Thus it is written—Heard you not a groan? Is Britain on her death-bed?—No, that groan Was utter'd by her foes—but soon the scale, If this divine monition is despis'd, May turn against us. Read it, ye who rule! With reverence read; with steadfastness believe; With courage act as such belief inspires; Then shall your glory stand like fate's decree; Then shall your name in adamant be writ, In records that defy the tooth of time, By nations sav'd, resounding your applause. While deep beyond your monument's proud base, In black oblivion's kennel, shall be trod Their execrable names, who, high in power, And deep in guilt, most ominously shine, (The meteors of the state!) give vice her head, To license lewd let loose the public rein; Quench every spark of conscience in the land, And triumph in the profligate's applause: Or who to the first bidder sell their souls, Their country sell, sell all their fathers bought With funds exhausted and exhausted veins, To demons, by his holiness ordain'd To propagate the gospel—penn'd at Rome; Hawk'd through the world by consecrated bulls; And how illustrated?—by Smithfleld flames: Who plunge (but not like Curtius) down the gulf, Down narrow-minded self's voracious gulf, Which gapes and swallows all they swore to save: Hate all that lifted heroes into gods, And hug the horrors of a victor's chain: Of bodies politic that destin'd hell, Inflicted here, since here their beings end; And fall from foes detested and despis'd, On disbelievers—of the statesman's creed. Note, here, my lord, (unnoted yet it lies By most, or all,) these truths political Serve more than public ends: this creed of states Seconds, and irresistibly supports, The Christian creed. Are you surpris'd?—Attend And on the statesman's build a nobler name. This punctual justice exercis'd on states, With which authentic chronicle abounds, As all men know, and therefore must believe; This vengeance pour'd on nations ripe in guilt, Pour'd on them here, where only they exist, What is it but an argument of sense, Or rather demonstration, to support Our feeble faith—"That they who states compose, That men who stand not bounded by the grave, Shall meet like measure at their proper hour?" For God is equal, similarly deals With states and persons, or he were not God! What means a rectitude immutable? A pattern here of universal right. What, then, shall rescue an abandon'd man? Nothing, it is replied. Replied, by whom? Replied by politicians well as priests: Writ sacred set aside, mankind's own writ, The whole world's annals; these pronounce his doom. Thus (what might seem a daring paradox) E'en politics advance divinity: True masters there are better scholars here, Who travel history in quest of schemes To govern nations, or perhaps oppress, May there start truths that other aims inspire, And, like Candace's eunuch, as they read, By Providence turn Christians on their road: Digging for silver, they may strike on gold; May be surpris'd with better than they sought, And entertain an angel unawares. Nor is divinity ungrateful found. As politics advance divinity, Thus, in return, divinity promotes True politics, and crowns the statesman's praise. All wisdoms are but branches of the chief, And statesmen found but shoots of honest men. Are this world's witchcrafts pleaded in excuse For deviations in our moral line? This, and the next world, view'd with such an eye As suits a statesman, such as keeps in view His own exalted science, both conspire To recommend and fix us in the right. If we reward the politics of Heaven, The grand administration of the whole, What's the next world? A supplement of this: Without it, justice is defective here; Just as to states, defective as to men: If so, what is this world? As sure as right Sits in Heaven's throne, a prophet of the next. Prize you the prophet? then believe him too: His prophecy more precious than his smile. How comes it then to pass, with most on earth, That this should charm us, that should discompose? Long as the statesman finds this case his own, So long his politics are uncomplete; In danger he; nor is the nation safe, But soon must rue his inauspicious power. What hence results? a truth that should resound For ever awful in Britannia's ear: "Religion crowns the statesman and the man, Sole source of public and of private peace." This truth all men must own, and therefore will, And praise and preach it too:—and when that's done, Their compliment is paid, and 'tis forgot. What highland pole-axe half so deep can wound? But how dare I, so mean, presume so far? Assume my seat in the dictator's chair? Pronounce, predict (as if indeed inspir'd), Promulge my censures, lay out all my throat, Till hoarse in clamour on enormous crimes? Two mighty columns rise in my support; In their more awful and authentic voice, Record profane and sacred, drown the muse, Tho' loud, and far out-thread her threatening song. Still further, Holles! suffer me to plead That I speak freely, as I speak to thee: Guilt only startles at the name of guilt; And truth, plain truth, is welcome to the wise. Thus what seem'd my presumption is thy praise. Praise, and immortal praise, is virtue's claim; And virtue's sphere is action: yet we grant Some merit to the trumpet's loud alarm, Whose clangour kindles cowards into men. Nor shall the verse, perhaps, be quite forgot, Which talks of immortality, and bids, In every British breast, true glory rise, As now the warbling lark awakes the morn. To close, my lord! with that which all should close And all begin, and strike us every hour, Though no war wak'd us, no black tempest frown'd. The morning rises gay; yet gayest morn Less glorious after night's incumbent shades; Less glorious far bright nature, rich array'd With golden robes, in all the pomp of noon, Than the first feeble dawn of moral day? Sole day, (let those whom statesmen serve attend,) Though the sun ripens diamonds for their crowns; Sole day worth his regard whom Heaven ordains, Undarken'd, to behold noon dark, and date, From the sun's death, and every planet's fall, His all-illustrious and eternal year; Where statesmen and their monarchs, (names of awe And distance here,) shall rank with common men, Yet own their glory never dawn'd before.



RESIGNATION.

In Two Parts.

My soul shall be satisfied even as it were with marrow and fatness, when my mouth praiseth thee with joyful lips.

PSALM lxiii. 6.



Advertisement.

This was not intended for the public; there were many and strong reasons against it, and are so still; but some extracts of it, from the few copies which were given away, being got into the printed papers, it was thought necessary to publish something, lest a copy still more imperfect than this should fall into the press: and it is hoped, that this unwelcome occasion of publication may be some excuse for it.

As for the following stanzas, God Almighty's infinite power, and marvellous goodness to man, is dwelt on, as the most just and cogent reason for our cheerful and absolute resignation to his will; nor are any of those topics declined, which have a just tendency to promote that supreme virtue: such as the vanity of this life, the value of the next, the approach of death, &c.



Part I.

The days how few, how short the years Of man's too rapid race! Each leaving, as it swiftly flies, A shorter in its place.

They who the longest lease enjoy, Have told us with a sigh, That to be born seems little more Than to begin to die.

Numbers there are who feel this truth With fears alarm'd; and yet, In life's delusions lull'd asleep, This weighty truth forget:

And am not I to these akin? Age slumbers o'er the quill; Its honour blots, whate'er it writes, And am I writing still?

Conscious of nature in decline, And languor in my thoughts; To soften censure, and abate Its rigour on my faults

Permit me, madam! ere to you The promis'd verse I pay, To touch on felt infirmity, Sad sister of decay.

One world deceas'd, another born, Like Noah they behold, O'er whose white hairs, and furrow'd brows, Too many suns have roll'd:

Happy the patriarch! he rejoic'd His second world to see: My second world, though gay the scene, Can boast no charms for me.

To me this brilliant age appears With desolation spread; Near all with whom I liv'd, and smil'd, Whilst life was life, are dead;

And with them died my joys; the grave Has broken nature's laws; And clos'd, against this feeble frame, Its partial cruel jaws;

Cruel to spare! condemn'd to life! A cloud impairs my sight; My weak hand disobeys my will, And trembles as I write.

What shall I write? Thalia, tell; Say, long abandon'd muse! What field of fancy shall I range? What subject shall I choose?

A choice of moment high inspire, And rescue me from shame, For doting on thy charms so late, By grandeur in my theme.

Beyond the themes, which most admire, Which dazzle, or amaze, Beyond renown'd exploits of war, Bright charms, or empire's blaze,

Are themes, which, in a world of woe Can best appease our pain; And, in an age of gaudy guilt, Gay folly's flood restrain;

Amidst the storms of life support A calm, unshaken mind; And with unfading laurels crown The brow of the resign'd.

O resignation! yet unsung, Untouch'd by former strains; Though claiming every muse's smile, And every poet's pains,

Beneath life's evening, solemn shade, I dedicate my page To thee, thou safest guard of youth! Thou sole support of age!

All other duties crescents are Of virtue faintly bright, The glorious consummation, thou! Which fills her orb with light:

How rarely fill'd! the love divine In evils to discern, This the first lesson which we want, The latest, which we learn;

A melancholy truth! for know, Could our proud hearts resign, The distance greatly would decrease 'Twixt human and divine.

But though full noble is my theme, Full urgent is my call To soften sorrow, and forbid The bursting tear to fall:

The task I dread; dare I to leave Of humble prose the shore, And put to sea? a dangerous sea? What throngs have sunk before!

How proud the poet's billow swells! The God! the God! his boast: A boast how vain! What wrecks abound! Dead bards stench every coast.

What then am I? Shall I presume, On such a moulten wing, Above the general wreck to rise, And in my winter, sing;

When nightingales, when sweetest bards Confine their charming song To summer's animating heats, Content to warble young?

Yet write I must; a lady(49) sues; How shameful her request! My brain in labour for dull rhyme! Hers teeming with the best!

But you a stranger will excuse, Nor scorn his feeble strain; To you a stranger, but, through fate, No stranger to your pain.

