Horæ lyricæ: Poems, chiefly of the lyric kind. In two books. ... By I. Watts.

BOOK II.

Odes, Elegies and Epistles, &c. SACRED TO VERTUE, LOYALTY AND FRIENDSHIP.

TO Her MAJESTY.

QUEEN of the Northern World, whose gentle Sway Invites our Love, and binds our Hearts t' Obey:

Forgive the Nation's Groan when William dy'd; Lo, at thy Feet in all the Loyal Pride Of rising Joy Three Happy Realms appear, And William's Urn almost without a Tear Stands; nor Complains: While from thy Gracious Tongue Peace flows in Silver Streams amidst the Throng. Amazing Balm, that on those Lips was found To heal the Twinges of that Mortal Wound, The Danger, and the Scar! Far-distant Lands Whose Lives lay trusted in Nassovian Hands Transfer their Souls, and live; secure they Play In thy Mild Rays, and feel a growing Day.

Thy beamy Wing at once defends and warms Fainting Devotion; whilst in various Forms Fair Piety shines thro' the Brittish Isles: Here at thy Side, and in thy kindest Smiles Blazing in Ornamental Gold she stands, To Bless thy Councils, and Assist thy Hands, And Crowds wait round her to receive Commands.

There at a Humble distance from the Throne Beauteous She lies; Her Lustre all her own, Ungarnish'd; yet not blushing, nor afraid, Nor knows Suspicion, nor affects the Shade. In Words of Solemn Form, or with a freer Cry Warm as our Zeal for Thee, We Both address the Sky, Vow for thy Safety Both, and live beneath thine Eye.

PRINCESS, the World already owns thy Name; Go, mount the Chariot of Immortal Fame, Nor Die to be Renown'd: Fames loudest Breath Too dear is purchas'd by an Angels Death. The Thunder of thy Hand with general Joy Shall crush Rebellion and the Rival Boy: Thy Sounding Arms his Gallick Patron hears, And speeds his Flight; nor overtakes his Fears Till hard Despair wring from the Tyrant's Soul The Iron Tears out. Let thy Frown controul Our Angry Jarrs at Home, till Wrath submit Her Bloody Banners to thine Awful Feet▪

Mad Zeal and Frenzy with their Murtherous Train Flee these Blest Realms in thine Auspicious Reign, Envy expire in Rage, and Treason bite the Chain.

Let no black Scenes affright the Brittish Stage, Thy Thread of Life prolong our Golden Age, Long bless the Earth: Then rise and shine on high The fairest Glory of the Western Sky; There check the Rays of each Malignant Star, Heal the dire Pestilence, forbid the War, Warm the chill North, Sooth the two Rugged Bears, And stretch thy Peaceful Influence to the Southern Spheres.

TO Mr. John Lock Retired from The World of Business.

I.

ANGELS are made of Heavenly Things, And Light and Love our Souls compose, Their Bliss within their Bosom springs, Within their Bosom flows. But narrow Minds still make pretence To search the Coasts of Flesh and Sence, And fetch Diviner Pleasures thence. Men are akin to Ethereal Forms, But they belye their Nobler Birth, Debase their Honour down to Earth, And claim a share with Worms.

II.

He that has Treasures of his own May leave the Cottage or the Throne, May Quit the Globe, and dwell alone Within his spacious Mind. LOCK hath a Soul wide as the Sea, Calm as the Night, bright as the Day, There may his vast Idea's play, Nor feel a Thought confin'd.

TO Mr. JOHN SHUTE ON Mr. LOCK's Dangerous Sick∣ness sometime after he had re∣tired to study the Scriptures.

June 1704.

I.

AND must the Man of wondrous Mind (Now his rich Thoughts are just refin'd) Forsake our Longing Eyes? Reason at length submits to wear The Wings of Faith, and Lo they rear Her Chariot high, and nobly bear Her Prophet to the Skies.

II.

Go, Friend, and wait the Prophet's Flight, Watch if his Mantle chance to light And seize it for thy own; SHUTE is the Darling of his Years, Young SHUTE his better Likeness bears, All but his Wrinkles and his Hairs Are copy'd in his Son.

III.

Thus when our Follies or our Fau'ts Call for the Pity of thy Thoughts, Thy Pen shall make us wise: The Sallies of whose Youthful Wit Could pierce the British Fogs with Light, Place our true Interest in our Sight, And open half our Eyes.

FRIENDSHIP.

TO Mr. William Nokes.

1702.

I.

FRIENDSHIP, thou Charmer of the Mind, Thou sweet deluding III, The brightest Minute Mortals find, And sharpest Hour we feel.

II.

Fate has divided all our shares Of Pleasure and of Pain, In Love the Comforts and the Cares Are mix'd and joyn'd again.

III.

But whilst in Floods our Sorrow rolls, And Drops of Joy are few, This dear Delight of Mingling Souls Serves but to swell our Woe.

IV.

Oh! why should Bliss depart in haste, And Friendship stay to moan? Why the fond Passion cling so fast, When every Joy is gone?

V.

Yet never let our Hearts divide, Not Death dissolve the Chain: For Love and Joy were once ally'd, And must be joyn'd again.

TO Nathanael Gould Esq

Lawful Ambition.

1704.

I.

'TIS not by Splendor, or by State, Majestick Mien, or lofty Gate My Muse takes Measure of a King: If Wealth or Height or Bulk will do, She calls each Mountain of Peru A more Exalted thing. Frown on me, Friend, if e're I boast O're Fellow Minds, enslav'd in Clay, Or swell when I shall have ingross't A larger Heap of Shining Dust, And wear a bigger Load of Earth than they.

Let the vain World Salute me loud, My Thoughts look inward, and forget The Sounding Names of High and Great, The Flatteries of the Crowd.

II.

When GOVLD commands His Ships to run And Search the Traffick of the Sea, His Fleet o'retakes the falling Day, And bears the Western Mines away, Or Richer Spices from the Rising Sun: While the glad Tenants of the Shoar Shout and pronounce him Senator, Yet still the Man's the same: For well the Happy Merchant knows The Soul with Treasure never grows, Nor swells with airy Fame.

III.

But trust me GOULD, 'tis lawful Pride To rise above the mean Controul Of Flesh and Sence to which we're ty'd; This is Ambition that becomes a Soul.

We steer our Course up thro' the Skies, Farewel this Barren Land: We ken the Heavenly Shoar with longing Eyes, There the dear Wealth of Spirits lies, And beckoning Angels stand.

TO Dr. Thomas Gibson.

The Life of Souls.

1704.

I.

SWIFT as the Sun rolls round the Day We hasten to the Dead, Slaves to the Wind we puff away, And to the Ground we tread. 'Tis Air that lends us Life, when first The vital Bellows heave;

Our Flesh We borrow of the Dust, And when a Mothers Care has Nurst The Babe to Manly size, we must With Usury pay the Grave. Juleps still tend the dying Flame, And Roots and Herbs play well their Game To save our sinking Breath, While GIBSON brings his awful Power To rescue the precarious Hour From the Demands of Death.

II.

I'de have a Life to call my Own That shall depend on Heaven alone; Nor Air, nor Earth, nor Sea Mix their base Essences with mine, Nor claim Dominion so Divine To give me leave to Be.

III.

Sure there's a Mind within, that reigns O're the dull current of my Veins, I feel the Inward Pulse bear high With vigorous Immortality.

Let Earth resume the Flesh it gave, And Breath dissolve amongst the Winds; GIBSON, the things that fear a Grave, That I can loose, or You can save, Are not akin to Minds.

IV.

We claim acquaintance with the Skies, Upward our Spirits hourly rise, And there our Thoughts Employ: When Heaven shall sign our Grand Release, We are no Strangers to the Place, The Business, or the Joy.

TO My Brothers E. and T. W.

False Greatness.

1698.

I.

BROTHERS, forbear to call him Blest That only has a large Estate, Should all the Treasures of the West Meet and Conspire to make him Great. Let a broad Stream with Golden Sands Thro' all his Meadows roll, He's but a Wretch with all his Lands That wears a narrow Soul.

II.

He swells amidst his wealthy Store, And proudly poizing what he weighs,

In his own Scale he fondly lays Huge Heaps of Shining Oar, He spreads the Balance wide to hold His Mannors and his Farms, And cheats the Beam with Loads of Gold He hugs between his Arms. So might the Plough-boy climb a Tree, When Craesus mounts his Throne, And both stand up and smile to see How long their Shadow's grown; Alass! how vain their Fancies be, To think that Shape their own.

III.

Thus mingled still with Wealth and State Craesus himself can never know; His true Dimensions, and his Weight Are far inferiour to their show; Were I so tall to reach the Pole, Or grasp the Ocean with my Span, I must be measur'd by my Soul. The Mind's the Standard of the Man.

TO Mr. A. S. and Mr. T. H.

STRICT RELIGION Exceeding Rare.

1705.

I.

I'ME born aloft and leave the Croud, I sail upon a Morning-Cloud Skirted with dawning Gold: Mine Eyes beneath the opening Day Command the Globe with wide survey, Where Ants in busie Millions play And tug and heave the Mould.

II.

"Are These the things, my Passion cry'd, "That we call Men? Are These ally'd "To the fair Worlds of Light?

"They have ras'd out their Maker's Name "Grav'n on their Minds with pointed Flame "In Strokes Divinely bright.

III.

"Wretches, they hate their Native Skies: "If an Ethereal Thought arise "Or Spark of Vertue shine, "With cruel Force they damp its Plumes, "Choke the Young Fire with sensual Fumes, "And Chain their Souls to Sin.

IV.

"Lo, how they throng with panting Breath "The broad descending Road "That leads unerring down to Death, "Nor miss the Dark Abode. Thus while I drop a Tear or two On the wild Herd, a Noble Few Dare to stray upward, and pursue Th' unbeaten Way to God.

V.

I meet their Spirits mounting high, SHALLET I saw, and HUNT was there, They break thro' loads of Pondrous Care, With Morning Incense up they Fly Perfuming all the Air. Charm'd with the Pleasure of the Sight My Soul adores and Sings: "Blest be the Power that aids their Flight, "That streaks their Path with heavenly Light, "And gives them Zeal for Wings.

ON The Sudden Death OF Mrs. Mary Peacock.

1695.

An Elegiack Song.

I.

HARK! She bids all her Friends Adieu; Some Angel calls her to the Spheres; Our Eyes the radiant Saint pursue Thro' liquid Telescopes of Tears.

II.

Farewell, bright Soul, a short Farewel Till We shall meet again above In the sweet Groves where Pleasures dwell, And Trees of Life bear Fruits of Love.

III.

There Glory sits on every Face, There Friendship smiles in every Eye, There shall our Tongues relate the Grace That led us homeward to the Sky.

IV.

O're all the Names of Christ our King Shall our harmonious Voices rove, Our Harps shall sound from every String The Wonders of his bleeding Love.

V.

