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Why to its caverns should it sometimes creep, Then down with all thy boasted volumes, daung And with delighted silence sleep
Only rest rve the sacred one: On the lov'd bosom of its parent Deep?
Low, reverently low, Why should its numerous waters stay
Make thy stubborn knowledge bow; In coinely discipline, and fair array,
Weep out thy reason's and thy body's eyes ; Till winds and tides exert their high command ! Deject thyself, that thou may'st rise; Then prompt and ready to obey,
To look to Heaven, be blind to all below. Why do the rising surges spread Their opening ranks o'er Earth's submissive head, Then Faith, for Reason's glimmering light, shall
Her immortal perspective; Marching through different paths to different lands?
And Grace's presence Nature's loss retrieve: Why does the constant Sun,
Th n thy enliven'd soul shall see, With measur'd steps, his radiant journies run? That all the volumes of Philosophy, Why does he order the diurnal hours
With all their comments, never could invent To leave Earth's other part, and rise in ours? So politic an instrument, Why does he wake the correspondent Moon, To reach the Heaven of heavens, the high abode And fill her willing lamp with liquid light,
Where Moses places his mysterious God, Commanding her with delegated powers
As was the ladder which old Jacob rear’d, To beautify the world, and bless the night? When light divine had human darkness clear'd ; Why does each animated star
And his enlarg'd ideas found the road, Love the just limits of its proper sphere?
Wbich Faith had dictated, and angels trodo
With prudent harmony combine
PART OF THE LXXXVIITH PS.ILY. These unfathom'd wonders try :
A college EXERCISE, 1690.
Heavy, O Lord, on me thy judgments lic,
O'erwhelm'd in darkness and despair I groan; Lord of his new hypothesis he reigns.
And every place is hell; for God is gone. He reigns : how long? till some usurper rise ; O! Lord, and let thy beam control
And he too, mighty thoughtful, mighty wise, Those borrid clouds, that press my frighted soul e Studies new lines, and other circles feigns.
Save the poor wanderer from eternal night,
Just as much, perhaps, as shows
Downward I hasten to my destin'd place;
There none obtain thy aid, or sing thy praise. Were empty cant, all jargon of the schools; That he on t'other's ruin rears his throne ;
Soon I shall lie in Death's deep ocean drown'd: And shows his friend's mistake, and thence con
Is mercy there, or sweet forgiveness found? firms his own.
O save me yet, whilst on the brink I stand ;
Rebuke the storm, and waft my soul to laudo On earth, in air, amidst the seas and skies, O let her rest beneath thy wing secure, Mountainous heaps of wonders rise,
Thou that art the God of Power.
Behold the prodigal! to thee I come,
To hail my father, and to seek my home.
Nor refuge could I find, nor friend abroad, And, levelling at God his wandering guess,
Straying in vice, and destitute of God. (That feeble engine of his reasoning war, (spair)
O let thy terrours, and my anguish end! Which guides his doubts, and combats his de
Be thou my refuge and be thou my friend :
Receive the son thou didst so long reprove,
Thou that art the God of Love.
move and live.
REV. DR. F. TURVER, BISHOP OF ELY, Might to a world extend each atom there ; [star. For every drop call forth a sea, a heaven for every
Let cunning Farth her fruitful wonders hide ; It poets, ere they cloth'd their infant thought, And only lift thy staggering reason up
And the rude work to just perfection brought, To trembling Calvary's astonish'd top;
Did still some god, or godlike man invoke, Then mock thy knowlerlge, and confound thy pride, Whose mighty name their sacred silence broke: Explaining how Perfection suffer'd pain
Your goodness, sir, will easily excuse Almighty languish’d, and Eternal died:,
The bold requests of an aspiring Muse; How by her patient victor Death was slain ; Who, with your blessing, would your aid implore, And Earth profan'd, yet bless'd, with Deicide. And in her weakness justify your power.-
WHO HAD ADVISED A TRANSLATION O! PRUDEXTIUS
From your fair pattern she would strive to write, That I might see the lovely awful swain,
Whose praise excites each lyre, employs cach Then smiling and aspiring influence give,
tongue: And make the Muse and her endeavours live; Whilst only he who caus:d, dislikes the song. Claim all her future labours as your due,
To this great, humble, parting man I gain'd let every song begin and end with you:
Access, and happy for an hour I reign'd; So to the blest retreat she'll gladly go,
Happy as new-form'd man in paradise, Where the saints' palm and Muses' laurel grow; Ere sin debauch'd his innoffensive bliss; Where kindly both in glad embrace shall join, Happy as heroes after battles won, And round your brow their mingled honours twine; Prophets entranc'd, or monarcbs on the throne; Both to the virtue Jue, which could excel,
But (oh, my friend !) those joys with Daphnis As much in writing, as in living well
To them these tributary tears are due. (tlew.. So shall she proudly press the tuneful string, Anl mighty things in mighty numbers sing ; Nor doubt to strike Prudentius' daring lyre,
Was he so humble then ? those joys so vast?