The ghost of grief deceas'd ascends, His old wound bleeds anew; His sorrows are recall'd to life By those he sees in you;

Too well he knows the twisting strings Of ardent hearts combin'd When rent asunder, how they bleed, How hard to be resign'd:

Those tears you pour, his eyes have shed; The pang you feel, he felt; Thus nature, loud as virtue, bids His heart at yours to melt.

But what can heart, or head, suggest? What sad experience say? Through truths austere, to peace we work Our rugged, gloomy way:

What are we? whence? for what? and whither? Who know not, needs must mourn; But thought, bright daughter of the skies! Can tears to triumph turn.

Thought is our armour, 'tis the mind's Impenetrable shield, When, sent by fate, we meet our foes, In sore affliction's field;

It plucks the frightful mask from ills, Forbids pale fear to hide, Beneath that dark disguise, a friend, Which turns affection's tide.

Affection frail! train'd up by sense, From reason's channel strays: And whilst it blindly points at peace, Our peace to pain betrays.

Thought winds its fond, erroneous stream From daily dying flowers, To nourish rich immortal blooms, In amaranthine bowers;

Whence throngs, in ecstasy, look down On what once shock'd their sight; And thank the terrors of the past For ages of delight.

All withers here; who most possess Are losers by their gain, Stung by full proof, that, bad at best, Life's idle all is vain:

Vain, in its course, life's murmuring stream; Did not its course offend, But murmur cease; life, then, would seem Still vainer, from its end.

How wretched! who, through cruel fate, Have nothing to lament! With the poor alms this world affords Deplorably content!

Had not the Greek his world mistook, His wish had been most wise; To be content with but one world, Like him, we should despise.

Of earth's revenue would you state A full account and fair? We hope; and hope; and hope; then cast The total up——— Despair.

Since vain all here, all future, vast, Embrace the lot assign'd; Heaven wounds to heal; its frowns are friends; Its stroke severe, most kind.

But in laps'd nature rooted deep, Blind error domineers; And on fools' errands, in the dark, Sends out our hopes and fears;

Bids us for ever pains deplore, Our pleasures overprize; These oft persuade us to be weak; Those urge us to be wise.

From virtue's rugged path to right By pleasure are we brought, To flowery fields of wrong, and there Pain chides us for our fault:

Yet whilst it chides, it speaks of peace If folly is withstood; And says, time pays an easy price, For our eternal good.

In earth's dark cot, and in an hour, And in delusion great, What an economist is man To spend his whole estate,

And beggar an eternity! For which as he was born, More worlds than one against it weigh'd, As feathers he should scorn.

Say not, your loss in triumph leads Religion's feeble strife; Joys future amply reimburse Joys bankrupts of this life.

But not deferr'd your joy so long, It bears an early date; Affliction's ready pay in hand, Befriends our present state;

What are the tears, which trickle down Her melancholy face, Like liquid pearl? Like pearls of price, They purchase lasting peace.

Grief softens hearts, and curbs the will, Impetuous passion tames, And keeps insatiate, keen desire From launching in extremes.

Through time's dark womb, our judgment right, If our dim eye was thrown, Clear should we see, the will divine Has but forestall'd our own;

At variance with our future wish, Self-sever'd we complain; If so, the wounded, not the wound, Must answer for the pain:

The day shall come, and swift of wing, Though you may think it slow, When, in the list of fortune's smiles, You'll enter frowns of woe.

For mark the path of Providence; This course it has pursued— "Pain is the parent, woe the womb, Of sound, important good:"

Our hearts are fasten'd to this world By strong and endless ties: And every sorrow cuts a string, And urges us to rise:

'Twill sound severe—Yet rest assur'd I'm studious of your peace; Though I should dare to give you joy— Yes, joy of his decease:

An hour shall come, (you question this,) An hour, when you shall bless, Beyond the brightest beams of life, Dark days of your distress.

Hear then without surprise a truth, A daughter truth to this, Swift turns of fortune often tie A bleeding heart to bliss:

Esteem you this a paradox? My sacred motto read; A glorious truth! divinely sung By one, whose heart had bled;

To resignation swift he flew, In her a friend he found, A friend, which bless'd him with a smile When gasping with his wound.

On earth nought precious is obtain'd But what is painful too; By travel, and to travel born, Our sabbaths are but few:

To real joy we work our way, Encountering many a shock, Ere found what truly charms; as found A Venus in the block.

In some disaster, some severe Appointment for our sins, That mother blessing, (not so call'd,) True happiness, begins.

No martyr e'er defied the flames, By stings of life unvext; First rose some quarrel with this world, Then passion for the next.

You see, then, pangs are parent pangs, The pangs of happy birth; Pangs, by which only can be born True happiness on earth.

The peopled earth look all around, Or through time's records run! And say, what is a man unstruck? It is a man undone.

This moment, am I deeply stung— My bold pretence is tried; When vain man boasts, heaven puts to proof The vauntings of his pride;

Now need I, madam! your support.— How exquisite the smart; How critically tim'd the news(50) Which strikes me to the heart!

The pangs of which I spoke, I feel: If worth like thine is born, O long-belov'd! I bless the blow, And triumph, whilst I mourn.

Nor mourn I long; by grief subdued, By reason's empire shown; Deep anguish comes by heaven's decree, Continues by our own;

And when continued past its point, Indulg'd in length of time, Grief is disgrac'd, and, what was fate, Corrupts into a crime:

And shall I, criminally mean, Myself and subject wrong? No; my example shall support The subject of my song.

Madam! I grant your loss is great; Nor little is your gain? Let that be weigh'd; when weigh'd aright, It richly pays your pain:

When heaven would kindly set us free, And earth's enchantment end; It takes the most effectual means, And robs us of a friend.

But such a friend! and sigh no more? 'Tis prudent; but severe: Heaven aid my weakness, and I drop All sorrow—with this tear.

Perhaps your settled grief to soothe, I should not vainly strive, But with soft balm your pain assuage, Had he been still alive;

Whose frequent aid brought kind relief, In my distress of thought, Ting'd with his beams my cloudy page, And beautified a fault:

To touch our passions' secret springs Was his peculiar care; And deep his happy genius div'd In bosoms of the fair;

Nature, which favours to the few, All art beyond, imparts, To him presented, at his birth, The key of human hearts.

But not to me by him bequeath'd His gentle, smooth address; His tender hand to touch the wound In throbbing of distress;

Howe'er, proceed I must, unbless'd With Esculapian art: Know, love sometimes, mistaken love! Plays disaffection's part:

Nor lands, nor seas, nor suns, nor stars, Can soul from soul divide; They correspond from distant worlds, Though transports are denied:

Are you not, then, unkindly kind? Is not your love severe? O! stop that crystal source of woe; Nor wound him with a tear.

As those above from human bliss Receive increase of joy; May not a stroke from human woe, In part, their peace destroy?

He lives in those he left;—to what? Your, now, paternal care, Clear from its cloud your brighten'd eye, It will discern him there;

In features, not of form alone, But those, I trust, of mind; Auspicious to the public weal, And to their fate resign'd.

Think on the tempests he sustain'd; Revolve his battles won; And let those prophesy your joy From such a father's son:

Is consolation what you seek? Fan, then, his martial fire: And animate to flame the sparks Bequeath'd him by his sire:

As nothing great is born in haste, Wise nature's time allow; His father's laurels may descend, And flourish on his brow.

Nor, madam! be surpris'd to hear That laurels may be due Not more to heroes of the field, (Proud boasters!) than to you:

Tender as is the female frame, Like that brave man you mourn, You are a soldier, and to fight Superior battles born;

Beneath a banner nobler far Than ever was unfurl'd In fields of blood; a banner bright! High wav'd o'er all the world.

It, like a streaming meteor, casts A universal light; Sheds day, sheds more, eternal day On nations whelm'd in night.

Beneath that banner, what exploit Can mount our glory higher, Than to sustain the dreadful blow, When those we love expire?

Go forth a moral Amazon; Arm'd with undaunted thought; The battle won, though costing dear, You'll think it cheaply bought:

The passive hero, who sits down Unactive, and can smile Beneath affliction's galling load, Out-acts a Caesar's toil:

The billows stain'd by slaughter'd foes Inferior praise afford; Reason's a bloodless conqueror, More glorious than the sword.

Nor can the thunders of huzzas, From shouting nations, cause Such sweet delight, as from your heart Soft whispers of applause:

The dear deceas'd so fam'd in arms, With what delight he'll view His triumphs on the main outdone, Thus conquer'd, twice, by you.

Share his delight; take heed to shun Of bosoms most diseas'd That odd distemper, an absurd Reluctance to be pleas'd:

Some seem in love with sorrow's charms, And that foul fiend embrace: This temper let me justly brand, And stamp it with disgrace:

Sorrow! of horrid parentage! Thou second-born of hell! Against heaven's endless mercies pour'd How dar'st thou to rebel?

From black and noxious vapours bred, And nurs'd by want of thought, And to the door of phrensy's self By perseverance brought,

Thy most inglorious, coward tears From brutal eyes have ran: Smiles, incommunicable smiles! Are radiant marks of man;

They cast a sudden glory round Th' illumin'd human face; And light in sons of honest joy Some beams of Moses' face:

Is resignation's lesson hard? Examine, we shall find That duty gives up little more Than anguish of the mind;

Resign; and all the load of life That moment you remove, Its heavy tax, ten thousand cares Devolve on one above;

Who bids us lay our burthen down On his almighty hand, Softens our duty to relief, To blessing a command.