Come Sovereign Lord, Dear Saviour come, Remove these separating Days, Send thy bright Wheels to fetch us home; That Golden Hour, how long it stays!

VI.

How long must we lie ling'ring here, While Saints around us take their Flight? Smiling they quit this dusky Syhere, And mount the Hills of Heavenly Light.

VII.

Sweet Soul, we leave thee to thy Rest, Enjoy thy Jesus and thy God, Till we from Bands of Clay releas'd Spring out and climb the shining Road.

VIII.

While the Dear Dust she leaves behind Sleeps in thy Bosom, Sacred Tomb; Soft be her Bed, her Slumbers Kind, And all her Dreams of Joy to come.

TO THE Reverend Mr. B. Rowe.

'Tis Dangerous to follow the Multitude.

I.

ROWE, if we make the Croud our Guide Thro' Life's uncertain Road, Mean is the Chase; and wandering wide We miss th' Immortal Good. Men live at random and by Chance, Bright Reason never leads the Dance; Whilst in the broad and beaten Way O're Hills and Dales from Truth we stray, To Ruin we descend, to Ruin we advance.

II.

Wisdom retires, she hates the Crowd, And with a decent Scorn Aloof she climbs her steepy Seat, Where nor the Grave nor Giddy Feet Of the Learn'd Vulgar or the Rude Have e're a Passage worn.

III.

Meer Hazard first began the Track Where Custom leads her Thousands blind In willing Chains and strong; There's not one bold, one noble Mind Dares tread the fatal Error back, But Hand in Hand our selves we bind And drag the Age along.

IV.

Mortals, a Savage Herd, and loud As Billows on a noisy Flood In rapid order roll: Example makes the Mischief good: With jocund Heel we beat the Road Unheedful of the Goal.

V.

Me let some Friendly Seraph's Wing Snatch from the Crowd, and bear Sublime To Wisdom's lofty Tower, Thence to survey that wretched Thing Mankind; and in Exalted Rhime Bless the delivering Power.

TO My Sisters S. and M. W.

An Epistle.

Dear Sisters,

READ the Love of my Heart in the first Line of my Letter, and believe it. I'me much concern'd to bear of my Mother's continued Weakness; we take our Share of those painful Disorders of Nature which afflict her whom we Honour and Love: I know also that your Hurries of Business must be more than dou∣bled thereby; but we are daily leaving Care and Sin behind us: The past Temptations shall vex us no more,

the Months that are gone return not, and the Sor∣rows that we hourly feel lessen the decreed Number; every Pulse beats a Moment of Pain away, and thus by Degrees we arrive nearer to the sweet Period of Life and Trouble.

Bear up (my dear Ones) thro' the ruffling Storms Of a vain vexing World: Tread down the Cares Those ragged Thorns that lie across the Road, Nor spend a Tear upon 'em. Trust me, Sisters, The Dew of Eyes will make the Briars grow. Nor let the distant Phantom of Delight Too long allure your Gaze, or swell your Hope To dangerous size: If it approach your Feet And court your Hand, forbid the Intruding Joy To sit too near your Heart: Still may our Souls Claim Kindred with the Skies, nor mix with Dust Our betterborn Affections: Leave the Globe A Nest for Worms, and hasten to our Home.

O there are Gardens of th' Immortal Kind That Crown the Heavenly Edens rising Hills With Beauty and with Sweets; no Lurking Mischief Dwells in the Fruit, nor Serpent twines the Boughs:

The Branches bend Laden with Life and Bliss Ripe for the Taste; but 'tis a steep Ascent: Hold fast the* 1.1 Golden Chain let down from Heaven, 'Twill help your Feet and Wings; I feel its Force Draw upward: Fasten'd to the Pearly Gate It Guides the Way unerring: Happy Clue Thro' this dark Wild! 'Twas Wisdom's Noblest Work, All joyn'd by Power Divine, and every Link is Love.

Sisters,

Accept the sudden Rapture kindly. The Muse is not awake every Day, if she has a Moments Release from the Lethargy, see, 'tis devoted to serve and please you—&c.

June 15. 1704.

TO Mr. C. and S. Fleetwood.

The World Vain AND The Soul Immortal.

1701.

I.

FLEETWOODS, Young Generous Pair, Despise the Joys that Fools pursue; Bubbles are light and brittle too, Born of the Water and the Air. Try'd by a Standard Bold and Just Honour and Gold are Paint and Dust; How vile the last is, and as vain the first:

Things that the Crowd calls Great and Brave, With me how low their Value's brought! Titles, and Names, and Life, and Breath, Slaves to the Wind and born for Death; The Soul's the only Thing We have Worth an Important Thought.

II.

The Soul! 'tis of th' Immortal Kind, Not form'd of Fire, or Earth, or Wind, Outlives the mouldring Corps, and leaves the Globe behind. In Limbs of Clay tho' She appears, Drest up in Ears and Eyes, The Flesh is but the Souls Disguise, There's nothing in her Frame kin to the Rags she Wears. From all the Laws of Matter free, From all we feel, and all we see She stands Eternally distinct, and must for ever Be.

III.

Rise then, my Thoughts, on high, Soar beyond all that's made to Dye;

Lo! on an Awful Throne Sits the Creatour and the Judge of Souls, Whirling the Planets round the Poles, Winds off our Threads of Life, and brings our Pe∣riods on. Swift the Approach, and Solemn is the Day, When this Immortal Mind Strip't of the Body's coarse Array To Endless Pain, or Endless Joy Must be at once consign'd.

IV.

Think of the Sands run down to waste, We possess none of all the Past, None but the Present is our own; Grace is not plac'd within our Power, 'Tis but one short, one shining Hour, Bright and declining as a Setting Sun. See the white Minutes wing'd with hast; The NOW that flies may be the last, Seize the Salvation e're 'tis past, Nor mourn the Blessing gone:

A Thoughts Delay is Ruine here, A Closing Eye, a Gasping Breath Shuts up the Golden Scene in Death, And drowns you in Despair.

TO Mr. William Blackbourn.

Life flies too fast to be Wasted.

1703.

Quae tegit canas modo Bruma valles Sole vicinos jaculante montes Deteget rursum— Casimir. Lib. 2. Od. 2.

I.

MARK, how it Snows! how fast the Vally fills? And the sweet Groves the hoary Garment wear; Yet the Warm Sun-Beams bounding from the Hills Shall melt the Vail away, and the young Green appear.

II.

But when Old Age has drop't upon your Head Her Silver Frost, there's no returning Sun; Swift rolls our Autumn, swift our Summer's fled, When Youth, and Love, and Spring, and Golden Joys are gone.

III.

Then Cold, and Winter, and your Aged Snow Stick fast upon you; not the rich Array, Nor the Green Garland, nor the Rosy Bough Shall cancel or conceal the Melancholy Gray.

IV.

The Chase of Pleasure is not worth the Pains, While the Bright Sands of Health run wasting down▪ And Honour calls you from the softer Scenes To sell the gaudy Hour for Ages of Renown.

V.

'Tis but one Youth and short that we can have, And one Old Age dissolves our feeble Frame; But there's a Heavenly Art t' elude the Grave, And with the Heroe-Race Immortal Kindred claim.

VI.

The Man that has his Countries Sacred Tears To drop upon his Herse, has liv'd his Day: Thus, BLACKBOURN, we should leave our Names our Heirs; Old Time and waning Moons sweep all the rest away.

TO Mr. Robert Atwood.

THE Kingdom of the Wise Man.

PART I.

THE rising Year beheld th' Imperious Gaul Stretch his Dominion, while a hundred Towns Crouch'd to the Victor: But a steady Soul

Stands firm on its own Base, and reigns as wide, As Absolute; and sways ten thousand Slaves, Lusts and wild Fancies with a Soveraign Hand.

We are a little Kingdom: But the Man That chains his Rebel Will to Reasons Throne Forms it a large one, ATWOOD, whilst his Mind Makes Heaven its Council, from the Rolls above Draws his own Statutes, and with Joy obeys.

'Tis not a Troop of Well-appointed Guards Create a Monarch, not a Purple Robe Dy'd in the Peoples Blood, not all the Crowns Or dazling Tiars that bend about the Head, Tho' Gilt with Sun-Beams and beset with Stars. A Monarch He that Conquers all his Fears And treads upon them; when he stands alone, Makes his own Camp; four Guardian Virtues wait His Nightly Slumbers and secure his Dreams. Now dawns the Light; He ranges all his Thoughts In square Battalions, bold to meet th' Attacks Of Time and Chance, himself a numerous Host,

All Eye, all Ear, all wakeful as the Day, Firm as a Rock, and moveless as the Centre.

In vain the Harlot Pleasure spreads her Charms To lull his Thoughts in Luxuries fair Lap To sensual Ease, (the Bane of little Kings, Monarchs whose waxen Images of Souls Are moulded into Softness) still his Mind Wears its own Shape, nor can the Heavenly Form Stoop to be model'd by the wild Decrees Of the mad Vulgar, that unthinking Herd.

He lives above the Crowd, nor hears the Noise Of Wars and Triumphs, nor regards the Shouts Of Popular Applause, that empty Sound, Nor feels the flying Arrow of Reproach, Or Spite, or Envy. In himself secure, Wisdom his Tower, and Conscience is his Shield, His Peace all Inward, and his Joys his Own.

Now my Ambition swells, my Wishes soar, This be my Kingdom; sit above the Globe

My 'Rising Soul, and dress thy self around And shine in Virtues Armour; Climb the height Of Wisdoms lofty Castle, there reside Safe from the Smiling and the Frowning World.

Yet once a Day drop down a gentle Look On the great Molehill, and with pitying Eye Survey the Busie Emmets round the Heap Crowding and Bustling in a Thousand Forms Of Strife and Toil, to purchase Wealth and Fame, A Bubble or a Dust: Then call thy Thoughts Up to thy self to feed on Joys unknown, Rich without Gold, and Great without Renown.

PART II. OR The Bold Stoick.

HOnour demands my Song. Forget the Ground My Generous Muse, and sit amongst the Stars; There sing the Soul, that Conscious of her Birth Lives like a Native of the Vital World Amongst these dying Clods, and bears her State Just to her self: How nobly she maintains Her Character, Superiour to the Flesh, She weilds her Passions like her Limbs, and knows The Brutal Powers were only born't obey.

This is the Man whom Storms could never make Meanly complain, nor can a flatt'ring Gale Make him talk proudly: He hath no Desire To read his Secret Fate; yet unconcern'd

And calm could meet his unborn Destiny In all its Charming or its Frightful Shapes.

He that unshrinking and without a Groan Bears the first Wound may finish all the War With meer Couragious Silence, and come off Conqueror: For the Man that well conceals The heavy Strokes of Fate he bears 'em well.