Cease to admire that both so quickly past.
Anu rigid winter nips the flowery pomp of June!
Then grieve not, friend, like you, since all man-
A certain change of joy and sorrow find. skind
OX HIS DEPARTURE FROM CAMBRIDGE.
Terl, dear Alexis, tell thy Damon, why
PLAYING ON THE LUTE.
you sprung, Has great Joanna, or her greater shepherd, frown'd ? Have been the pleasing subjects of my song:
Unskill'd and young, yet something still I writ,
Of Ca'ndish' beauty join'd to Cecil's wit. See my kids browze, my lambs securely play:
But when you please to show the labouring Muse, (Ah! were their master unconcern'd as they !).
What greater theme your music can produce; No beasts (at noon I look'd) had trod my ground ; | My babbling praises I repeat no more, Nor has Joanna, or her shepherd, frown'd.
But hear, rejoice, stand silent, and adore.
The Persians thus, first gazing on the Sun,
Adinir'd how high'twas plac d, how bright it shone : Then stop the lavish fountain of your eyes,
But, as bis power was known, their thoughts were Nor let those sighs from your swolu bosom rise;
rais'd; Chase sadness, friend, and solitude away ;
And soon they worship’d, what at first they prais'd. And once again rejoice, and once again look gay.
Eliza's glory lives in Spenser's song;
That as in birth, in beauty you excel,
The Muse might dictate, and the poet tell:
Your art no other art can speak; and you, For the last glimpse of the departing Sun?
To show how well yon play, must play anew : Or what severer sentence can be given,
Your musie's power your music must disclose;
For what light is, 'tis only light that shows. Than, having seen, to be excluded Heaven?
Strange force of harmony, that thus controls
Our thoughts, and turns and sanctities our souls : None, shepherd, none
While with its utmost art your sex could move
You far above both these your God did place,
destroy; Those tears, my Damon, which I justly shed, That with your numbers you our zeal might raise, To think how great my joys; how soon they Acd. And, like himself, communicate vour jov. I told thee, friend, (now bless the shepherd's name, When to your native Heaven you shall repair, From whose dear care the kind occasion came) And with your presence crown the blessings there, That I, erer I, might happily receive (gire: Your lute may wind its strings but little bigher, The sacred wealth, which Heaven and Daphnis To tune their notes to that immortal quire.
Your art is perfect here; your numbers do,
Kindness itself too weak a charm will prove
Forc'd compliments, and formal bors,
Will show thee just above neglect : A cunning angel came, and drew the rest :
The heat with which thy lover glows, So when you play, some godhead does iinpart
Will settle into cold respect : Harmonious ail, divinity helps art;
A talking dull Platonic I shall turn : Some cherub finishes what you begun,
Learn to be civil, when I cease to burn. And to a miracle improves a tune'.
To burning Rome, when frantic Nero play'd, Then shun the ill, and know, my dear, Viewing that face, no more he had survey'd
Kindness and constaney will prove The raging faines; but, struck with strange sur- The only pillars, fit to bear prise,
So vast a weight as that of love. Confcss'd them less than those of Anna's eyes : If thou canst wish to make my flames endure, But, had he heard thy late, he soon had found Thine must be very fierce, and very pure. His rage eluded, and his crime aton'd : Thine, like Amphion's hand, had wak’d the stone,
Haste, Celia, haste, while youth invites, And from destruction callid the rising town :
Obey kind Cupid's present voice ; Malice to Music had been forc'il to vield ;
Fill every sense with soft delights,
And give thy soul a loose to joys :
Let millions of repeated blisses prove
Be mine, and only mine; take care
Thy looks, thy thoughts, thy dreams, to guide PICTURE OF SENECA DYING IN A BITH; To me alone; nor come so far,
As liking any youth b-side:
What men e'er court thee, fly them, and believe AT TIIE EARL OF EXETER'S, AT BURLEIGH-HOUSE. They're serpents all, and thou the tempted Ere. White cruel Nero only drains
So shall I court thy dearest truth, The inoral Spaniard's ebbing veins,
When beauty ceases to engage; By study worn, and slack with age,
So, thinking on thy charming youth, How dull, how thoughtless, is his rage!
I'll love it o'er again in age: Heighten'd revenge would he have took,
So time itself our raptures shall improve,
While still we wake to joy, and live to love.
TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHARD, ES2. Thy work and Seneca's remain, He still has body, still has soul,
When crowding folks, with strange ill faces, And lives and speaks, restor'd and whole. Were making legs, and begging places,
And some with patents, some with merit,
Tir'd out my good lord Dorset's spirit:
Sneaking I stood amongst the crew,
Desiring much to speak with you. Wpire blooming youth and gay delight
I waited while the clock struck thrice, Sit on thy rosy cheeks confest,
And footman brought out fifty lics; Thou hast, my dear, undoubted right
Till, patience vext, and legs grown weary, To triumph o'er this destin'd breast.
I thought it was in vain to tarry : My reason bends to what thy eyes ordain;
But did opine it might be better For I was born to love, and thou to reign.
By penny-post to send a letter; But would you meanly thus rely
Now, if you miss of this epistle,
I'm baulk'd again, and may go whistle.
My business, sir, you'll quickly guess,
Is to desire some little place;
And fair pretensions I have for 't,
Much need, and very small desert.
Whene'er I writ to you, I wanted; Take hced, my dear: youth flies apace ; I always begg'd, you always granted. As well as Cupid, Time is blind:
Now, as you took me up when little,
Gave me my learning and my vittle;
Ask'd for me, from my lord, things fitting,
Then wilt thou sigh, when in each frown Nor leave me now at six and seven,
As Sunderland has left Mun Stephen.
No family, that takes a whelp
When first he laps, and scarce can yelp.
Neglects or turns him out of gate
Then take it, sir, as it was writ, When he's grown up to dog's estate:
To pay respect, and not shew wit: Nor parish, if they once adopt
Nor look askew at what it saith; The spurious brats by strollers dropt,
There's no petition in it-'faith. Leare them, when grown up lusty fellows,
Here some would scratch their heads, and try To the wide world, that is, the gallows:
What they should write, and how, and why; No, thank them for their love, that's worse, But, I conceive, such folks are quite in Than if they 'd throttled them at nurse.
Mistakes, in theory of writing. My uncle, rest his soul! when living,
If once for principle 'tis laid, Might have contriv'd me ways of thriving;
That thought is trouble to the head; Taught me with cider to replenish
argue thus : the world agrees My fats, or ebbing tide of Rhenish.
That he writes well, who writes with ease : So when for hock I drew priekt white-wine, Then he, by seqırel logical, Swear 't had the flavour, and was right wine. Writes best, who never thinks at all. Or sent me with ten pounds to Furni
Verse comes from Heaven, like inward light; val's inn, to some good rogue-attorney ;
Mere human pains can ne'er come by't:
Hence, when anatomists discourse,
How lik brutes' organs are to ours; Sent me among a fiddling crew
They grant, if higher powers think fit, Of folks, I'ad never seen nor knew,
A bear might soon be made a wit; Calliope, and God knows who.
And that, for any thing in nature, To add no more invectives to it,
Pigs might squeak love-odes, dogs bark satire. You spoil'd the youth, to make a poet.
Memnon, though stone, was counted vocal; In common justice, sir, there's no man
But 'twas the god, meanwhile, that spoke all. That makes the whore, but keeps the woman.
Rome oft has heard a cross haranguing, Among all honest christian people,
With prompting priest behind the hanging: Whoe'er breaks limbs, maintains the cripple. The wooden head resolv' the question ; The sum of all I have to say,
While you and Pettis help'd the jest on. Is, that you'd put me in some way;
Your crabbed rogues, that read Lucretius, And your petitioner shall pray
Are against go:ls, you know; an'l teach us, There's one thing more I had almost slipt, The gods make not the poet; but But that may do as well in postscript :
The thesis, vice-versa put, My friend Charles Montague's preferr'd;
Should Hebrew-wise be understood; Nor would I have it long obsesvid,
And means, the poet makes the god,
Egyptian gardeners thus are said to
That when you poets swear and cry,
If inward wind does truly swell ye, SIR,
BURLEIGH, MAY 14, 1689. Tinust be the colic in your belly : As once a twelvemonth to the priest,
That writing is but just like dice, Holy at Rome, here antichrist,
And lucky mains make people wise : The Spanish king presents a jennet,
That jumbled words, if Fortune throw 'em, To show his love;-that's all that's in it:
Shall, well as Dryden, form a poem; For if his holiness would thump
Or make a speech, correct and witty, His reverend bum 'gainst horse's rump,
As you know who at the comiittee, He might b'equipt from his own stable
So atoms dancing round the centre, With one more white, and eke more able.