For joy what cause! how every sense Is courted from above The year around, with presents rich, The growth of endless love!

But most o'erlook the blessings pour'd, Forget the wonders done, And terminate, wrapp'd up in sense, Their prospect at the sun;

From that, their final point of view, From that their radiant goal, On travel infinite of thought, Sets out the nobler soul,

Broke loose from time's tenacious ties, And earth's involving gloom, To range at last its vast domain, And talk with worlds to come:

They let unmark'd, and unemploy'd, Life's idle moments run; And doing nothing for themselves, Imagine nothing done;

Fatal mistake! their fate goes on, Their dread account proceeds, And their not doing is set down Amongst their darkest deeds;

Though man sits still, and takes his ease; God is at work on man; No means, no moment unemployed, To bless him, if he can.

But man consents not, boldly bent To fashion his own fate; Man, a mere bungler in the trade, Repents his crime too late;

Hence loud laments: let me thy cause, Indulgent father! plead; Of all the wretches we deplore, Not one by thee was made.

What is thy whole creation fair? Of love divine the child; Love brought it forth; and, from its birth, Has o'er it fondly smil'd:

Now, and through periods distant far, Long ere the world began, Heaven is, and has in travail been, Its birth the good of man;

Man holds in constant service bound The blustering winds and seas; Nor suns disdain to travel hard Their master, man, to please:

To final good the worst events Through secret channels run; Finish for man their destin'd course, As 'twas for man begun.

One point (observ'd, perhaps, by few) Has often smote, and smites My mind, as demonstration strong; That heaven in man delights:

What's known to man of things unseen, Of future worlds, or fates? So much, nor more, than what to man's Sublime affairs relates;

What's revelation then? a list, An inventory just Of that poor insect's goods, so late Call'd out of night and dust.

What various motives to rejoice! To render joy sincere, Has this no weight? our joy is felt Beyond this narrow sphere:

Would we in heaven new heaven create, And double its delight? A smiling world, when heaven looks down, How pleasing in its sight!

Angels stoop forward from their thrones To hear its joyful lays; As incense sweet enjoy, and join, Its aromatic praise:

Have we no cause to fear the stroke Of heaven's avenging rod, When we presume to counteract A sympathetic God?

If we resign, our patience makes His rod an armless wand; If not, it darts a serpent's sting, Like that in Moses' hand;

Like that, it swallows up whate'er Earth's vain magicians bring, Whose baffled arts would boast below Of joys a rival spring.

Consummate love! the list how large Of blessings from thy hand! To banish sorrow, and be blest, Is thy supreme command.

Are such commands but ill obey'd? Of bliss, shall we complain? The man, who dares to be a wretch, Deserves still greater pain.

Joy is our duty, glory, health; The sunshine of the soul; Our best encomium on the power Who sweetly plans the whole:

Joy is our Eden still possess'd: Begone, ignoble grief! 'Tis joy makes gods, and men exalts, Their nature, our relief;

Relief, for man to that must stoop, And his due distance know; Transport's the language of the sides, Content the style below.

Content is joy, and joy in pain Is joy and virtue too; Thus, whilst good present we possess, More precious we pursue:

Of joy the more we have in hand, The more have we to come; Joy, like our money, interest bears, Which daily swells the sum.

"But how to smile; to stem the tide Of nature in our veins; Is it not hard to weep in joy? What then to smile in pains?"

Victorious joy! which breaks the clouds, And struggles through a storm; Proclaims the mind as great, as good And bids it doubly charm:

If doubly charming in our sex, A sex, by nature, bold; What then in yours? 'tis diamond there Triumphant o'er our gold.

And should not this complaint repress, And check the rising sigh? Yet farther opiate to your pain I labour to supply.

Since spirits greatly damp'd distort Ideas of delight, Look through the medium of a friend, To set your notions right:

As tears the sight, grief dims the soul; Its object dark appears; True friendship, like a rising sun, The soul's horizon clears.

A friend's an optic to the mind With sorrow clouded o'er; And gives it strength of sight to see Redress unseen before.

Reason is somewhat rough in man; Extremely smooth and fair, When she, to grace her manly strength, Assumes a female air:

A friend(51) you have, and I the same, Whose prudent, soft address Will bring to life those healing thoughts Which died in your distress;

That friend, the spirit of my theme Extracting for your ease, Will leave to me the dreg, in thoughts Too common; such as these:

Let those lament to whom full bowls Of sparkling joys are given; That triple bane inebriates life, Imbitters death, and hazards heaven:

Woe to the soul at perfect ease! 'Tis brewing perfect pains; Lull'd reason sleeps, the pulse is king; Despotic body reigns;

Have you(52) ne'er pitied joy's gay scenes, And deem'd their glory dark? Alas! poor envy! she's stone-blind, And quite mistakes her mark:

Her mark lies hid in sorrow's shades, But sorrow well subdu'd; And in proud fortune's frown defied By meek, unborrow'd good.

By resignation; all in that A double friend may find, A wing to heaven, and, while on earth, The pillow of mankind:

On pillows void of down, for rest Our restless hopes we place; When hopes of heaven lie warm at heart, Our hearts repose in peace:

The peace, which resignation yields, Who feel alone can guess; 'Tis disbeliev'd by murmuring minds, They must conclude it less:

The loss, or gain, of that alone Have we to hope or fear; That fate controls, and can invert The seasons of the year:

O! the dark days, the year around, Of an impatient mind! Thro' clouds, and storms, a summer breaks, To shine on the resign'd:

While man by that of every grace, And virtue, is possess'd; Foul vice her pandaemonium builds In the rebellious breast;

By resignation we defeat The worst that can annoy; And suffer, with far more repose, Than worldlings can enjoy.

From small experience this I speak; O! grant to those I love Experience fuller far, ye powers, Who form our fates above!

My love were due, if not to those Who, leaving grandeur, came To shine on age in mean recess, And light me to my theme!

A theme themselves! A theme, how rare! The charms, which they display, To triumph over captive heads, Are set in bright array:

With his own arms proud man's o'ercome, His boasted laurels die: Learning and genius, wiser grown, To female bosoms fly.

This revolution, fix'd by fate, In fable was foretold; The dark prediction puzzled wits, Nor could the learn'd unfold:

But as those ladies'(53) works I read, They darted such a ray, The latent sense burst out at once, And shone in open day:

So burst, full ripe, distended fruits, When strongly strikes the sun; And from the purple grape unpress'd Spontaneous nectars run.

Pallas, ('tis said,) when Jove grew dull, Forsook his drowsy brain; And sprightly leap'd into the throne Of wisdom's brighter reign;

Her helmet took; that is, shot rays Of formidable wit; And lance,—or, genius most acute, Which lines immortal writ;

And gorgon shield,—or, power to fright Man's folly, dreadful shone, And many a blockhead (easy change!) Turn'd, instantly, to stone.

Our authors male, as, then, did Jove, Now scratch a damag'd head, And call for what once quarter'd there, But find the goddess fled.

The fruit of knowledge, golden fruit! That once forbidden tree, Hedg'd-in by surly man, is now To Britain's daughters free:

In Eve (we know) of fruit so fair The noble thirst began; And they, like her, have caus'd a fall, A fall of fame in man:

And since of genius in our sex, O Addison! with thee The sun is set; how I rejoice This sister lamp to see!

It sheds, like Cynthia, silver beams On man's nocturnal state; His lessen'd light, and languid powers, I show, whilst I relate.



Part II.

But what in either sex, beyond All parts, our glory crowns? "In ruffling seasons to be calm, And smile, when fortune frowns."

Heaven's choice is safer than our own; Of ages past inquire, What the most formidable fate? "To have our own desire."

If, in your wrath, the worst of foes You wish extremely ill; Expose him to the thunder's stroke, Or that of his own will.

What numbers, rushing down the steep Of inclination strong, Have perish'd in their ardent wish! Wish ardent, ever wrong!

'Tis resignation's full reverse, Most wrong, as it implies Error most fatal in our choice, Detachment from the skies.

By closing with the skies, we make Omnipotence our own; That done, how formidable ill's Whole army is o'erthrown!

No longer impotent, and frail, Ourselves above we rise: We scarce believe ourselves below! We trespass on the skies!

The Lord, the soul, and source of all, Whilst man enjoys his ease, Is executing human will, In earth, and air, and seas;

Beyond us, what can angels boast? Archangels what require? Whate'er below, above, is done, Is done as——we desire.

What glory this for man so mean, Whose life is but a span! This is meridian majesty! This, the sublime of man!

Beyond the boast of pagan song My sacred subject shines! And for a foil the lustre takes Of Rome's exalted lines.

"All, that the sun surveys, subdued, But Cato's mighty mind." How grand! most true; yet far beneath The soul of the resign'd:

To more than kingdoms, more than worlds, To passion that gives law; Its matchless empire could have kept Great Cato's pride in awe;

That fatal pride, whose cruel point Transfix'd his noble breast; Far nobler! if his fate sustain'd And left to heaven the rest;

Then he the palm had borne away, At distance Caesar thrown; Put him off cheaply with the world, And made the skies his own.