He, tho' th' Atlantick and the Midland Seas With adverse Surges meet, and rise on high Suspended 'twixt the Winds, then rush amain Mingled with Flames upon his Single Head And Clouds and Stars and Thunder, he would stand▪ And from the lofty Castle of his Mind Sublime look down and Joyfully Survey The Ruins of Creation; he alone Heir of the Dying World: A piercing Glance Shoots upwards from between his closing Lids To reach his Birth-place, then without a Sigh He bids his batter'd Flesh lie gently down Amongst its Native Rubbish; while his Soul

Breaths and flies upward, an undoubted Guest Of the third Heaven, th' unruinable Sky.

Thither when Fate has brought Our willing Souls, No matter whether 'twas a Sharp Disease, Or a sharp Sword that help'd the Travellers on, And push'd us to our Home. Bear up my Friend, My ATWOOD, and break thro' the Surging Brine With steddy Prow; Know, we shall once arrive At the fair Haven of Eternal Bliss To which we ever steer; whether as Kings Of wide Command we've spread the Spacious Sea With a broad Painted Fleet, or Row'd along In a thin Cockboat with a little Oar.

There let my narrow Plank shift me to Land And I'll be happy, thus I'll leap Ashore Joyful and fearless on the Immortal Coast, Since all I leave is Mortal, and it must be lost.

Free Philosophy.

To the much Honoured Mr. Thomas Rowe. THE Director of my Youthful Studies.

I.

CUSTOM, that Tyranness of Fools, That leads the Learned round the Schools In Magick Chains of Forms and Rules, My Genius storms her Throne: No more ye Slaves with Awe profound Beat the dull Track, nor dance the Round, Loose Hands, and quit th' Inchanted Ground, Knowledge invites us each alone.

II.

I hate these Shackles of the Mind Forg'd by the haughty Wise; Souls were not born to be confin'd, And led like Sampson Bound and Blind: I love thy gentle Influence, ROWE, Who only dost Advise: Thy gentle Influence like the Sun Only dissolves the Frozen Snow, Then bids our Thoughts like Rivers flow, And chuse the Channels where they run.

III.

Thoughts should be free as Fire or Wind; The Pinions of a Single Mind Will thro' all Nature fly: But who can drag up to the Poles Long fetter'd Ranks of Leaden Souls? My Genius which no Chain controuls Roves with Delight, or deep or high: Swift I survey the Globe around, Dive to the Centre thro' the Solid Ground, Or travel o're the Sky.

To the Reverend Mr. John Howe.

THE Vanity of Human Cares.

1704.

I.

GREAT Man, permit the Muse to climb And seat her at thy Feet, Bid her attempt a Thought sublime, And consecrate her Wit. I feel, I feel th' attractive Force Of thy superiour Soul, My Chariot flies her upward Course, The Wheels Divinely roll. Now let me chide the mean Affairs And mighty Toyl of Men:

How they grow grey in trifling Cares, Or wast the Motions of the Spheres Upon Delights as vain!

II.

A Puff of Honour fills the Mind, And Yellow Dust is solid Good; Thus like the Ass of Savage Kind We snuff the Breezes of the Wind, Or steal the Serpents Food. Could all the Choirs That charm the Poles But strike one doleful Sound, 'Twould be imploy'd to mourn our Souls, Souls that were fram'd of Sprightly Fires In Floods of Folly drown'd. Souls made of Glory seek a Brutal Joy, How they disclaim their Heavenly Birth, Melt their Bright Substance down with drossy Earth, And hate to be refin'd from that impure Alloy.

III.

Oft has thy Genius rouz'd us hence With Elevated Song,

Bid us renounce this World of Sence, Bid us divide th' Immortal Prize With the Seraphick Throng: "Knowledge and Love make Spirits blest, "Knowledge their Food and Love their Rest; But Flesh, the unmanageable Beast, Resists the Pity of thine Eyes And Musick of thy Tongue. Then let the Worms of groveling Mind Round the short Joys of Earthy Kind In restless Windings Roam; HOWE hath an ample Orb of Soul, Where shining Worlds of Knowledge roll, Where Love the Center and the Pole Compleats the Heaven at Home.

TO Mr. Nicholas Clark.

January 1701/2.

Complaining of Vapors, OR, Disorders of the Head.

I.

TWAS in a Vale where Osyers grow By murm'ring Streams we told our Woe, And mingled all our Cares: Friendship sat pleas'd in both our Eyes, In both the weeping Dews arise And drop alternate Tears.

II.

The Vigorous Monarch of the Day How mounted half his Morning Way Shone with a fainter Bright, Still sickning and decaying still Dimly he wander'd up the Hill With his Expiring Light.

III.

In dark Eclipse his Chariot roll'd, The Queen of Night obscur'd his Gold Behind her Sable Wheels: Nature grew sad to loose the Day, The Flow'ry Vales in Mourning lay, In Mourning stood the Hills.

IV.

Such are our Sorrows, CLARK, I cry'd, Clouds of the Brain grow black, and hide Our darkned Souls behind; In the young Morning of our Years Distempering Fogs have climb'd the Spheres, And Choke the Lab'ring Mind.

V.

Lo the Gay Planet rears his Head And overlooks the Lofty Shade New-bright'ning all the Skies▪ But say, Dear Part'ner of my Moan, When will our long Eclipse be gone, Or when our Suns arise?

VI.

In vain are potent Herbs apply'd, Harmonious Sounds in vain have try'd To make the Darkness fly. But Drugs would raise the Dead as soon, Or clatt'ring Brass relieve the Moon, When fainting in the Sky.

VII.

Some friendly Spirit from above, Born of the Light, and nurs't with Love, Assist our feebler Fires; Force these Invading Glooms away; Souls should be seen quite thro' their Clay Bright as your Heavenly Choirs.

VIII.

But if the Fogs must damp the Flame, Gently, kind Death, dissolve our Frame, Release the Prisoner-Mind: Our Souls shall mount at thy Discharge To their bright Source, and shine at large Nor clouded, nor confin'd.

UPON The Dismal Narrative OF THE Afflictions of a Friend.

1702.

I.

NOW let my Cares all buried lie, My Griefs for ever Dumb: Your Sorrows swell my Heart so high They leave my own no Room.

II.

Sickness and Pains are quite forgot, The Spleen itself is gone, Plung'd in your Woes I feel them not, Or feel them all in One.

III.

Infinite Grief puts Sense to flight, And all the Soul invades: So the broad Gloom of spreading Night Devours the Evening Shades.

IV.

Thus am I born to be Unblest! This Sympathy of Woe Drives my own Tyrants from my Breast T' admit a Forreign Foe,

V.

Sorrows in long Succession reign; Their Iron Rod I feel, Friendship has only chang'd the Chain, But I'me the Pris'ner still.

VI.

Why was this Life for Misery made? Or why drawn out so long? Is there no room amongst the Dead? Or is a Wretch too Young?

VII.

Move faster on, Great Nature's Wheel, Be kind, ye rolling Powers, Hurl my Days headlong down the Hill With undistinguisht Hours.

VIII.

Be dusky all my rising Suns, Nor smile upon a Slave: Darkness and Death, make hast at once To hide me in the Grave.

THE REVERSE; ON THE View of some of my Friends re∣maining Comforts.

I.

THUS Nature tun'd her Mournful Tongue, Till Grace lift up her Head, Revers'd the Sorrow and the Song, And smiling thus she said.

II.

Were kindred Spirits born for Cares? Must every Grief be mine? Is there a Sympathy in Tears, And Joys refuse to Joyn?

III.

Forbid it Heav'n, and raise my Love, And make our Joys the same: So Bliss and Friendship joyn'd above Mix an Immortal Flame.

IV.

Sorrows are lost in vast Delight That Brightens all the Soul, As Deluges of dawning Light O'rewhelm the Dusky Pole.

V.

Pleasures in long Succession reign And all my Powers Imploy: Friendship but shifts the pleasing Scene, And fresh repeats the Joy.

VI.

Life has a soft and silver Thread, Nor is it drawn too long, Yet when my vaster Hopes perswade I'me willing to be gone.

VII.

Fast as ye please roll down the Hill, And hast away, my Years; Or I can wait my Father's Will, And dwell beneath the Spheres.

VIII.

Rise glorious every future Sun, And bright be all my Days, Till Death that brightest Moment come With well-distinguish't Rays.

To the Right Honourable JOHN Lord CUTTS.

[At the Siege of Namure.]

The Hardy Soldier.

I.

"O Why is Man so thoughtless grown? "Why guilty Souls in hast to dye? "Vent'ring the Leap to Worlds unknown, "And heedless to the Battel fly?

II.

"Are Lives but worth a Soldiers Pay? "Why will ye joyn such wide Extreams? "And stake Immortal Souls in play "At desperate Chance and Bloody Games?

III.

"Valour's a nobler Turn of Thought, "Whose pardon'd Guilt forbids her Fears: "Calmly she meets the deadly Shot "Secure of Life above the Stars.

IV.

"But Frenzy dares Eternal Fate, "And spurr'd with Honour's Airy Dreams "Flies to Attack th' Infernal Gate, "And force a Passage to the Flames.

V.

Thus hov'ring o're NAMVRIA's Plains Sung Heav'nly Love in Gabriel's form: Young THRASO felt the moving Strains, And Vow'd to pray before the Storm.

VI.

Anon the Thundring Trumpet calls, "My Vows be damn'd, the Hero crys, Then Swears by Heav'n, and Scales the Walls, Drops in the Ditch, despairs, and dies.

Against Tears. The beginning of Ode 23. Book 4. of Casimire Imitated.

Si, quae flent mala, lugubresAuferrent Oculi, &c.

TO Mrs. B. Bendish.

MADAM,

I.

COULD you perswade me Tears were Good To wash our Mortal Cares away, These Eyes of mine should weep a Flood, And Stream into a Briny Sea.

II.

Or if these Orbs are hard and dry, (These Orbs that never use to Rain) I'de part with all I'me worth to buy One Sovereign Drop for all my Pain.

III.

Were both the Golden Indies mine, I'de give both Indies for a Tear; I'de Barter all but what's Divine, Nor should I think the Bargain Dear.

IV.

But Tears, alas, are trifling Things, They rather feed than heal our Woe; From trickling Eyes new Sorrow springs, As Weeds in Rainy Seasons grow.

V.

Thus Weeping urges Weeping on; In vain our Miseries hope Relief, For one Drop calls another down, Till we are drown'd in Seas of Grief.

VI.

Then let your streaming Tears be staid, Wear Native Courage on your Face: These Vulgar Things were never made For Souls of a Superior Race.

VII.

If 'tis a Thorny Path you go, And thousand Foes your Steps surround, Stamp the Thorns down, Charge thro' the Foe: The Hardest Fight is Highest Crown'd.

A Word of Warning, OR Few Happy Marriages.

August 1701.

I.

SAY, Mighty Love, and teach my Song To whom thy Sweetest Joys belong, And who the Happy Pairs Whose Yielding Hearts and Joyning Hands Find Blessings twisted with their Bands To soften all their Cares.

II.

Not the Wild Herd of Nymphs and Swains That thoughtless fly into the Chains As Custom leads the way: If there be Bliss without Design, Ivys and Oaks may grow and twine, And be as Blest as they.

