And fhine in virtue's armour, climb the height
Of wifdom's lofty caftle, there refide

Safe from the fmiling and the frowning world.

Yet once a day drop down a gentle look
On the great mole-hill, and with pitying eye
Survey the bufy emmets round the heap,
Crouding and bustling in a thousand forms
Of ftrife and toil, to purchafe wealth and fame,
A bubble or a duft: Then call thy thoughts
Up to thyself to feed on joys unknown,
Rich without gold, and great without renown.


HONOUR demands my fong. Forget the ground,
My generous Mufe, and fit amongst the stars!
There fing the foul, that, confcious of her birth,
Lives like a native of the vital world,

Amongst thefe dying clods, and bears her state-
Juft to herself: how nobly the maintains

Her character, fuperior to the flesh,

She wields her paffions like her limbs, and knows
The brutal powers were only boin t' obey.

This is the man whom ftorms could never make Meanly complain; nor can a flattering gale Make him talk proudly: he hath no defire To read his fecret fate: yet unconcern'd And calm could meet his unborn destiny, In all its charming, or its frightful shapes.

He that unfhrinking, and without a groan, Bears the first wound, may finish all the war With meer courageous filence, and come off Conqueror for the man that well conceals The heavy ftrokes of fate, he bears them well.

He, though th' Atlantic and the Midland feas
With adverfe furges meet, and rife on high
Sufpended 'twixt the winds, then rush amain
Mingled with flames, upon his fingle head,
And clouds, and stars, and thunder, firm he stands,
Secure of his beft life; unhurt, unmov'd;
And drops his lower nature, born for death.
Then from the lofty caftle of his mind
Sublime looks down, exulting, and furveys
The ruins of creation (Souls alone

Are heirs of dying worlds); a piercing glance
Shoots upwards from between his closing lids,
To reach his birth-place, and without a figh
He bids his batter'd flesh lie gently down
Amongst his native rubbish; whilft the fpirit
Breathes and flies upward, an undoubted guest
Of the third heaven, th' unruinable sky.


Thither, when fate has brought our willing fouls, No matter whether 'twas a fharp disease,

Or a fharp fword that help'd the travellers on,
And push'd us to our home. Bear up, my friend,`
Serenely, and break through the ftormy brine
With steady prow; know, we shall once arrive
At the fair haven of eternal blifs.

To which we ever fteer; whether as kings
Of wide command we 've spread the spacious fea
With a broad painted fleet, or row'd along
In a thin cock-boat with a little oar.

There let my native plank shift me to land
And I'll be happy: Thus I'll leap afhore
Joyful and fearless on th' immortal coaft,
Since all I leave is mortal, and it must be loft.

To the much honoured Mr. THOMAS ROWE, the Director of my youthful Studies.


USTOM, that tyrannefs of fools,


That leads the learned round the fchools,

In magic chains of forms and rules!
My genius forms her throne:

No more, ye flaves, with awe profound
Beat the dull track, nor dance the round;
Loose hands, and quit th' inchanted ground:
Knowledge invites us each alone.

I hate these fhackles of the mind

Forg'd by the haughty wife;

Souls were not born to be confin'd,

And led, like Samfon, blind and bound;
But when his native ftrength he found
He well aveng'd his eyes.

I love thy gentle influence, Rowe,
Thy gentle influence, like the fun,
Only diffolves the frozen fnow,

Then bids our thoughts like rivers flow,
And chufe the channels where they run.

Thoughts fhould be free as fire or wind;
The pinions of a single mind

Will through all nature fly :
But who can drag up to the poles
Long fetter'd ranks of leaden fouls?
A genius which no chain controuls
Roves with delight, or deep, or high:
Swift I furvey the globe around,

Dive to the centre through the folid ground,
Or travel o'er the sky.

To the Reverend Mr. BENONI ROWE.



OWE, if we make the crowd our guide
Through life's uncertain road,

Mean is the chase; and wandering wide

We mifs th' immortal good;


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Yet if my thoughts could be confin'd
To follow any leader-mind,

I'd mark thy fteps, and tread the fame :
Dreft in thy notions I'd appear

Not like a foul of mortal frame,
Nor with a vulgar air.

Men live at random and by chance,
Bright reafon never leads the dance;
Whilft in the broad and beaten way
O'er dales and hills from truth we ftray,
To ruin we defcend, to ruin we advance.
Wisdom retires; the hates the crowd.
And with a decent fcorn

Aloof the climbs her steepy feat,
Where nor the grave nor giddy feet,
Of the learn'd vulgar or the rude,
Have e'er a paffage worn.

Meer hazard first began the track,
Where cuftom leads her thousands blind

In willing chains and strong;
There's scarce one bold, one noble mind,
Dares tread the fatal error back;

But hand in hand ourselves we bind,

And drag the age along.

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