What cannot resignation do? It wonders can perform; That powerful charm, "Thy will be done," Can lay the loudest storm.

Come, resignation! then, from fields, Where, mounted on the wing, A wing of flame, blest martyrs' souls Ascended to their king.

Who is it calls thee? one whose need Transcends the common size; Who stands in front against a foe To which no equal rise:

In front he stands, the brink he treads Of an eternal state; How dreadful his appointed post! How strongly arm'd by fate:

His threatening foe! what shadows deep O'erwhelm his gloomy brow! His dart tremendous!——at fourscore My sole asylum, thou!

Haste, then, O resignation! haste, 'Tis thine to reconcile My foe, and me; at thy approach My foe begins to smile:

O! for that summit of my wish, Whilst here I draw my breath, That promise of eternal life, A glorious smile in death:

What sight, heaven's azure arch beneath, Has most of heaven to boast? The man resign'd; at once serene, And giving up the ghost.

At death's arrival they shall smile, Who, not in life o'er gay, Serious and frequent thought send out To meet him on his way:

My gay coevals! (such there are) If happiness is dear; Approaching death's alarming day Discreetly let us fear:

The fear of death is truly wise, Till wisdom can rise higher; And, arm'd with pious fortitude, Death dreaded once, desire:

Grand climacteric vanities The vainest will despise; Shock'd, when beneath the snow of age Man immaturely dies:

But am not I myself the man? No need abroad to roam In quest of faults to be chastis'd; What cause to blush at home?

In life's decline, when men relapse Into the sports of youth, The second child out-fools the first, And tempts the lash of truth;

Shall a mere truant from the grave With rival boys engage? His trembling voice attempt to sing, And ape the poet's rage?

Here, madam! let me visit one, My fault who, partly, shares, And tell myself, by telling him, What more becomes our years;

And if your breast with prudent zeal For resignation glows, You will not disapprove a just Resentment at its foes.

In youth, Voltaire! our foibles plead For some indulgence due; When heads are white, their thoughts and aims Should change their colour too:

How are you cheated by your wit! Old age is bound to pay, By nature's law, a mind discreet, For joys it takes away;

A mighty change is wrought by years, Reversing human lot; In age 'tis honour to lie hid, 'Tis praise to be forgot;

The wise, as flowers, which spread at noon, And all their charms expose, When evening damps and shades descend, Their evolutions close.

What though your muse has nobly soar'd, Is that our truth sublime? Ours, hoary friend! is to prefer Eternity to time:

Why close a life so justly fam'd With such bold trash as this?(54) This for renown? yes, such as makes Obscurity a bliss:

Your trash, with mine, at open war, Is obstinately bent,(55) Like wits below, to sow your tares Of gloom and discontent:

With so much sunshine at command, Why light with darkness mix? Why dash with pain our pleasure? Your Helicon with Styx?

Your works in our divided minds Repugnant passions raise, Confound us with a double stroke, We shudder whilst we praise;

A curious web, as finely wrought As genius can inspire, From a black bag of poison spun, With horror we admire.

Mean as it is, if this is read With a disdainful air, I can't forgive so great a foe To my dear friend Voltaire:

Early I knew him, early prais'd, And long to praise him late; His genius greatly I admire, Nor would deplore his fate;

A fate how much to be deplor'd! At which our nature starts; Forbear to fall on your own sword. To perish by your parts:

"But great your name"—To feed on air, Were then immortals born? Nothing is great, of which more great, More glorious is the scorn.

Can fame your carcass from the worm Which gnaws us in the grave, Or soul from that which never dies, Applauding Europe save?

But fame you lose; good sense alone Your idol, praise, can claim; When wild wit murders happiness, It puts to death our fame!

Nor boast your genius, talents bright; E'en dunces will despise, If in your western beams is miss'd A genius for the skies;

Your taste too fails; what most excels True taste must relish most! And what, to rival palms above, Can proudest laurels boast?

Sound heads salvation's helmet seek,(56) Resplendent are its rays, Let that suffice; it needs no plume, Of sublunary praise.

May this enable couch'd Voltaire To see that—"All is right,"(57) His eye, by flash of wit struck blind, Restoring to its sight;

If so, all's well: who much have err'd, That much have been forgiven; I speak with joy, with joy he'll hear, "Voltaires are, now, in heaven."

Nay, such philanthropy divine, So boundless in degree, Its marvellous of love extends (Stoops most profound!) to me:

Let others cruel stars arraign, Or dwell on their distress; But let my page, for mercies pour'd, A grateful heart express:

Walking, the present God was seen, Of old, in Eden fair; The God as present, by plain steps Of providential care,

I behold passing through my life; His awful voice I hear; And, conscious of my nakedness, Would hide myself for fear:

But where the trees, or where the clouds, Can cover from his sight? Naked the centre to that eye, To which the sun is night.

As yonder glittering lamps on high Through night illumin'd roll; My thoughts of him, by whom they shine, Chase darkness from my soul;

My soul, which reads his hand as clear In my minute affairs, As in his ample manuscript Of sun, and moon, and stars;

And knows him not more bent aright To wield that vast machine, Than to correct one erring thought In my small world within;

A world, that shall survive the fall Of all his wonders here; Survive, when suns ten thousand drop, And leave a darken'd sphere.

Yon matter gross, how bright it shines! For time how great his care! Sure spirit and eternity Far richer glories share;

Let those our hearts impress, on those Our contemplation dwell; On those my thoughts how justly thrown, By what I now shall tell:

When backward with attentive mind Life's labyrinth I trace, I find him far myself beyond Propitious to my peace:

Through all the crooked paths I trod, My folly he pursued; My heart astray to quick return Importunately woo'd;

Due resignation home to press On my capricious will, How many rescues did I meet, Beneath the mask of ill!

How many foes in ambush laid Beneath my soul's desire! The deepest penitents are made By what we most admire.

Have I not sometimes (real good So little mortals know!) Mounting the summit of my wish, Profoundly plung'd in woe?

I rarely plann'd, but cause I found My plan's defeat to bless: Oft I lamented an event; It turn'd to my success.

By sharpen'd appetite to give To good intense delight, Through dark and deep perplexities He led me to the right.

And is not this the gloomy path, Which you are treading now? The path most gloomy leads to light, When our proud passions bow:

When labouring under fancied ill, My spirits to sustain, He kindly cur'd with sovereign draughts Of unimagin'd pain.

Pain'd sense from fancied tyranny Alone can set us free; A thousand miseries we feel, Till sunk in misery.

Cloy'd with a glut of all we wish, Our wish we relish less; Success, a sort of suicide, Is ruin'd by success:

Sometimes he led me near to death, And, pointing to the grave, Bid terror whisper kind advice; And taught the tomb to save:

To raise my thoughts beyond where worlds As spangles o'er us shine, One day he gave, and bid the next My soul's delight resign.

We to ourselves, but through the means Of mirrors, are unknown; In this my fate can you descry No features of your own?

And if you can, let that excuse These self-recording lines; A record, modesty forbids, Or to small bound confines:

In grief why deep ingulf'd? You see You suffer nothing rare; Uncommon grief for common fate! That wisdom cannot bear.

When streams flow backward to their source, And humbled flames descend, And mountains wing'd shall fly aloft, Then human sorrows end;

But human prudence too must cease, When sorrows domineer, When fortitude has lost its fire, And freezes into fear:

The pang most poignant of my life Now heightens my delight; I see a fair creation rise From chaos, and old night:

From what seem'd horror, and despair, The richest harvest rose; And gave me in the nod divine An absolute repose.

Of all the plunders of mankind, More gross, or frequent, none, Than in their grief and joy misplac'd, Eternally are shown.

But whither points all this parade? It says, that near you lies A book, perhaps yet unperus'd, Which you should greatly prize:

Of self-perusal, science rare! Few know the mighty gain; Learn'd prelates, self-unread, may read Their Bibles o'er in vain:

Self-knowledge, which from heaven itself (So sages tell us) came, What is it, but a daughter fair Of my maternal theme?

Unletter'd and untravel'd men An oracle might find, Would they consult their own contents, The Delphos of the mind.

Enter your bosom; there you'll meet A revelation new, A revelation personal; Which none can read but you.

There will you clearly read reveal'd In your enlighten'd thought, By mercies manifold, through life, To fresh remembrance brought,

A mighty Being! and in him A complicated friend, A father, brother, spouse; no dread Of death, divorce, or end:

Who such a matchless friend embrace, And lodge him in their heart, Full well, from agonies exempt, With other friends may part:

As when o'erloaded branches bear Large clusters big with wine, We scarce regret one falling leaf From the luxuriant vine.

My short advice to you may sound Obscure or somewhat odd, Though 'tis the best that man can give,— "E'en be content with God."

Through love he gave you the deceas'd, Through greater took him hence; This reason fully could evince, Though murmur'd at by sense.

This friend, far past the kindest kind, Is past the greatest great; His greatness let me touch in points Not foreign to your state;

His eye, this instant, reads your heart; A truth less obvious hear; This instant its most secret thoughts Are sounding in his ear:

Dispute you this? O! stand in awe, And cease your sorrow; know, That tears now trickling down, he saw Ten thousand years ago;

And twice ten thousand hence, if you Your temper reconcile To reason's bound, will he behold Your prudence with a smile;

A smile, which through eternity Diffuses so bright rays, The dimmest deifies e'en guilt, If guilt, at last, obeys:

Your guilt (for guilt it is to mourn When such a sovereign reigns), Your guilt diminish; peace pursue; How glorious peace in pains!