III.

Not Sordid Souls, whose Earthy Mould Drawn by Congenial Charms of Gold To dull Embraces move: So two Rich Mountains of Peru May rush to Wealthy Marriage too, And make a World of Love.

IV.

Not the Mad Tribe that Hell inspires With Wanton Flames; those raging Fires The Purer Bliss destroy: On Aetna's top let Furies Wed, And Sheets of Lightning dress the Bed T' improve the Burning Joy.

V.

Nor the Dull Pairs whose Marble Forms None of the melting Passions warms, Can mingle Hearts and Hands: Logs of green Wood that quench the Coals Are Married just like Stoick Souls, With Osyers for their Bands.

VI.

Not Minds of Melancholy Strain Still Silent, or that still Complain, Can the dear Bondage bless: As well may Heavenly Consorts spring From two old Lutes with ne're a String, Or none besides the Bass.

VII.

Nor can the soft Enchantments hold Two Jarring Souls of Angry Mould, The Rugged, and the Keen: Sampson's young Foxes might as well In Bonds of Cheerful Wedlock dwell With Fire-brands ty'd between.

VIII.

Nor let the Cruel Fetters bind A Gentle to a Savage Mind; For Love abhors the Sight: Loose the fierce Tyger from the Deer, For native Rage and native Fear Stand and forbid Delight.

IX.

Two Kindest Souls alone must meet; 'Tis Friendship makes the Bondage sweet, And feeds their mutual Loves: Bright Venus on her Rolling Throne Is drawn by gentlest Birds alone, And Cupids Yoke the Doves.

TO Mr. Henry Bendish.

August 24. 1705.

Dear SIR,

THE following Song was yours when first com∣pos'd: The Muse then described the general Fate of Mankind, that is, to be Ill-match'd: And now she rejoyces that you have escaped the common Mischief, and that your Soul has found its own Mate. Let this Ode then Congratulate you Both: Grow mu∣tually in more compleat Likeness and Love; Perse∣vere and be Happy: Accept from the Press what the Pen more privately inscribed to you.

The Indian Philosopher, OR Matches made Above, But Broke in coming down.

September 3. 1701.

I.

WHY should our Joys transform to Pain? Why gentle Hymen's Silken Chain A Plague of Iron prove? BENDISH, 'tis strange the Charm that binds Millions of Hands should leave their Minds At such a loose from Love.

II.

In vain I sought the wondrous Cause, Rang'd the wide Fields of Natures Laws, And urg'd the Schools in vain;

Then deep in Thought, within my Breast My Soul retir'd, and Slumber drest A bright Instructive Scene.

III.

O're the broad Lands and 'cross the Tide On Fancies Airy Horse I ride, (Sweet Rapture of the Mind) Till on the Banks of Ganges Flood In a tall Ancient Grove I stood For Sacred Use design'd.

IV.

Hard by a Venerable Priest Ris'n with his God the Sun from Rest Awoke his Morning-Song; Thrice he conjur'd the Murm'ring Stream; The Birth of Souls was all his Theme, And half Divine his Tongue.

V.

"He Sang th' Eternal rolling Flame, "That Vital Mass, that still the same "Does all our Minds compose;

"But shap'd in twice ten thousand Frames, "Thence differing Souls of differing Names, "And Jarring Tempers rose.

VI.

"The mighty Power that form'd the Mind "One Mould for every Two design'd, "And bless'd the New-born Pair: "This be a Match for This, he said, "Then down he sent the Souls he made "To seek them Bodies here:

VII.

"But parting from their warm Abode "They lost their Fellows on the Road, "And never joyn'd their Hands: "Ah cruel Chance, and crossing Fates! "Our Eastern Souls have dropt their Mates "On Europes Barbarous Lands.

VIII.

"Happy the Youth that finds the Bride "Whose Birth is to his own ally'd, "The Sweetest Joy of Life:

"But Oh the Crowds of Wretched Souls "Fetter'd to Minds of different Moulds, "And chain'd t' Eternal Strife!

IX.

Thus Sang the wondrous Indian Bard, My Soul with vast Attention heard, While Ganges ceas'd to flow: "Sure then, I cry'd, might I but see "That gentle Nymph that twinn'd with me, "I may be Happy too.

X.

"Some Courteous Angel tell me where, "What distant Lands this unknown Fair "Or distant Seas detain? "Swift as the Wheel of Nature rolls "I'de fly to meet and mingle Souls, "And wear the Joyful Chain.

TO David Polhill Esq

An Epistle.

Decemb 1702.

I.

LET useless Souls to Woods retreat, POLHILL should leave a Country Seat When Vertue bids him dare be Great.

II.

Nor Kent, nor Sussex should have Charms While Liberty with Loud Alarms Calls you to Counsels and to Arms.

III.

Lewis by his own Slaves Ador'd Bids you receive a Base-born Lord: Awake your Cares! Awake your Sword!

IV.

Young Tory Votes to Rule the People By High-Church; Can you Swear and Tipple, And fetch Commissions from the Steeple?

V.

Thy Grandsire-shades with Jealous Eye Frown down to see their Offspring lie Careless, and let their Country die.

VI.

If Trevia fear to let you stand Against the Gaul with Spear in Hand, At least Petition for the Land.

TO David Polhill Esq

AN Answer to an Infamous SATYR, CALL'D, Advice to a Painter, Written chiefly against King WILLIAM III. Of Glorious Memory.

1697.

PART I.

AND must the Hero that redeem'd our Land Here in the Front of Vice and Scandal stand? The Man of Wondrous Soul, that Scorn'd his Ease Tempting the Winters and the faithless Seas,

And paid an Annual Tribute of his Life To guard his England from the Irish Knife And crush the French Dragoon? Must WIL∣LIAM's Name That brightest Star that gilds the Wings of Fame, WILLIAM the Brave, the Pious, and the Just Adorn these gloomy Scenes of Tyranny and Lust?

POLHILL, my Blood's a Fire, my Spirits flame; Vengeance and Darkness on the Poets Name: Why smoak the Skies not? Why no Thunders roll? Nor kindling Lightnings blast his guilty Soul? Audacious Wretch! to stab a Monarch's Fame, And fire his Subjects with a Rebel-Flame, To call the Painter to his Black Designs To draw our Guardian's Face in Hellish Lines: Painter beware! the Monarch can be shown Under no Shape but Angels or his own, GABRIEL or WILLIAM on the Brittish Throne.

Oh! could my Thoughts but grasp the vast Design, And Words with Infinite Ideas joyn,

I'de rouse Apelles from his Iron Sleep, And bid him trace the Warriour o're the Deep: Trace him Apelles, o're the Belgian Plain, Fierce, how he climbs the Mountains of the Slain Scattering Just Vengeance thro' the Red Campaign. Then dash the Canvas with a flying Stroke Till it be lost in Clouds of Fire and Smoak, And say, 'Twas thus the Conqueror thro' the Squa∣drons broke. Mark him again emerging from the Cloud Far from his Troops; there like a Rock he stood His Countries Single Barrier in a Sea of Blood. Calmly he leaves the Pleasures of a Throne, And his MARIA Weeping; whilst alone He wards the Fate of Nations, and provokes his own: But Heav'n secures its Champion; o're the Field Paint hov'ring Angels; tho' they fly conceal'd, Each intercepts a Death, and wears it on his Shield.

Now, noble Pencil; lead him to our Isle, Mark how the Skies with Joyful Lustre smile,

Then imitate the Glory; on the Strand Spread half the Nation longing till he Land. Wash off the Blood, and take a peaceful Teint, All Red the Warriour, White the Ruler paint, Abroad a Hero, and at Home a Saint. Throne him on high upon a shining Seat, Lust and Prophaneness dying at his Feet, While round his Head the Lawrel and the Olive meet, The Crowns of War and Peace; and may they blow With Flow'ry Blessings ever on his Brow. At his right Hand pile all the English Laws In Sacred Volumes; thence the Monarch draws His Wise and Just Commands— Rise ye Old Sages of the Brittish Isle, On the fair Tablet cast a reverend Smile And bless the Peice; these Statutes are your own, That sway the Cottage, and direct the Throne; People and Prince are one in WILLIAM's Name, Their Joys, their Dangers, and their Laws the same.

Let Liberty and Right with Plumes display'd Clap their glad Wings around their Guardian's Head, Religion o're the rest her Starry Pinions spread. Religion guards him; round the Imperial Queen, Place waiting Vertues, each of Heav'nly Mien; Learn their bright Air, and paint it from his Eyes, The Just, the Bold, the Temperate, and the Wise Dwell in his Looks: Majestick, but Serene; Sweet, with no Fondness; Cheerful, but not Vain: Bright without Terror; Great, without Disdain. His Soul inspires us what his Lips command, And spreads his brave Example thro' the Land, Not so the former Reigns;— Bend down his Ear to each afflicted Cry, Let Beams of Grace dart gently from his Eye; But the bright Treasures of his Sacred Breast Are too Divine, too Vast to be exprest, Colours must fail where Words and Numbers faint, And leave the Hero's Heart for Thought alone to paint.

PART II.

NOW Muse, pursue the Satyrist again, Wipe off the Blotts of his Invenom'd Pen; Hark, how he bids the Servile Painter draw In monstrous Shapes the Patrons of our Law; At one slight Dash he cancels every Name From the white Rolls of Honesty and Fame: This Scribbling Wretch marks all he meets for Knave, Shoots sudden Bolts promiscuous at the Base and Brave, And with unpardonable Malice sheds Poison and Spite on undistinguish'd Heads. Painter, forbear; or if thy bolder Hand Dares to attempt the Villains of the Land, Draw first this Poet, like some baleful Star With silent Influence shedding Civil War; Or Factious Trumpeter, whose Magick Sound Calls off the Subjects to the Hostile Ground, And scatters Hellish Feuds the Nation Round.

These are the Imps of Hell, that cursed Tribe That first create the Plague, and then the Pain de∣scribe.

Draw next above, the Great Ones of our Isle, Still from the Good distinguishing the Vile; Seat 'em in Pomp, in Grandeur, and Command, Feeling the Subjects with a greedy Hand: Paint forth the Knaves that have the Nation sold, And tinge their greedy Looks with sordid Gold. Mark what a selfish Faction undermines The Pious Monarch's generous Designs, Spoil their own Native Land as Vipers do, Vipers that tear their Mothers Bowels thro'. Let great NASSAW beneath a careful Crown Mournful in Majesty, look gently down, Mingling soft Pity with an Awful Frown: He grieves to see how long in vain he strove To make us blest, how vain his Labours prove To save the stubborn Land he condescends to Love.

TO THE Discontented and Unquiet.

Vertue alone makes the Mind Easie.

Imitated partly from Casimire: Book 4. Ode 15.

Nil est, Munati, nil iterum canamMortale nil est immedicabilisImmune taedî, &c.