They urge, made all things at a venture. Or as, with gondolas and men, his
But, granting matters should be spoke Good excellence the duke of Venice
By method, rather than ly luck; (I wish, for rhyme, 't had been the king)
This may confine their younger styles, Sails ont, and gives the Gulph a ring;
Whom Dryden pedagogues at Will's; Which trick of state, he wisely maintains,
But never could be meant to tye Keeps kindness up 'twixt old acquaintance;
Authentic wits, like you and I: For else, in honest truth, the sea
For as young children, who are tied in Has much less need of gold than he.
Go-carts, to keep their steps from sliding; Or, not to rove, and pump one's fancy
When members knit, and legs grow stronger, For popish similies beyond sea ;
Make use of such machine no longer; As folks from mud-wall'd tenement
But leap pro libitu, and scout Bring landlords pepper-corn for rent;
On horse call’d hobby, or without; Present a turkey, or a hen,
So when at school we first declaim, To those might better spare them ten z
Old Busby walks us in a theme, Ev'n so, with all submission, I
Whose props support our infant vein, (For first men instance, then apply)
And help the rickets in the brain : Send you each year a homely letter,
But, when our souls their force dilate, Who may return me much a better,
And thoughts grow up to wit's estate;
In verse or prose, we write or chat,
Critics I read on other men, Not sixpence matter upon what.
And hypers upon them again; "Iis not how well an author says;
From whose remarks I give opinion But 'tis how much, that gathers praise.
On twenty books, yet ne'er look in one. Tonson, who is himself a wit,
Then all your wits, that fleer and sham, Counts writ rs' merits by the sheet.
Down from Don Quixote to Tom Tram; Thuis « ach should down with all he thinks,
From whom I jests and puns purloin, As boys eat bread, to fill up chinks.
And slily put them off for mine: kind sir, I should be glad to see you ;
Fond to be thought a country wit : I hope y' are well; so God be wi' you.
The rest-when Fate and you think fit. Was all I thought at first to write;
Sometimes I climb my mare, and kick her But things, since then, are alter'd quite:
To bottled ale, and neighbouring vicar; Fancies flow in, and Muse flies high;
Sometimes at Stamford take a quart, So God knows when my clack will lie.
“Squire Shephard's health"--"With all my heart." I must, sir, prattle on, as afore,
Thus, without much delight or grief, And beg your pardon yet this half-hour.
I fool away an idle life: So at pure barn of loud Non-con,
Til Shadsell from the town retires Where with my granam I have gone,
(Chok'd up with fame and sea-coal fires), When Lobb bad sifted all his text,
To bless the wood with peaceful lyric: And I well hop'd the pudding next;
Then hey for praise and panegyric; “ Now to apply," has plagu'd me more
Justice restor'd, and nations freed,
And wreaths round Wiliam's glorious heado
70 THE COUNTESS OF DORSET. Your chamber is the sole retreat Of chaplains every Sunday night:
WRITTEN IN HER MILTON.
BY MR. BRADBURY.
See here how bright the first-born virgin shone, Who would no popish nuncio treat;
And how the first fond lover was undone. That his is greater, we must grant,
Such charming words, our b: auteous mother spoke Who will treat nuncios protestant.
As Milton wrote, and such as yours her look. One single positive weighs more,
Yours, the best copy of th' original face, You know, than negatives a score.
Whose beauty was to furnish all the race: In politics, I hear, you 're stanch,
Such chains no author could escape but he;
'I here's no way to be safe, but not to see.
TO THE LADY DURSLEY.
Here reading how fond Adam was betray'd,
And now by sin Eve's blasted chairs decay'd; Let me just tell you how my time is
Our common loss unjustly you complain; Past in a country life.--Imprimis,
So small that part of it, which you sustain. As soon as Phæbus' rays inspect us,
You still, fair mother, in your offspring trace Tirst, sir, I read, and then I breakfast;
The stock of beauty destin'd for the race : So on, till forcsajd gol does set,
Kind Nature, forming them, the pattern took I sometimes study, sometimes eat.
From Heaven's first work, and Eve's original look. Thus, of your heroes and brave boys,
You, happy saint, the serpent's power control : With whon old Homer makes such noise,
Scarce any actual guilt detiles your soul : The greatest actions I can find,
And Hell Hoes o'er that mind vain triumph boast, Are, that they did their work, and din'd.
Which gains a Heaven, for earthly Eden lost. The books, of which I'm chiefly fond,
With virtue strong as yours had Eve been arın'd, Are such as you have whilom conn'd;
In vain the fruit had blush'd, or serpent charm'd; That treat of China's civji law,
Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought;
Nor had frail Adam fall'n, nor Milton wrote.
TO MY LORD BUCKHURST,
VERY YOUNG, PLAYING WITH A CAT.
Tur. amorous youth, whose tender breast
Was by his darling cat possest,
ON THE SAME SUBJECT.