Here, then, your sorrows cease; if not, Think how unhappy they, Who guilt increase by streaming tears, Which guilt should wash away;

Of tears that gush profuse restrain; Whence burst those dismal sighs? They from the throbbing breast of one (Strange truth!) most happy rise;

Not angels (hear it, and exult!) Enjoy a larger share Than is indulg'd to you, and yours, Of God's impartial care;

Anxious for each, as if on each His care for all was thrown; For all his care as absolute, As all had been but one.

And is he then so near! so kind!— How little then, and great, That riddle, man! O! let me gaze At wonders in his fate;

His fate, who yesterday did crawl A worm from darkness deep, And shall, with brother worms, beneath A turf, to-morrow sleep;

How mean!—And yet, if well obey'd His mighty Master's call, The whole creation for mean man Is deem'd a boon too small:

Too small the whole creation deem'd For emmets in the dust! Account amazing! yet most true; My song is bold, yet just:

Man born for infinite, in whom Nor period can destroy The power, in exquisite extremes, To suffer, or enjoy;

Give him earth's empire (if no more) He's beggar'd, and undone! Imprison'd in unbounded space! Benighted by the sun!

For what the sun's meridian blaze To the most feeble ray Which glimmers from the distant dawn Of uncreated day?

'Tis not the poet's rapture feign'd Swells here the vain to please; The mind most sober kindles most At truths sublime as these;

They warm e'en me.—I dare not say, Divine ambition strove Not to bless only, but confound, Nay, fright us with its love;

And yet so frightful what, or kind, As that the rending rock, The darken'd sun, and rising dead, So formidable spoke?

And are we darker than that sun? Than rocks more hard, and blind? We are;—if not to such a God In agonies resigned.

Yes, e'en in agonies forbear To doubt almighty love; Whate'er endears eternity, Is mercy from above;

What most imbitters time, that most Eternity endears, And thus, by plunging in distress, Exalts us to the spheres;

Joy's fountain head! where bliss o'er bliss, O'er wonders wonders rise, And an Omnipotence prepares Its banquet for the wise:

Ambrosial banquet! rich in wines Nectareous to the soul! What transports sparkle from the stream, As angels fill the bowl!

Fountain profuse of every bliss! Good-will immense prevails; Man's line can't fathom its profound An angel's plummet fails.

Thy love and might, by what they know, Who judge, nor dream of more; They ask a drop, how deep the sea! One sand, how wide the shore!

Of thy exuberant good-will, Offended Deity! The thousandth part who comprehends, A deity is he.

How yonder ample azure field With radiant worlds is sown! How tubes astonish us with those More deep in ether thrown!

And those beyond of brighter worlds Why not a million more?— In lieu of answer, let us all Fall prostrate, and adore.

Since thou art infinite in power, Nor thy indulgence less; Since man, quite impotent and blind, Oft drops into distress;

Say, what is resignation? 'T is Man's weakness understood; And wisdom grasping, with a hand Far stronger, every good.

Let rash repiners stand appall'd, In thee who dare not trust; Whose abject souls, like demons dark, Are murmuring in the dust;

For man to murmur, or repine At what by thee is done, No less absurd, than to complain Of darkness in the sun.

Who would not, with a heart at ease, Bright eye, unclouded brow, Wisdom and goodness at the helm, The roughest ocean plough?

What, though I'm swallow'd in the deep? Though mountains o'er me roar? Jehovah reigns! as Jonah safe, I'm landed, and adore:

Thy will is welcome, let it wear Its most tremendous form; Roar, waves; rage, winds! I know that thou Canst save me by a storm.

From the immortal spirits born, To thee, their fountain, flow, If wise; as curl'd around to theirs Meandering streams below:

Not less compell'd by reason's call, To thee our souls aspire, Than to thy skies, by nature's law, High mounts material fire;

To thee aspiring they exult, I feel my spirits rise, I feel myself thy son, and pant For patrimonial skies;

Since ardent thirst of future good, And generous sense of past, To thee man's prudence strongly ties, And binds affection fast;

Since great thy love, and great our want, And men the wisest blind, And bliss our aim; pronounce us all Distracted, or resigned;

Resign'd through duty, interest, shame; Deep shame! dare I complain, When (wondrous truth!) in heaven itself Joy ow'd its birth to pain?

And pain for me! for me was drain'd Gall's overflowing bowl; And shall one drop to murmur bold Provoke my guilty soul?

If pardon'd this, what cause, what crime Can indignation raise? The sun was lighted up to shine, And man was born to praise;

And when to praise the man shall cease, Or sun to strike the view; A cloud dishonors both; but man's The blacker of the two:

For oh! ingratitude how black! With most profound amaze At love, which man belov'd o'erlooks, Astonish'd angels gaze.

Praise cheers, and warms, like generous wine; Praise, more divine than prayer; Prayer points our ready path to heaven; Praise is already there.

Let plausive resignation rise, And banish all complaint; All virtues thronging into one, It finishes the saint;

Makes the man bless'd, as man can be; Life's labours renders light; Darts beams through fate's incumbent gloom, And lights our sun by night;

'T is nature's brightest ornament, The richest gift of grace, Rival of angels, and supreme Proprietor of peace;

Nay, peace beyond, no small degree Of rapture 't will impart; Know, madam! when your heart's in heaven, "All heaven is in your heart."

But who to heaven their hearts can raise? Denied divine support, All virtue dies; support divine The wise with ardour court:

When prayer partakes the seraph's fire, 'T is mounted on his wing, Bursts thro' heaven's crystal gates, and Sure audience of its king:

The labouring soul from sore distress That bless'd expedient frees; I see you far advanc'd in peace; I see you on your knees:

How on that posture has the beam Divine for ever shone! An humble heart, God's other seat!(58) The rival of his throne:

And stoops Omnipotence so low! And condescends to dwell, Eternity's inhabitant, Well pleas'd, in such a cell?

Such honour how shall we repay? How treat our guest divine? The sacrifice supreme be slain! Let self-will die: resign.

Thus far, at large, on our disease; Now let the cause be shown, Whence rises, and will ever rise, The dismal human groan:

What our sole fountain of distress? Strong passion for this scene; That trifles make important, things Of mighty moment mean:

When earth's dark maxims poison shed On our polluted souls, Our hearts and interests fly as far Asunder, as the poles.

Like princes in a cottage nurs'd, Unknown their royal race, With abject aims, and sordid joys, Our grandeur we disgrace;

O! for an Archimedes new, Of moral powers possess'd, The world to move, and quite expel That traitor from the breast.

No small advantage may be reap'd From thought whence we descend; From weighing well, and prizing weigh'd Our origin, and end:

From far above the glorious sun To this dim scene we came: And may, if wise, for ever bask In great Jehovah's beam:

Let that bright beam on reason rous'd In awful lustre rise, Earth's giant ills are dwarf'd at once, And all disquiet dies.

Earth's glories too their splendour lose, Those phantoms charm no more; Empire's a feather for a fool, And Indian mines are poor:

Then levell'd quite, whilst yet alive, The monarch and his slave; Not wait enlighten'd minds to learn That lesson from the grave:

A George the Third would then be low As Lewis in renown, Could he not boast of glory more Than sparkles from a crown.

When human glory rises high As human glory can; When, though the king is truly great, Still greater is the man;

The man is dead, where virtue fails; And though the monarch proud In grandeur shines, his gorgeous robe Is but a gaudy shroud.

Wisdom! where art thou? None on earth, Though grasping wealth, fame, power, But what, O death! through thy approach, Is wiser every hour;

Approach how swift, how unconfin'd! Worms feast on viands rare, Those little epicures have kings To grace their bill of fare:

From kings what resignation due To that almighty will, Which thrones bestows, and, when they fail, Can throne them higher still!

Who truly great? The good and brave, The masters of a mind The will divine to do resolv'd, To suffer it resign'd.

Madam! if that may give it weight, The trifle you receive Is dated from a solemn scene, The border of the grave;

Where strongly strikes the trembling soul Eternity's dread power, As bursting on it through the thin Partition of an hour;

Hear this, Voltaire! but this, from me, Runs hazard of your frown; However, spare it; ere you die, Such thoughts will be your own.

In mercy to yourself forbear My notions to chastise, Lest unawares the gay Voltaire Should blame Voltaire the wise:

Fame's trumpet rattling in your ear, Now, makes us disagree; When a far louder trumpet sounds, Voltaire will close with me:

How shocking is that modesty, Which keeps some honest men From urging what their hearts suggest, When brav'd by folly's pen.

Assaulting truths, of which in all Is sown the sacred seed! Our constitution's orthodox, And closes with our creed:

What then are they, whose proud conceits Superior wisdom boast? Wretches, who fight their own belief, And labour to be lost!

Though vice by no superior joys Her heroes keeps in pay; Through pure disinterested love Of ruin they obey!

Strict their devotion to the wrong, Though tempted by no prize; Hard their commandments, and their creed A magazine of lies

From fancy's forge: gay fancy smiles At reason plain, and cool; Fancy, whose curious trade it is To make the finest fool.