MADAM, There's nothing here that's free From wearisome Anxiety: And the whole Round of Mortal Joys With short possession tires and cloys: 'Tis a dull Circle that we tread Just from the Window to the Bed,

We rise to see and to be seen, Gaze on the World a while, and then We Yawn and Stretch to Sleep again. But FANCY, that uneasie Guest Still holds a Lodging in our Beast; She finds or frames Vexations still, Her self the greatest Plague we feel.

We take strange Pleasure in our Pain, And make a Mountain of a Grain, Assume the Load, and pant and sweat Beneath th' Imaginary Weight. With our dear selves we live at strife, While the most constant Scenes of Life From Peevish Humours are not free; Still we affect Variety: Rather than pass an Easie Day, We Fret and Chide the Hours away, Grow weary of this Rolling Sun, And vex that he should ever run The same old Track; and still, and still Rise red behind yon Eastern Hill,

And chide the Moon that darts her Light Thro' the same Casement every Night.

We shift our Chambers and our Homes To dwell where Trouble never comes: Sylvia has left the City Croud, Against the Court exclaims aloud, Flies to the Woods; a Hermit-Saint! She loaths her Patches, Pins, and Paint, Dear Diamonds from her Neck are torn: But HUMOUR, that Eternal Thorn Sticks in her Heart: She's hurry'd still 'Twixt her Wild Passions and her Will: Haunted and hagg'd where're she roves By purling Streams, and silent Groves, Or with her Furies, or her Loves.

Then our own Native Land we hate, Too Cold, too Windy, or too Wet; Change the thick Climate, and repair To France or Italy for Air;

In vain we change, in vain we fly; Go Sylvia, mount the Whirling Sky, Or ride upon the Feather'd Wind; In vain; If this Diseased Mind Clings fast and still sits close behind. Faithful Disease, that never fails Attendance at her Ladies side Over the Desart or the Tide On rolling Wheels or flying Sails.

Happy the Soul that Vertue shows To fix the place of her Repose, Needless to move; for she can dwell In her Old Grandsire's Hall as well. VERTUE that never loves to roam, But sweetly hides her self at Home, And easy on a Native Throne Of humble Turf sits gently down.

Yet should Tumultuous Storms arise And mingle Earth and Seas, and Skies,

Should the Waves swell, and make her roll Across the Line or near the Pole, Still She's at Peace; for well She knows To lanch the Stream that Duty shows, And makes her Home wher'ere She goes. Bear her, ye Seas, upon your Breast, Or waft her, Winds, from East to West On the soft Air; She cannot find A Couch so easie as her Mind, Nor breathe a Climate half so kind.

TO John Hartopp Esq

July 1700.

Youth and Pleasure tar∣ry not.

Casimire, Book 1. Ode 4. Imitated.

Vive jucundae metuens juventae, &c.

I.

LIVE, my Dear HARTOPP, live to Day, Nor let the Sun look down and say, "Inglorious here he lies. Shake off your Ease, and send your Name To Immortality and Fame By ev'ry Hour that flies.

II.

Youth's a soft Scene, but trust her not, Her Airy Minutes swift as Thought Slide off the Slipp'ry Sphere; Moons with their Months make hasty Rounds, The Sun has pass'd his Vernal Bounds And whirls about the Year.

III.

Let Folly dress in Green and Red, And Gird her Wast with flowing Gold, Knit blushing Roses round her Head, Alass! the gaudy Colours fade, The Garment waxes old. HARTOPP, mark the withering Rose, And the pale Gold how dim it shows!

IV.

Bright and lasting Bliss below Is all Romance and Dream, Only the Joys Coelestial flow In an Eternal Stream. The Pleasures that the Smiling Day With large Right hand bestows,

Falsly her Left conveys away And shuffles in our Woes. So have I seen a Mother play And Cheat her Silly Child, She gave and took a Toy away, The Infant cry'd, and smil'd.

V.

Airy Chance and Iron Fate Hurry and Vex our Mortal State, And all the Race of Ills create; Now fiery Joy, now sullen Grief Commands the Reins of Human Life, The Wheels impetuous roll; The harnest Hours and Minutes strive, And Days with stretching Pinions drive down fiercely on the Goal.

VI.

Not half so fast the Gally flies O're the Venetian Sea, When Sails and Oars and laboring Skies Contend to make her Way.

Swift Wings for all the flying Hours The God of Time prepares, They rest lie still yet in their Nest And grow for future Years.

TO Thomas Gunston Esq

1700.

Happy Solitude.

Casimire Book 4. Ode 12. Imitated.

Quid me latentem, &c.

I.

THE noisy World complains of me That I should shun their Sight, and flee Visits, and Crowds and Company.

GUNSTON, the Lark dwells in her Nest Until she mount the Skies; And in my Closet I could rest Till to the Heavens I rise.

II.

Yet they will urge, "This private Life "Can never make you Blest, "And twenty Doors are still at Strife "T' engage you for a Guest? Friend, should you see the Louvre, or Whitehall Open their Royal Gates, and call, And wait for WATTS to come, He has no Business there at all Who finds so much at Home.

III.

When I within my self retreat, I shut my Doors against the Great; My busy Eyeballs inward roll, And there with large survey I see All the wide Theatre of Me, And view the various Scenes of my retiring Soul; There I walk o're the Mazes I have trod,

While Hope and Fear are in a doubtful Strife Whether this Opera of Life Be acted well to gain the Plaudit of my God.

IV.

There's a Day hastning, ('tis an Awful Day) When the great Sovereign shall at large review All that we speak and all we do, The several Parts we act on this wide Stage of Clay: These he approves, and those he blames, And Crowns perhaps a Porter, and a Prince he Damns O if the Judge from his tremendous Seat Shall not condemn what I have done, I shall be Happy tho' unknown, Nor need the gazing Rabble, nor the shouting Street.

V.

I hate the Glory, Friend, that springs From Vulgar Breath and empty Sound; Fame mounts her upward with a Flatt'ring Gale Upon her Airy Wings Till Envy Shoots, and Fame receives the Wound; Then her flagging Pinions fail,

Down Glory falls and strikes the Ground And breaks her batter'd Limbs. Rather let me be quite conceal'd from Fame; How happy I should lye In Sweet Obscurity, Nor the Loud World pronounce my little Name! Here I could live and dye alone; Or if Society be due To keep our Tast of Pleasure new, GVNSTON, I'de live and die with you, For both our Souls are one.

VI.

Here we could sit and pass the pleasing Hour, And Pity Kingdoms and their Kings, And smile at all their shining Things, Their Toys of State, and Images of Power; Vertue should dwell within our Seat, Vertue alone could make it sweet, Nor is her self secure but in a close Retreat. While she withdraws from publick Praise Envy perhaps would cease to rail,

Envy it self may innocently gaze At Beauty in a Vail. But if she once advance to Light, Her Charms are lost in Envy's Sight, And Vertue is the Mark of Universal Spight.

TO John Hartopp Esq

THE Disdain of Sensual Joys.

1704.

HARTOPP, I love the Soul that dares Tread the Temptations of his Years Beneath his Youthful Feet: FLEETWOOD and all thy Heavenly Line Look thro' the Stars, and Smile Divine Upon an Heir so Great.

Young HARTOPP knows this Noble Theme, That the wild Scenes of Busie Life, The Noise, th' Amusements, and the Strife Are but the Visions of the Night, Gay Phantoms of delusive Light, Or a Vexatious Dream.

II.

Flesh is the vilest and the least Ingredient of our Frame, We're born to live above the Beast, Or quit the Manly Name: Pleasures of Sence we leave for Boys, Be shining Dust the Miser's Food, Let Fancy feed on Fame and Noise; Souls must pursue Diviner Joys, And seize th' Immortal Good.

EPISTOLA. Fratri suo dilecto R. W. J. W. S. P. D.

RUrsum tuas, Amande Frater, Accepi Literas, eo∣dem fortassè momento quo meae ad te pervene∣runt; Idemque qui te scribentem vidit Dies, meum ad Epistolare munus excitavit Calamum; Non Inane est inter nos Fraternum nomen, unicus enim Spiritus nos in∣tùs animat, agitque, & Concordes in ambobus efficit motus: O Utinam crescat indiès, & vigescat mutua Charitas; faxit Deus, ut amor sui nostra incendat & defoecet pectora, tunc etenim & alternis purae Amici∣tiae flammis erga nos invicèm Divinum in modum ardebi∣mus; Contemplemur JESUM nostrum, Coeleste illud & adorandum Exemplar Charitatis. Ille est

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Qui quondam aeterno delapsus ab Aethere Vultus Induit Humanos, ut posset Corpore nostras Heu miseras sufferre vices; Sponsoris obivit Munia, & in sese Tabulae maledicta Minacis Transtulit, & sceleris poenas hominisque reatu•…•….

Ecce jacet desertus humi, diffusus in herbam Integer, innocuas versus sua sidera Palmas Et placidum attollens Vultum, nec ad oscula Patries Amplexus solitosve: Artus nudatus amictu Sidereos, & sponte sinum patefactus ad Iras Numinis armati. "Pater, hic infige * 1.2 Sagittas, "Haec, ait, iratum sorbebunt Pectora Ferrum, "Abluat Aethereus mortalia Crimina Sanguis.

Dixit, & horrendùm fremuerunt maenia Coeli Infensusque Deus; (quem jam posuisse paternum Musa queri vellet nomen, sed & ipsa fragores Ad tantos pavefacta silet,) Jam dissilit Aether, Pandunturque fores, ubi duro Carcere regnat IRA, & Poenarum Thesauros mille coercet.

Inde ruunt gravidi vesano Sulphure Nimbi, Centuplicisque volant contorta Volumina Flammae In Caput immeritum; diro hic sub Pondere pressus Restat, compressos dumque ardens explicat artus † 1.3 Purpureo Vestes tinctae sudore madescunt. Nec tamen infando Vindex Regina labori Segniùs incumbit, sed lassos increpat Ignes Acritèr, & somno languentem suscitat * 1.4 Ensem: "Surge, age, Divinum pete Pectus, & imbue sacro "Flumine mucronem; Vos hinc, mea Spicula, latè "Ferrea per totum dispergite tormina Christum, "Immensum tolerare valet: Ad pondera Poenae "Sustentanda hominem suffulciet Incola Numen. "Et tu sacra Decas Legum, Violata Tabella, "Ebibe Vindictam; vastâ satiabere caede, "Mortalis Culpae pensabit dedecus ingens "Permistus Deitate Cruor—

Sic fata, immiti contorquet Vulnera Dextrâ Dilaniatque Sinus, Sancti penetralia Cordis Panduntur, saevis avidus Dolor involat alis,

Atque audax Mentem Scrutatur, & Ilia mordet. Interea Servator * 1.5 Ovat, Victorque Doloris Eminet, Illustri † 1.6 perfusus membra Cruore, Exultatque Miser fieri; nam fortius illum Urget Patris honos, & non vincenda Voluptas Servandi miseros Sontes. O Nobilis Ardor Poenarum! O quid non Mortalia pectora cogis Durus amor? Quid non Coelestia?—

At subsidat Phantasia, vanescant Imagines, Nescio quo me proripuit amens Musa; Volui quatuor lineas pedibus astringere, & Ecce! Numeri crescunt in im∣mensum, dumque concitato Genio laxavi fraena, Vereor ne juvenilis Impetus Theologiam laeserit, & audax ni∣mis Imaginatio. Heri ad me allata est Epistola indi∣cans Matrem meliusculè se habere, licet Ignis febrilis non prorsus deseruit mortale ejus Domicilium. Plura volui, sed turgidi & crescentes versus noluêre plura, & coarctârunt Scriptionis limites. Vale, Amice Fra∣ter, & in stadio pietatis & artis Medicae strenuus de∣curre. Datum a Musaeo meo Londini, xv. Kalend. Febr. Anno salutis MDCXCIII.