Voltaire! long life's the greatest curse That mortals can receive, When they imagine the chief end Of living is to live;

Quite thoughtless of their day of death, That birthday of their sorrow! Knowing, it may be distant far, Nor crush them till—to-morrow.

These are cold, northern thoughts, conceiv'd Beneath an humble cot; Not mine, your genius, or your state, No castle is my lot:(59)

But soon, quite level shall we lie; And, what pride most bemoans, Our parts, in rank so distant now, As level as our bones;

Hear you that sound? Alarming sound! Prepare to meet your fate! One, who writes finis to our works, Is knocking at the gate;

Far other works will soon be weigh'd; Far other judges sit; Far other crowns be lost or won, Than fire ambitious wit:

Their wit far brightest will be prov'd, Who sunk it in good sense; And veneration most profound Of dread omnipotence.

'Tis that alone unlocks the gate Of blest eternity; O! mayst thou never, never lose That more than golden key!(60)

Whate'er may seem too rough excuse, Your good I have at heart: Since from my soul I wish you well; As yet we must not part:

Shall you, and I, in love with life, Life's future schemes contrive, The world in wonder not unjust, That we are still alive?

What have we left? How mean in man A shadow's shade to crave! When life, so vain! is vainer still, 'Tis time to take your leave:

Happier, than happiest life, is death, Who, falling in the field Of conflict with his rebel will, Writes vici, on his shield;

So falling man, immortal heir Of an eternal prize; Undaunted at the gloomy grave, Descends into the skies.

O! how disorder'd our machine, When contradictions mix! When nature strikes no less than twelve, And folly points at six!

To mend the moments of your heart, How great is my delight Gently to wind your morals up, And set your hand aright!

That hand, which spread your wisdom wide To poison distant lands: Repent, recant; the tainted age Your antidote demands;

To Satan dreadfully resign'd, Whole herds rush down the steep Of folly, by lewd wits possess'd, And perish in the deep.

Men's praise your vanity pursues; 'Tis well, pursue it still; But let it be of men deceas'd, And you'll resign the will;

And how superior they to those At whose applause you aim; How very far superior they In number, and in name!



Postscript.

Thus have I written, when to write No mortal should presume; Or only write, what none can blame, Hic jacet—for his tomb:

The public frowns, and censures loud My puerile employ; Though just the censure, if you smile, The scandal I enjoy;

But sing no more—no more I sing Or reassume the lyre, Unless vouchsaf'd an humble part Where Raphael leads the choir:

What myriads swell the concert loud! Their golden harps resound High as the footstool of the throne, And deep as hell profound:

Hell (horrid contrast!) chord and song Of raptur'd angels drowns In self-will's peal of blasphemies, And hideous burst of groans;

But drowns them not to me; I hear Harmonious thunders roll (In language low of men to speak) From echoing pole to pole!

Whilst this grand chorus shakes the skies— "Above, beneath the sun, Through boundless age, by men, by gods, Jehovah's will be done!"

'Tis done in heaven; whence headlong hurl'd Self-will with Satan fell; And must from earth be banish'd too, Or earth's another hell;

Madam! self-will inflicts your pains: Self-will's the deadly foe Which deepens all the dismal shades, And points the shafts of woe:

Your debt to nature fully paid, Now virtue claims her due: But virtue's cause I need not plead, 'Tis safe; I write to you:

You know, that virtue's basis lies In ever judging right; And wiping error's clouds away, Which dim the mental sight:

Why mourn the dead? you wrong the grave, From storm that safe resort; We still are tossing out at sea, Our admiral in port.

Was death denied, this world, a scene How dismal and forlorn! To death we owe, that 'tis to man A blessing to be born;

When every other blessing fails, Or sapp'd by slow decay, Or, storm'd by sudden blasts of fate, Is swiftly whirl'd away;

How happy! that no storm, or time, Of death can rob the just! None pluck from their unaching heads Soft pillows in the dust!

Well pleas'd to bear heaven's darkest frown, Your utmost power employ; 'Tis noble chemistry to turn Necessity to joy.

Whate'er the colour of my fate, My fate shall be my choice: Determin'd am I, whilst I breathe, To praise and to rejoice;

What ample cause! triumphant hope! O rich eternity! I start not at a world in flames, Charm'd with one glimpse of thee:

And thou! its great inhabitant! How glorious dost thou shine! And dart through sorrow, danger, death, A beam of joy divine!

The void of joy (with some concern The truth severe I tell) Is an impenitent in guilt, A fool or infidel!

Weigh this, ye pupils of Voltaire! From joyless murmur free; Or, let us know, which character Shall crown you of the three.

Resign, resign: this lesson none Too deeply can instill; A crown has been resign'd by more, Than have resign'd the will;

Though will resign'd the meanest makes Superior in renown, And richer in celestial eyes, Than he who wears a crown;

Hence, in the bosom cold of age, It kindled a strange aim To shine in song; and bid me boast The grandeur of my theme:

But oh! how far presumption falls Its lofty theme below! Our thoughts in life's December freeze, And numbers cease to flow.

First! greatest! best! grant what I wrote For others, ne'er may rise To brand the writer! thou alone Canst make our wisdom wise;

And how unwise! how deep in guilt! How infamous the fault! "A teacher thron'd in pomp of words, Indeed, beneath the taught!"

Means most infallible to make The world an infidel; And, with instructions most divine, To pave a path to hell;

O! for a clean and ardent heart, O! for a soul on fire, Thy praise, begun on earth, to sound Where angels string the lyre;

How cold is man! to him how hard (Hard, what most easy seems) "To set a just esteem on that, Which yet he—most esteems!"

What shall we say, when boundless bliss Is offer'd to mankind, And to that offer when a race Of rationals is blind?

Of human nature ne'er too high Are our ideas wrought; Of human merit ne'er too low Depress'd the daring thought.



ON THE LATE QUEEN'S DEATH, AND HIS MAJESTY'S ACCESSION TO THE THRONE

Inscribed to Joseph Addison, Esq. Secretary to Their Excellencies the Lords Justices.

Gaudia curis.

—HOR.

Sir, I have long, and with impatience, sought To ease the fulness of my grateful thought, My fame at once, and duty to pursue, And please the public, by respect to you. Though you, long since beyond Britannia known, Have spread your country's glory with your own; To me you never did more lovely shine, Than when so late the kindled wrath divine Quench'd our ambition, in great Anna's fate, And darken'd all the pomp of human state. Though you are rich in fame, and fame decay, Though rais'd in life, and greatness fade away, Your lustre brightens: virtue cuts the gloom With purer rays, and sparkles near a tomb. Know, sir, the great esteem and honour due, I chose that moment to profess to you, When sadness reign'd, when fortune, so severe, Had warm'd our bosoms to be most sincere. And when no motives could have force to raise A serious value, and provoke my praise, But such as rise above, and far transcend, Whatever glories with this world shall end, Then shining forth, when deepest shades shall blot The sun's bright orb, and Cato be forgot. I sing—but ah! my theme I need not tell, See every eye with conscious sorrow swell: Who now to verse would raise his humble voice, Can only show his duty, not his choice. How great the weight of grief our hearts sustain! We languish, and to speak is to complain. Let us look back, (for who too oft can view That most illustrious scene, for ever new!) See all the seasons shine on Anna's throne, And pay a constant tribute, not their own. Her summer's heats nor fruits alone bestow, They reap the harvest, and subdue the foe; And when black storms confess the distant sun, Her winters wear the wreaths her summers won. Revolving pleasures in their turns appear, And triumphs are the product of the year. To crown the whole, great joys in greater cease, And glorious victory is lost in peace. Whence this profusion on our favour'd isle? Did partial fortune on our virtue smile? Or did the sceptre, in great Anna's hand, Stretch forth this rich indulgence o'er our land? Ungrateful Britain! quit thy groundless claim, Thy queen and thy good fortune are the same. Hear, with alarms our trumpets fill the sky; 'Tis Anna reigns! the Gallic squadrons fly. We spread our canvass to the southern shore; 'Tis Anna reigns! the south resigns her store. Her virtue smooths the tumult of the main, And swells the field with mountains of the slain Argyll and Churchill but the glory share, While millions lie subdu'd by Anna's prayer. How great her zeal! how fervent her desire! How did her soul in holy warmth expire! Constant devotion did her time divide, Not set returns of pleasure or of pride. Not want of rest, or the sun's parting ray, But finish'd duty, limited the day. How sweet succeeding sleep! what lovely themes Smil'd in her thoughts, and soften'd all her dreams! Her royal couch descending angels spread, And join'd their wings a shelter o'er her head. Though Europe's wealth and glory claim'd a part, Religion's cause reign'd mistress of her heart: She saw, and griev'd to see, the mean estate Of those who round the hallow'd altar wait; She shed her bounty, piously profuse, And thought it more her own in sacred use. Thus on his furrow see the tiller stand, And fill with genial seed his lavish hand; He trusts the kindness of the fruitful plain, And providently scatters all his grain. What strikes my sight? does proud Augusta rise New to behold, and awfully surprise! Her lofty brow more numerous turrets crown, And sacred domes on palaces look down: A noble pride of piety is shown, And temples cast a lustre on the throne. How would this work another's glory raise! But Anna's greatness robs her of the praise. Drown'd in a brighter blaze it disappears, Who dried the widow's and the orphan's tears? Who stoop'd from high to succour the distrest And reconcile the wounded heart to rest? Great in her goodness, well could we perceive, Whoever sought, it was a queen that gave. Misfortune lost her name, her guiltless frown But made another debtor to the crown; And each unfriendly stroke from fate we bore, Became our title to the regal store. Thus injur'd trees adopt a foreign shoot, And their wounds blossom with a fairer fruit. Ye numbers, who on your misfortunes thriv'd, When first the dreadful blast of fame arriv'd, Say what a shock, what agonies you felt, How did your souls with tender anguish melt! That grief which living Anna's love suppress'd, Shook like a tempest every grateful breast, A second fate our sinking fortunes tried! A second time our tender parents died! Heroes returning from the field we crown, And deify the haughty victor's frown. His splendid wealth too rashly we admire, Catch the disease, and burn with equal fire: Wisely to spend, is the great art of gain; And one reliev'd transcends a million slain. When time shall ask, where once Ramillia lay, Or Danube flow'd that swept whole troops away, One drop of water, that refresh'd the dry, Shall rise a fountain of eternal joy. But ah! to that unknown and distant date Is virtue's great reward push'd off by fate; Here random shafts in every breast are found, Virtue and merit but provoke the wound. August in native worth and regal state, Anna sate arbitress of Europe's fate; To distant realms did every accent fly, And nations watch'd each motion of her eye. Silent, nor longer awful to be seen, How small a spot contains the mighty queen! No throng of suppliant princes mark the place, Where Britain's greatness is compos'd in peace: The broken earth is scarce discern'd to rise, And a stone tells us where the monarch lies. Thus end maturest honours of the crown! This is the last conclusion of renown! So when with idle skill the wanton boy Breathes through his tube; he sees, with eager joy, The trembling bubble, in its rising small; And by degrees expands the glittering ball. But when, to full perfection blown, it flies High in the air, and shines in various dyes, The little monarch, with a falling tear, Sees his world burst at once, and disappear, 'Tis not in sorrow to reverse our doom, No groans unlock th' inexorable tomb! Why then this fond indulgence of our woe! What fruit can rise, or what advantage flow! Yes, this advantage; from our deep distress We learn how much in George the gods can bless Had a less glorious princess left the throne, But half the hero had at first been shown: An Anna falling all the king employs, To vindicate from guilt our rising joys: Our joys arise and innocently shine, Auspicious monarch! what a praise is thine! Welcome, great stranger, to Britannia's throne! Nor let thy country think thee all her own. Of thy delay how oft did we complain! Our hopes reach'd out, and met thee on the main. With prayer we smooth the billows for thy fleet; With ardent wishes fill thy swelling sheet; And when thy foot took place on Albion's shore, We bending bless'd the gods, and ask'd no more. What hand but thine should conquer and compose, Join those whom interest joins, and chase our foes? Repel the daring youth's presumptuous aim, And by his rival's greatness give him fame? Now in some foreign court he may sit down, And quit without a blush the British crown. Secure his honour, though he lose his store, And take a lucky moment to be poor. Nor think, great sir, now first, at this late hour, In Britain's favour, you exert your power; To us, far back in time, I joy to trace The numerous tokens of your princely grace. Whether you chose to thunder on the Rhine, Inspire grave councils, or in courts to shine; In the more scenes your genius was display'd, The greater debt was on Britannia laid: They all conspir'd this mighty man to raise, And your new subjects proudly share the praise. All share; but may not we have leave to boast That we contemplate, and enjoy it most? This ancient nurse of arts, indulged by fate On gentle Isis' bank, a calm retreat; For many roiling ages justly fam'd, Has through the world her loyalty proclaim'd; And often pour'd (too well the truth is known!) Her blood and treasure to support the throne! For England's church her latest accents strain'd; And freedom with his dying hand retain'd. No wonder then her various ranks agree In all the fervencies of zeal for thee. What though thy birth a distant kingdom boast, And seas divide thee from the British coast? The crown's impatient to enclose thy head: Why stay thy feet? the cloth of gold is spread. Our strict obedience through the world shall tell That king's a Briton, who can govern well!



THE INSTALMENT.

To the Right Hon. Sir Robert Walpole, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.

Quaesitam meritis.

—HOR.

With invocations some their breasts inflame; I need no muse, a Walpole is my theme. Ye mighty dead, ye garter'd sons of praise! Our morning stars! our boast in former days! Which hovering o'er, your purple wings display, Lur'd by the pomp of this distinguish'd day, Stoop, and attend: by one, the knee be bound; One, throw the mantle's crimson folds around; By that, the sword on his proud thigh be plac'd; This, clasp the diamond girdle round his waist; His breast, with rays, let just Godolphin spread; Wise Burleigh plant the plumage on his head; And Edward own, since first he fix'd the race, None press'd fair glory with a swifter pace. When fate would call some mighty genius forth To wake a drooping age to godlike worth, Or aid some favourite king's illustrious toil, It bids his blood with generous ardour boil; His blood, from virtue's celebrated source, Pour'd down the steep of time, a lengthen'd course; That men prepar'd may just attention pay, Warn'd by the dawn to mark the glorious day, When all the scatter'd merits of his line Collected to a point, intensely shine. See, Britain, see thy Walpole shine from far, His azure ribbon, and his radiant star; A star that, with auspicious beams, shall guide Thy vessel safe, through fortune's roughest tide. If peace still smiles, by this shall commerce steer A finish'd course, in triumph round the sphere; And, gathering tribute from each distant shore, In Britain's lap the world's abundance pour. If war's ordain'd, this star shall dart its beams Through that black cloud which, rising from the Thames, With thunder, form'd of Brunswick's wrath, is sent To claim the seas, and awe the continent. This shall direct it where the bolt to throw, A star for us, a comet to the foe. At this the muse shall kindle, and aspire: My breast, O Walpole, glows with grateful fire. The streams of royal bounty, turn'd by thee, Refresh the dry domains of poesy. My fortune shows, when arts are Walpole's care, What slender worth forbids us to despair: Be this thy partial smile from censure free; 'Twas meant for merit, though it fell on me. Since Brunswick's smile has authoris'd my muse, Chaste be her conduct, and sublime her views. False praises are the whoredoms of the pen, Which prostitute fair fame to worthless men: This profanation of celestial fire Makes fools despise, what wise men should admire. Let those I praise to distant times be known, Not by their author's merit, but their own. If others think the task is hard, to weed From verse rank flattery's vivacious seed, And rooted deep; one means must set them free, Patron! and patriot! let them sing of thee. While vulgar trees ignobler honours wear, Nor those retain, when winter chills the year; The generous orange, favourite of the sun, With vigorous charms can through the seasons run; Defies the storm with her tenacious green; And flowers and fruits in rival pomp are seen: Where blossoms fall, still fairer blossoms spring; And midst their sweets the feather'd poets sing. On Walpole, thus, may pleas'd Britannia view At once her ornament and profit too; The fruit of service, and the bloom of fame, Matur'd and gilded by the royal beam. He, when the nipping blasts of envy rise Its guilt can pity, and its rage despise; Lets fall no honours, but, securely great, Unfaded holds the colour of his fate: No winter knows, though ruffling factions press; By wisdom deeply rooted in success; One glory shed, a brighter is display'd;(61) And the charm'd muses shelter in his shade. O how I long, enkindled by the theme, In deep eternity to launch thy name! Thy name in view, no rights of verse I plead, But what chaste truth indites, old time shall read. "Behold! a man of ancient faith and blood, Which, soon, beat high for arts, and public good; Whose glory great, but natural appears, The genuine growth of services and years; No sudden exhalation drawn on high, And fondly gilt by partial majesty: One bearing greatest toils with greatest ease, One born to serve us, and yet born to please: Whom, while our rights in equal scales he lays, The prince may trust, and yet the people praise; His genius ardent, yet his judgment clear, His tongue is flowing, and his heart sincere, His counsel guides, his temper cheers our isle, And, smiling, gives three kingdoms cause to smile." Joy then to Britain, blest with such a son, To Walpole joy, by whom the prize is won; Who nobly conscious meets the smiles of fate; True greatness lies in daring to be great. Let dastard souls, or affectation, run To shades, nor wear bright honours fairly won; Such men prefer, misled by false applause, The pride of modesty to virtue's cause. Honours, which make the face of virtue fair, 'Tis great to merit, and 'tis wise to wear; 'Tis holding up the prize to public view, Confirms grown virtue, and inflames the new; Heightens the lustre of our age and clime, And sheds rich seeds of worth for future time. Proud chiefs alone, in fields of slaughter fam'd, Of old, this azure bloom of glory claim'd, As when stern Ajax pour'd a purple flood, The violet rose, fair daughter of his blood. Now rival wisdom dares the wreath divide, And both Minervas rise in equal pride; Proclaiming loud, a monarch fills the throne, Who shines illustrious not in wars alone. Let fame look lovely in Britannia's eyes; They coldly court desert, who fame despise. For what's ambition, but fair virtue's sail? And what applause, but her propitious gale? When swell'd with that, she fleets before the wind To glorious aims, as to the port design'd; When chain'd, without it, to the labouring oar, She toils! she pants! nor gains the flying shore, From her sublime pursuits, or turn'd aside By blasts of envy, or by fortune's tide: For one that has succeeded ten are lost, Of equal talents, ere they make the coast. Then let renown to worth divine incite, With all her beams, but throw those beams aright. Then merit droops, and genius downward tends, When godlike glory, like our land, descends. Custom the garter long confin'd to few, And gave to birth, exalted virtue's due: Walpole has thrown the proud enclosure down; And high desert embraces fair renown. Though rival'd, let the peerage smiling see (Smiling, in justice to their own degree) This proud reward by majesty bestow'd On worth like that whence first the peerage flow'd. From frowns of fate Britannia's bliss'd to guard, Let subjects merit, and let kings reward. Gods are most gods by giving to excel, And kings most like them, by rewarding well. Though strong the twanging nerve, and drawn aright, Short is the winged arrow's upward flight; But if an eagle it transfix on high, Lodg'd in the wound, it soars into the sky.