TO Dr. JOHN SPEED of Southampton.

An EPISTLE, Occasion'd by his Ingenious Sa∣tyr on the Dissenters, mingled with his Encomium of Mr. Lloyd's Paraphrase on Solomon's Song, printed in 8vo. 1682.

TRUE Son of Phoebus, Heir t' his Tuneful Quill, His murthering Arrows, and his healing Skill: Thy Bills his Med'cines are, his Lyre thy Song, Thine Heart his Quiver, and his Bow thy Tongue:

* 1.7 But here's no Python: Sooth thine Arms a while, And charm thy stately Rigor to a Smile, For Schism prevails no more; we love to see Our Words and Lines in Couplings well agree Nor do we thus abhor Conformity. Hymns may be soft and smooth and comely Drest With humane Art, nor savour of the Beast, A Lyrick Ode submits to Godly Notes; Harmonious Words no more offend our Throats. Nor Rhime, nor Tune, nor Sacred Sense confines The Spirit, Freedom flows in tuneful Lines, And Conscience feels the Pleasure, nor complains Of Impositions, Prisons, Bonds, and Chains, Whilst pure Devotion sings and ANNE th' Indul∣gent Reigns.

Then, Sir, Submit with Joy thine Iron Stile To the soft Polish of a gentle File; The Courteous Muse shines brightest; and 'tis fit Apollo's Heir should deal in kinder Wit.

SPEED to his Lute in Artful Numbers sings Melodious; till his Angry Bow he brings Across the Chorded Shell, and hurts the gentler Strings.

Ad Reverendum Virum Dom. Johannem Pinhorne, Fidum pueritiae meae Praeceptorem. Pindarici Carminis Specimen.

1694.

I.

ET te, PINORNI, Musa Trisantica Salutat, ardens discipulam tuam Graté fateri: Nunc Athenas, Nunc Latias per amaenitates Tutò pererrans te recolit Ducem, Te quondam teneros & Ebraia per aspera gressus Duxisse fidâ manu.

Tuo patescunt lumine Thespii Campi atque ad arcem Pierid••…••… iter. En altus assurgens Homerus Arma Deosque Virosque miscens Occupat Aethereum Parnassi culmen: Homeri Immensos stupeo Manes— Te, Maro dulcé canens sylvas, te bella sonantem Ardua, da veniam tenui venerare Camoenâ; Tuaeque accipias, Thebane Vates, Debita Thura Lyrae. Vobis, magna Trias! clarissima Nomina, semper Scrinia nostra patent, & Pectora nostra patebunt, Quum mihi cunque levem concesserit otia & horam Divina Mosis pagina.

II.

Flaccus ad hanc Triadem ponatur, at ipse pudendas Deponat Veneres: Venias, sed * 1.8 purus & Insons Ut te collaudem, dum sordes & mala lustra Ablutus, Venusine, canis ridesve. Recisae Hâc lege accedant Satyrae Juvenalis, amari Terrores vitiorum. At longè caecus abesset

Persius, obscurus Vates, nisi lumina circum∣scidisses. Fusa forent, Sphingisque aenigmata, Bonde, Grande sonans Senecae Fulmen, grandisque Cothurni Pompa Sophoclei celso ponantur eodem Ordine, & ambâbus simul hos amplectar in ulnis. Tutò, Poetae, tutò habitabitis Pictos abacos: Improba Tinea Obiit, nec audet saeva castas Attingere Blatta Camaenas. At tu renidens foeda Epigrammatum Farrago inertûm, stercoris impii Sentina soetens, Martialis, In Barathrum relegandus imum Aufuge, & hinc tecum rapias Catullum Insulsè mollem, naribus, auribus Ingrata castis carmina, & improbi Spurcos Nasonis Amores.

III.

Nobilis extremâ gradiens Caledonis ab orâ En Buchananus adest. Divini Psaltis Imago Jessiadae Salveto; potens seu Numinis Iras Fulminibus miscere, sacro vel lumine Mentis

Fugare noctes, vel Citharae sono Sedare fluctus Pectoris. Tu mihi haerebis comes ambulanti, Tu domi astabis socius perennis, Nunc Mensae tenui simul assidere Dignabere, nunc Lecticae. Mox recumbentis vigilans ad aurem Aureos suadebis inire Somnos Sacra sopitis superinferens ob∣livia curis. Stet juxtà * 1.9 Casimirus, huic nec parciùs Ignem Natura indulsit, nec Musa armavit Alumnum * 1.10 Sarbivium rudiore Lyrâ. Quanta Polonum levat aura Cygnum! † 1.11 Humana linquens (en sibi devii Montes recedunt) luxuriantibus Spatiatur in aëre pennis. Seu tu fortè Virum tollis ad aethera, Cognatosve Thronos & patrium Polum Visurus consurgis ovans,

Visum fatigas, aciemque fallis, Dum tuum à longè stupeo volatum O non Imitabilis Ales.

IV.

Sarbivii ad nomen gelida incalet Musa, simul totus fervescere Sentio, Stellatas levis induor Alas & tollor in altum. Jam juga Zionis radens pede Elato inter sidera vertice Longè despecto mortalia. Quam juvat altisonis volitare per aethera pennis, Et ridere procul fallacia Gaudia sêcli Terrellae Grandia inania, Quae mortale genus (heu malè) deperit. O Curas hominum miseras, Cano, Et miseras nugas Diademata, Ventosae sortis Ludibrium! En mihi subsidunt Terrenae à pectore Faeces, Gestit & effraenis divinum effundere Carme•• Mens afflata Deo— —At vos Heroes & Arma

Et procul este Dii, Ludicra Numina. Quid mihi cum vestrae pondere Lanceae, Pallas! aut vestris, Dionyse, Thyrsis? Et Clava, & Anguis, & Leo, & Hercules, Et brutum Tonitru fictitii Patris Abstate à carmine nostro.

V.

Te, Deus Omnipotens! Te nostra sonabit Jesu Musa, nec assueto coelestes Barbiton ausû Tentabit numeros. Vasti sine limite Numenet Immensum sine lege Deum numeri sine lege sonabunt.

Sed Musam magna pollicentem destituit vigor, Divino jubare perstringitur oculorum acies: En la∣bascit pennis, tremit artubus, ruit deorsum per inane Aetheris, jacet victa, obstupescit, silet.

Ignoscas Reverende Vir vano conamini, fragmen hoc rude licèt & impolitum aequi boni Consulas, & gratitudinis jam diu debitae in partem reponas.

VOTUM. SEU Vita in terris beata. AD Virum Dignissimum Johannem Hartoppium Ba∣ronettum. 1702.

I.

HARTOPPI, longo stemmate nobilis Venâque Ingenii divite, si roges Quem mea Musa beat, Ille mihi Felix ter & ampliùs, Et similes superis annos agit Qui sibi sufficiens semper adest sibi. Hunc longè à curis mortalibus Inter agros, sylvasque silentes

Se Musisque suis tranquillâ in pace fruentem Sol oriens videt & recumbens.

II.

Non suae Vulgi favor insolentis (Plausus insani vacuus popelli) Mentis ad sacram penetrabit arcem Feriat licèt aethera clamor. Nec Gaza flammans divitis Indiae, Nec, Tage, vestrae fulgor Arenulae Ducent ab obscurâ quiete Ad laquear radiantis Aulae.

III.

O si daretur stamina proprii Tractare fusi pollice proprio, Atque meum mihi fingere Fatum; Candidus vitae color innocentis Fila nativo decoraret Albo Non Tyriâ; vitiata conchâ. Non aurum, non gemma nitens, nec purpura telae Intertexta forent invidiosa meae. Longé à Triumphis, & sonitu Tubae Longé remotos transigerem dies,

Abstate Fasces, splendida Vanitas, Et vos abstate, Coronae.

IV.

Pro meo tecto casa sit, salubres Captet Auroras, procul Urbis atro Distet à fumo, fugiatque longé Dura Pthisis mala, dura Tussis. Displicet Byrsa, & fremitu molesto Turba Mercantûm; gratiùs alvear Demulcet aures murmure, gratius Fons salientis aquae.

V.

Litigiosa Fori me terrent jurgia, lenes Ad Sylvas properans rixosas execror artes Eminus in tuto à Linguis— Blandimenta artis simul aequus odi, Valete, Cives! & amaena Fraudis Verba; proh Mores! & inane Sacri Nomen Amici!

VI.

Tuque, quae nostris inimica Musis Felle sacratum vitias amorem,

Absis aeternùm, Diva libidinis, Et Pharetrate Puer! Hinc hinc, Cupido, longius avola, Nil mihi cum foedis, Puer, ignibus, Aethereâ fervent face pectora, Sacra mihi Venus est Urania, Et juvenis Jessaeus Amor mihi.

VII.

Coeleste carmen (nec taceat lyra Jessaea) laetis auribus insonet, Nec Watsianis è medullis Ulla dies rapiet vel hora. Sacri Libelli deliciae meae, Et vos, Sodales, semper amabiles, Nunc simul adsitis, nunc vicissim, Et fallite taedia vitae.

A Funeral POEM ON Thomas Gunston Esq

Presented to The Right Honourable The Lady ABNEY Lady Mayoress of London. July 1701.

MADAM,

HAD I been a common Mourner at the Funeral of the Dear Gentleman deceased, I should have labour'd after more of Art in the following Composition to supply the defect of Nature and to feign

a Sorrow; but the uncommon Condescension of his Friendship to Me, the Inward Esteem I pay his Me∣mory, and the vast and tender Sence I have of our Loss make all the Methods of Art needless, whilst na∣tural Grief supplies more than all.

I had resolv'd indeed to lament in Sighs and Silence, and frequently check'd the forward Muse when she brought me Grief in Numbers, and urg'd me to a tune∣ful Mourning; but the Importunity was not to be re∣sisted: Long Lines of Sorrow flow'd in upon my Fancy 'ere I was aware, whilst I took many a Solitary Walk in the Garden adjoyning to his Seat at Newington: Nor could I free my self from the Melancholy Idea's that crowded themselves upon me, and your Ladyship will find throughout the Poem that the fair and unfi∣nish'd Building which he had just raised for himself gave almost all the turns of Mourning to my Thoughts, for I pursue no other Topicks of Elegy then what my Passion and my Senses led me to.

The Poem roves as my Eyes and Thoughts did, from one part of the Fabrick to the other: It rises from the Foundation, salutes the Walls, the Doors, and the Windows, drops a Tear upon the Roof, and climbs the Turret that dear Retreat, where I promis'd my self many sweet Hours of his Conversation; there my Song wanders amongst the delightful Subjects Divine and Moral which used to Entertain our happy leisure, and thence flings her self down to the Fields and the Shady Walks where I so often injoy'd his pleasing Discourse, and my Sorrows diffuse themselves there without a limit:

I had quite forgotten what I was writing, till I correct my self and rise to the Turret again to lament that De∣solate Seat, and how vainly shines the Golden Ball that Crowns it: Thus I have written without rule and with a negligence becoming Woe unfeigned.

Had I design'd a compleat Elegy on your Dearest Brother and intended it for publick View, I should have followed the usual Forms of Poetry, spent whole Pages in the Character and Praises of the Deceased, and thence took occasion to call Mankind to Complain aloud of the Universal and Unspeakable Loss: But I wrote meerly for my self as a Friend of the Dead and to ease my full Soul by breathing out my own Com∣plaint: I knew his Character and Vertues so well that there was no need to mention 'em while I talk'd only with my self, for the Image of them was ever present with me, which kept my Sorrow lively and my Tears flowing with my Numbers.

Perhaps your Ladyship will expect some Divine Thoughts and Sacred Meditations mingled with a Sub∣ject so solemn as this is: Had I form'd a Design of offering it to your Hands I had compos'd a more Chri∣stian Poem: But 'twas Grief purely natural for a Death so surprizing that drew all the Lines of it, and there∣fore my highest Reflections are but of a Moral Strain; Such as it is, your Ladyship requires a Copy of it, but let it not touch your Soul too tenderly, nor renew your own Mournings. Receive it, Madam, as a Sacrifice of Love and Tears offer'd at the Tomb of a Departed Friend, and let it abide with you as a Witness of that

Affectionate Respect and Honour that I bore him, all which as your Ladyships most rightful Due both by Me∣rit and Succession, is now humbly offered by

MADAM,

Your Ladyships most Hearty and Obedient Servant, I. Watts.

TO THE Dear Memory of my Honoured Friend Thomas Gunston Esq Who Died November 11. 1700. When he had just Finish't his Seat at NEWINGTON.

OF blasted Hopes and of short withering Joys Sing Heavenly Muse. Try thine Ethereal Voice In Funeral Numbers and a doleful Song; GUNSTON the Just, the Generous, and the Young, GUNSTON the Friend is dead. O Empty Name Of Earthly Bliss! 'Tis all an Airy Dream, All a Vain Thought! Our Soaring Fancies rise On treacherous Wings; and Hopes that touch the Skies

Drag but a longer Ruine thro' the downward Air, And plunge the falling Joy but deeper in Despair.

How did our Souls stand flatter'd and prepar'd To shout him welcome to the Seat he rear'd! There the Dear Man should see his Hopes Compleat, Smiling and tasting every lawful Sweet That Peace and Plenty brings, while numerous Years Roll'd happy Circles round the Joyful Spheres: Revolving Suns should still renew his strength, And draw th' uncommon Thread to an unusual Length. But hasty Fate thrusts her dread Shears between, Cuts the Young Life off, and shuts up the Scene▪ Thus Airy Pleasure dances in our Sight And spreads fair Images of Gay Delight T' allure our Souls, till just within our Arms The Vision dies, and all the painted Charms Flee quick away from the pursuing Sight, Till they are lost in Shades, and mingle with the Night.

Muse, stretch thy Wings and thy sad Journey bend To the fair * 1.12 Fabrick that thy Dying Friend Built Nameless: 'Twill suggest a thousand things Mournful and Soft as my Urania Sings.

How did he lay the deep † 1.13 Foundations strong, Marking the Bounds, and rear the ‖ 1.14 Walls along Solid and Lasting; there a numerous Train Of Happy GUNSTON's might in Pleasure reign While Nations perish and long Ages run, Nations unborn, and Ages unbegun: Not Time it self should waste the Blest Estate, Nor the Tenth Race rebuild the Ancient Seat: How fond our Fancies are! The Founder Dies Childless: His Sisters weep, and close his Eyes, And wait upon his Herse with never-ceasing Cries. Lofty and Slow it moves unto the Tomb, While weighty Sorrow nods on every Plume;

A Thousand Groans his dear Remains convey To his cold Lodging in a Bed of Clay, His Countries Sacred Tears well-watering all the Way. See the dull Wheels roll on the Sable Load, But no dear Son to tread the Mournful Road, And fondly kind drop his young Sorrows there, The Father's Urn bedewing with a Filial Tear. O had he left us One behind to play Wanton about the Painted * 1.15 Hall, and say "This was my Father's, with Impatient Joy In my fond Arms I'de clasp't the Smiling Boy, And call'd him my Young Friend: But Awful Fate Design'd the mighty Stroke as lasting as 'twas great.

And must this Building then, this costly Frame Stand here for Strangers? Must some unknown Name Possess these † 1.16 Rooms, the Labours of my Friend? Why were these Walls rais'd for this hapless End?

Why these Apartments all adorn'd so Gay? Why his rich Fancy lavish't thus away? Muse, view the * 1.17 Paintings, how the hovering Light Plays o're the Colours in a wanton Flight, And mingled Shades wrought in by soft Degrees Give a sweet Foyl to all the Charming Piece; But Night, Eternal Night hangs black around The dismal Chambers of the hollow Ground, And Solid Shades unmingled round his Bed Stand Hideous: Earthy Fogs embrace his Head, And noysom Vapours glide along his Face Rising perpetual. Muse, forsake the place, Flee the raw Damps of the unwholsome Clay, Look to his Airy spacious Hall, and say How has he chang'd it for a loathsome Cave, Confin'd and Crowded in a narrow Grave!

Th' Unhappy House looks desolate and mourns, And every † 1.18 Door groans doleful as it turns; The Pillars languish, and each lofty Wall Stately in Grief, laments the Master's Fall

In drops of Briny Dew; the Fabrick bears His faint Resemblance and renews my Tears. Solid and square it rises from below; A Noble Air without a Gaudy Show Reigns thro' the Model, and adorns the Whole, Manly and Plain just like the Builders Soul.

O how I love to view the Stately Frame, That dear Memorial of the best-lov'd Name! Then could I wish for some prodigious Cave Vast as his Seat, and silent as his Grave, Where the tall Shades stretch to the hideous Roof, Forbid the Day, and guard the Sun-beams off; Thither, my willing Feet, shou'd ye be drawn At the gray Twilight, and the early Dawn; There sweetly sad shou'd my soft Minutes roll, Numbring the Sorrows of my drooping Soul. But these are Airy Thoughts! Substantial Grief Grows by those Objects that should yield Relief; Fond of my Woes I heave my Eyes around, My Grief from every Prospect courts a Wound;

Views the green Gardens, views the Smiling Skies, Still my Heart sinks, and still my Cares arise; My wandring Feet round the dear Mansion rove, And there to sooth my Sorrows I indulge my Love.

Oft have I laid the Awful Calvin by, And the sweet Cowley, with Impatient Eye To see those Walls, pay the sad Visit there, And drop the Tribute of an hourly Tear: Still I behold some Melancholy Scene, With many a Pensive Thought, and many a Sigh between. Two Days ago we took the Evening Air, I, and my Grief, and my Urania there; Say, my Urania, how the Western Sun Broke from Black Clouds, and in full Glory shone Gilding the Roof, then dropt into the Sea, And sudden Night devour'd the sweet remains of Day Thus the dear Youth just rear'd his shining Head From Obscure Shades of Life, and sunk among 〈◊〉〈◊〉 Dead.

The rising Sun adorn'd with all his Light Smiles on these Walls again: But endless Night Reigns uncontroul'd where the dear GUNSTON lies, He's set for ever, and must never rise. Then why these Beams, Unseasonable Star, These lightsome Smiles descending from afar To greet a Mourning House? In vain the Day Breaks thro' the * 1.19 Windows with a joyful Ray, And marks a shining Path along the Floors Bounding the Evening and the Morning Hours; In vain it bounds 'em: While vast Emptiness And hollow Silence reigns thro' all the Place, Nor heeds the cheerful change of Nature's Face. Yet Natures Wheels will on without controul, The Sun will rise, the tuneful Spheres will roll, And the two Nightly Bears walk round and watch the Pole.

See while I spèak, high on her Sable Wheel Old Night comes rolling up the Eastern Hill:

Troops of dark Clouds prepare her way; behold, How their brown Pinions Edg'd with Evening Gold Spread Shaddowing o're the House, and glide away Slowly pursuing the declining Day; O're the broad * 1.20 Roof they fly their Circuit still, Thus Days before they did, and Days to come they will; But the Black Cloud that Shaddows o're his Eyes Hangs there immoveable, and never flies: Fain would I bid the Envious Gloom be gone, Ah fruitless Wish! how are his Curtains drawn For a long Evening that despairs the Dawn!

Muse, view the † 1.21 Turret: Just beneath the Skies Lonesome it stands, and fixes both mine Eyes As it would ask a Tear. O Sacred Seat, Sacred to Friendship! O Divine Retreat! Here did I hope my happy Hours t' employ, And fed beforehand on the promis'd Joy, When weary of the noisy Town, my Friend From Mortal Cares retiring shou'd ascend

And lead me thither. We * 1.22 alone wou'd sit, Free and secure of all Intruding Feet: Our Thoughts shou'd stretch their longest Wings and rise, Nor bound their Soarings by the lower Skies: Our Tongues shou'd aim at everlasting Themes, And speak what Mortals dare, of all the Names Of Boundless Joys and Glories, Thrones, and Seats Built high in Heaven for Souls: We'd trace the Streets Of Golden Pavement, walk each happy Field, And climb and tast the Fruits the spicy Mountains yield: Then would we swear to keep the Sacred Road, And walk right upwards to the blest Abode: We'd charge our parting Spirits there to meet, There Hand in Hand approach th' Almighty's Seat' And bend our Heads adoring at our Maker's Feet. Thus should we mount on bold adventrous Wings, In high Discourse, and dwell on Heavenly things,

While the pleas'd Hours in sweet Succession move, And Minutes measur'd as they are above By ever-circling Joys, and ever-shining Love.

Anon our Thoughts should lower their lofty Flight, Sink by degrees, and take a pleasing Sight A large round Prospect of the spreading Plain, The Wealthy River, and his Winding Train, The Smoaky City, and the Busie Men. How we should smile to see degenerate Worms Lavish their Lives, and fight for Airy Forms Of Painted Honour, Dreams of empty sound, Till Envy rise, and shoot a secret Wound At swelling Glory; strait the Bubble breaks, And the Scenes vanish as the Man awakes: Then the tall Titles Insolent and Proud Sink to the Dust, and mingle with the Crowd.