Thus while I sing thee with unequal lays, And wound perhaps that worth I mean to praise; Yet I transcend myself, I rise in fame, Not lifted by my genius, but my theme. No more: for in this dread suspense of fate, Now kingdoms fluctuate, and in dark debate Weigh peace and war, now Europe's eyes are bent On mighty Brunswick, for the great event, Brunswick of kings the terror or defence! Who dares detain thee at a world's expense?



AND EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HON. GEORGE LORD LANSDOWNE.

1712.

Parnassia laurus Parva sub ingenti matris se subjicit umbra.

—VIRG.

When Rome, my lord, in her full glory shone, And great Augustus rul'd the globe alone, While suppliant kings in all their pomp and state Swarm'd in his courts, and throng'd his palace gate; Horace did oft the mighty man detain, And sooth'd his breast with no ignoble strain; Now soar'd aloft, now struck an humbler string; And taught the Roman genius how to sing. Pardon, if I his freedom dare pursue, Who know no want of Caesar, finding you; The muse's friend is pleas'd the muse should press Through circling crowds, and labor for access, That partial to his darling he may prove, And shining throngs for her reproach remove, To all the world industrious to proclaim His love of arts, and boast the glorious flame. Long has the western world reclin'd her head, Pour'd forth her sorrow, and bewail'd her dead; Fell discord through her borders fiercely rang'd, And shook her nations, and her monarchs chang'd; By land and sea, its utmost rage employ'd; Nor heaven repair'd so fast as men destroy'd. In vain kind summers plentuous fields bestow'd, In vain the vintage liberally flow'd; Alarms from loaden boards all pleasures chas'd, And robb'd the rich Burgundian grape of taste; The smiles of Nature could no blessing bring, The fruitful autumn, or the flowery spring; Time was distinguish'd by the sword and spear, Not by the various aspects of the year; The trumpet's sound proclaim'd a milder sky, And bloodshed told us when the sun was nigh. But now (so soon is Britain's blessing seen, When such as you are near her glorious queen!) Now peace, though long repuls'd, arrives at last, And bids us smile on all our labours past; Bids every nation cease her wonted moan, And every monarch call his crown his own: To valour gentler virtues now succeed; No longer is the great man born to bleed; Renown'd in councils, brave Argyle shall tell, Wisdom and prowess in one breast may dwell: Through milder tracts he soars to deathless fame, And without trembling we resound his name. No more the rising harvest whets the sword, No longer waves uncertain of its lord; Who cast the seed, the golden sheaf shall claim, Nor chance of battle change the master's name. Each stream unstain'd with blood more smoothly flows; The brighter sun a fuller day bestows; All nature seems to wear a cheerful face, And thank great Anna for returning peace. The patient thus, when on his bed of pain, No longer he invokes the gods in vain, But rises to new life; in every field He finds Elysium, rivers nectar yield; Nothing so cheap and vulgar but can please, And borrow beauties from his late disease. Nor is it peace alone, but such a peace, As more than bids the rage of battle cease. Death may determine war, and rest succeed, 'Cause nought survives on which our rage may feed: In faithful friends we lose our glorious foes, And strifes of love exalt our sweet repose. See graceful Bolingbroke, your friend, advance, Nor miss his Lansdowne in the court of France; So well receiv'd, so welcome, so at home, (Blest change of fate,) in Bourbon's stately dome; The monarch pleas'd, descending from his throne, Will not that Anna call him all her own; He claims a part, and looking round to find Something might speak the fulness of his mind, A diamond shines, which oft had touch'd him near, Renew'd his grief, and robb'd him of a tear; Now first with joy beheld, well plac'd on one, Who makes him less regret his darling son; So dear is Anna's minister, so great, Your glorious friend in his own private state. To make our nations longer two, in vain Does nature interpose the raging main: The Gallic shore to distant Britain grows, For Lewis Thames, the Seine for Anna flows: From conflicts pass'd each other's worth we find, And thence in stricter friendship now are join'd; Each wound receiv'd, now pleads the cause of love, And former injuries endearments prove. What Briton but must prize th' illustrious sword, That cause of fear to Churchill could afford? Who sworn to Bourbon's sceptre, but must frame Vast thoughts of him, that could brave Tallard tame? Thus generous hatred in affection ends, And war, which rais'd the foes, completes the friends. A thousand happy consequences flow (The dazzling prospect makes my bosom glow); Commerce shall lift her swelling sails, and roll Her wealthy fleets secure from pole to pole; The British merchant, who with care and pain For many moons sees only skies and main; When now in view of his loved native shore, The perils of the dreadful ocean o'er, Cause to regret his wealth no more shall find, Nor curse the mercy of the sea and wind; By hardest fate condemn'd to serve a foe, And give him strength to strike a deeper blow. Sweet Philomela providently flies To distant woods and streams, for such supplies, To feed her young, and make them try the wing, And with their tender notes attempt to sing: Meanwhile, the fowler spreads his secret snare, And renders vain the tuneful mother's care. Britannia's bold adventurer of late The foaming ocean plow'd with equal fate. Goodness is greatness in its utmost height, And power a curse, if not a friend to right: To conquer is to make dissension cease, That man may serve the King of kings in peace. Religion now shall all her rays dispense, And shine abroad in perfect excellence; Else we may dread some greater curse at hand, To scourge a thoughtless and ungrateful land: Now war is weary, and retir'd to rest; The meagre famine, and the spotted pest, Deputed in her stead, may blast the day, And sweep the relics of the sword away. When peaceful Numa fill'd the Roman throne, Jove in the fulness of his glory shone; Wise Solomon, a stranger to the sword, Was born to raise a temple to the Lord. Anne too shall build, and every sacred pile Speak peace eternal to Britannia's isle. Those mighty souls, whom military care Diverted from their only great affair, Shall bend their full united force, to bless Th' Almighty Author of their late success. And what is all the world subdued to this? The grave sets bounds to sublunary bliss; But there are conquests to great Anna known, Above the splendour of an earthly throne; Conquests! whose triumph is too great, within The scanty bounds of matter to begin; Too glorious to shine forth, till it has run Beyond this darkness of the stars and sun, And shall whole ages past be still, still but begun. Heroic shades! whom war has swept away, Look down, and smile on this auspicious day: Now boast your deaths; to those your glory tell, Who or at Agincourt or Cressy fell; Then deep into eternity retire, Of greater things than peace or war inquire; Fully content, and unconcern'd, to know What farther passes in the world below. The bravest of mankind shall now have leave To die but once, nor piece-meal seek the grave: On gain or pleasure bent, we shall not meet Sad melancholy numbers in each street (Owners of bones dispers'd on Flandria's plain, Or wasting in the bottom of the main); To turn us back from joy, in tender fear, Lest it an insult of their woes appear, And make us grudge ourselves that wealth, their blood Perhaps preserv'd, who starve, or beg for food. Devotion shall run pure, and disengage From that strange fate of mixing peace with rage. On heaven without a sin we now may call, And guiltless to our Maker prostrate fall; Be Christians while we pray, nor in one breath Ask mercy for ourselves, for others death. But O! I view with transport arts restor'd, Which double use to Britain shall afford; Secure her glory purchas'd in the field, And yet for future peace sweet motives yield: While we contemplate on the painted wall, The pressing Briton, and the flying Gaul, In such bright images, such living grace, As leave great Raphael but the second place; Our cheeks shall glow, our heaving bosoms rise, And martial ardours sparkle in our eyes; Much we shall triumph in our battles past, And yet consent those battles prove our last; Lest, while in arms for brighter fame we strive, We lose the means to keep that fame alive. In silent groves the birds delight to sing, Or near the margin of a secret spring: Now all is calm, sweet music shall improve, Nor kindle rage, but be the nurse of love. But what's the warbling voice, the trembling string, Or breathing canvass, when the muses sing? The muse, my lord, your care above the rest, With rising joy dilates my partial breast; The thunder of the battle ceas'd to roar, Ere Greece her godlike poets taught to soar; Rome's dreadful foe, great Hannibal, was dead, And all her warlike neighbours round her bled; For Janus shut, her Ioe Paeans rung, Before an Ovid or a Virgil sung. A thousand various forms the muse may wear, (A thousand various forms become the fair;) But shines in none with more majestic mien, Than when in state she draws the purple scene; Calls forth her monarchs, bids her heroes rage, And mourning beauty melt the crowded stage; Charms back past ages, gives to Britain's use The noblest virtues time did e'er produce; Leaves fam'd historians' boasted