Man is a restless Thing: Still vain and wild, Lives beyond Sixty, nor outgrows the Child: His hurrying Lusts still break the Sacred Bound,

To seek new Pleasures on forbidden Ground, And buy them all too dear. Unthinking Fool, For a short dying Joy to sell a Deathless Soul! 'Tis but a Grain of Sweetness they can Sow, And reap the long sad Harvest of Immortal Woe.

Another Tribe toyl in a different Strife, And banish all the lawful Sweets of Life To sweat and dig for Gold, to hoard the Oar, Hide the dear Dust yet darker than before, And never dare to use a Grain of all the Store.

Happy the Man that knows the Value just Of Earthly Things, nor is enslav'd to Dust. 'Tis a rich Gift the Skies but rarely send To Fav'rite Souls. Then happy thou, my Friend, For thou hadst learnt to Manage and Command The Wealth that Heaven bestow'd with Liberal Hand: Hence this fair Structure rose; and hence this Seat Made to invite my not unwilling Feet; In vain 'twas made! for We shall never meet,

And Smile, and Love, and Bless each other here, The Envious Tomb forbids thy Face t' appear, Detains thee GVNSTON from my longing Eyes, And all my hopes lie buried where my GVNSTON lies.

Come hither all ye tenderest Souls that know The heights of Fondness and the depths of Woe, Young Mothers, who your darling Babes have found Untimely Murd'red with a ghastly Wound; Ye frighted Nymphs, who on the Bridal Bed, Claspt in your Arms your Lovers Cold and Dead, Come; in the Pomp of all your wild Despair With flowing Eyelids and disorder'd Hair, Death in your Looks; come mingle Grief with me, And drown your little Streams in my unbounded Sea.

You Sacred Mourners of a Nobler Mould Born for a Friend, whose dear Embraces hold Beyond all Natures Ties; you that have known Two happy Souls made intimately One,

And felt a parting Stroke, 'tis you must tell The Smart, the Twinges, and the Racks I feel: This Soul of mine that dreadsul Wound has born, Off from its Side its dearest Half is torn, The Rest lies bleeding, and but lives to mourn. Oh Infinite Distress! Such raging Grief Shou'd command Pity, and despair Relief. Passion methinks should rise from all my Groans, Give Sense to Rocks, and Sympathy to Stones.

Ye dusky * 1.23 Woods and ecchoing Hills around Repeat my Cries with a perpetual Sound: Be all ye flowry Vales with Thorns o'regrown, Assist my Sorrows, and declare your own, Alas! your Lord is dead. The humble Plain Must ne're receive his Courteous Feet again: Mourn ye gay smiling Meadows, and be seen In Wintry Robes instead of Youthful Green: And bid the † 1.24 Brook that still runs warbling by Move silent on, and weep his useless Channel dry.

Hither methinks the lowing Herds shou'd come, And moaning Turtles murmur o're his Tomb: The Oak shou'd wither, and the curling * 1.25 Vine Weep his Young Life out, while his Arms untwine Their Amorous Folds, and mix his Bleeding Soul with mine. Ye stately Elms in your long Order mourn, Strip off your Pride to dress your Master's Urn: Here gently drop your Leaves instead of Tears; Ye Elms, the Reverend Growth of Ancient Years, Stand tall and naked to the Blustring Rage Of the mad Winds; thus it becomes your Age To show your Sorrows. Often ye have seen Our Heads reclin'd upon the rising Green; Beneath your Sacred Shade diffus'd we lay, Here Friendship reign'd with an unbounded sway: Hither our Souls their constant Off'rings brought, The Burthens of the Breast, and Labours of the Thought; Our opening Bosoms on the Conscious Ground Spread all the Sorrows, all the Joys we found,

And mingled every Care; nor was it known Which of the Pains or Pleasures were our own; Then with an equal Hand and honest Soul We share the Heap; yet both possess the Whole, And all the Passions there thro' both our Bosoms roll. By turns We Comfort, and by turns Complain, And Bear and Ease by turns the Sympathy of Pain.

Friendship! Mysterious Thing, what Magick Powers Support thy Sway, and charm these Minds of ours? Bound to thy Foot we boast our Birth-right still, And dream of Freedom when we've lost our Will, And chang'd away our Souls: At thy Command We snatch new Miseries from a Foreign Hand To call them ours, and thoughtless of our Ease Plague the dear Self that we were born to please. Thou Tyranness of Minds, whose Cruel Throne Heaps on poor Mortals Sorrows not their own; As tho' our Mother Nature cou'd no more Find Woes sufficient for each Son she bore, Friendship divides the Shares, and lengthens out the Store.

Yet are we fond of thine Imperious Reign, Proud of the Slavery, wanton in our Pain, And chide the courteous Hand when Death dissolves the Chain.

Vertue, forgive the Thought! The raving Muse Wild and despairing knows not what she does, Grows mad in Grief, and in her Savage Hours Affronts the Name she Loves and she adores. She is thy Votaress too; and at thy Shrine O Sacred Friendship! offer'd Songs Divine While GUNSTON liv'd, and both our Souls were thine. Here to these Shades at solemn Hours we came To pay Devotion with a mutual Flame, And roll'd in Pleasures, while the Evening Breeze Fann'd the Leaves gently, sporting thro' the Trees, And the declining Sun with sloping Wheels Roll'd down the Golden Day behind the Western Hills.

Mourn ye young * 1.26 Gardens, ye unfinish't Gates, Ye Green Inclosures and ye growing Sweets, Lament, for ye our Midnight Hours have known, And watch'd us walking by the silent Moon In Conference Divine, while Heavenly Fire Kindling our Breasts did all our Thoughts inspire With Joys almost Immortal; then our Zeal Blaz'd and burnt high to reach th' Ethereal Hill, And Love refin'd like that above the Poles Threw both our Arms round one anothers Souls In Rapture and Embraces. Oh forbear, Forbear, my Song! this is too much to hear, Too dreadful to repeat; such Joys as these Fled from the Earth for ever!

Oh for a general Grief! let all things share Our Woes that knew our Loves. The Neighbour∣ing † 1.27 Air Let it be laden with Immortal Sighs, And tell the Gales, that every Breath that flies

Over these Fields shou'd murmur and complain, And kiss the fading Grass, and propagate the Pain▪ Weep all ye Buildings, and ye * 1.28 Groves around For ever Weep, This is an endless Wound Vast and Incurable. Ye Buildings knew His Silver Tongue, ye Groves have heard it too: At that dear Sound no more shall ye rejoyce, And I no more must hear the Charming Voice, Wo to my drooping Soul! that Heavenly Breath That could speak Life lies now congeal'd in Death; While on his folded Lips all Cold and Pale Eternal Chains and heavy silence dwell.

Yet my fond Hope would hear him speak again; Once more at least, one gentle Word; and then GUNSTON aloud I call: In vain I cry GUNSTON aloud; for he must ne're reply. In vain I mourn, and drop these Funeral Tears, Death and the Grave have neither Eyes nor Ears:

Wandring I tune my Sorrows to the Groves, And vent my swelling Griefs, and tell the Winds our Loves; While the dear Youth Sleeps fast and hears 'em not; He has forgot me: In the lonesome Vault Mindless of WATTS and Friendship there he lies Deaf and Unthinking Clay.

But whither am I led? This Artless Grief Hurries the Muse on obstinate and deaf To all the nicer Rules, and bears her down From the tall Fabrick to the Neighbouring Ground: The pleasing Hours and the dear Moments past In these sweet Fields reviving on my Tast Snatch me away resistless with Impetuous hast. Spread thy strong Pinions once again my Song, And reach the * 1.29 Turret thou hast left so long: O're the wide Roof its lofty Head it rears, Waiting for our Converse; but only hears The noisie Tumults of the Realms on high; The Winds salute it Whistling as they fly,

Or jarring round the Windows; Rattling Showers Lash the fair Sides, above loud Thunder roars, But still the Master Sleeps; nor hears the Voice Of Sacred Friendship, nor the Tempests noise: An Iron Slumber sits on every Sence, In vain the Heavenly Thunders strice to rouze it thence.

One Labour more, my Muse, the Golden * 1.30 Sphere Seems to demand: See thro' the Dusky Air Downward it shines upon the rising Moon, And as she labours up to reach her Noon, The Ball pursues her Orb with streaming Light, And shoots a Golden Dày on the Pale Queen of Night: But not one Beam can reach the darksome Grave, Or pierce the solid Gloom that fills the Cave Where GUNSTON dwells in Death. My waking Eyes Saw the last Midnight reigning o're the Skies,

And Old Bootes drove his shining Carr Thro' the Midheaven: Behold the Glittering Sphere Bright as a Burning Meteor born on high, Or some new Comet gla••ing thro' the Sky It flam'd and mingled with the larger Stars; In vain (said I) the Golden Comet Glares, In vain it stands; while with a dismal Fall He sunk beneath the Ground that rais'd the Lofty Ball.

Now let me call the Joyful Day to mind; 'Twas a fair Morning; and the Blustring Wind Slept in its peaceful Caverns, while he came Gazing and pleas'd to see the Noble Frame Crown'd with that shining Orb. "Stand there, he cries, "Thou little Emblem of the boundless Skies "Whither my Soul with fiery Passion tends; The Emblem stands; and tells surviving Friends Of the bright Palace and the Golden Throne Where the Dear GUNSTON's better part is gone:

His eager Thoughts bent on their shining way Let the Clay drop to mingle with the Clay; But his great Soul beyond the Stars is fled: Then why, my Heart, why should we Mourn him Dead? Strangely, my Thoughts, ye let this cozening Grief With a false Name impose on your Belief: It saw the Flesh sink down with closing Eyes To the cold Earth, and cry'd, 'tis GUNSTON Dies: Mistaken Grief! to call the Flesh the Friend! The Heavenly Court saw the Bright Youth ascend, Flew to embrace him with Immortal Love, And sung his Welcome to the Seats above. The Building firm, and all the Mansions bright, The Roof high-Vaulted with Aethereal Light: Beauty and Strength on the tall Bulwarks Sate In Heavenly Diamond: And for every Gate On Golden Hinges a broad Ruby turns, Guards off the Foe, and as it moves it burns. Millions of Glories Reign thro' every part; Infinite Power and Uncreated Art

Stand here display'd, and to the Stranger show How it out-shines the Noblest Seats below; The Stranger just look'd down, and Smil'd upon 'em too.

Come, my Urania, leave the doleful Strain, Let Heavenly Notes resume their Joys again; In Everlasting Numbers sing, and say, "GUNSTON the Friend lives still, and wipe our Tears away.

AN ELEGY ON THE Reverend Mr. Tho. Gouge.

TO Mr. Arthur Shallett Mer∣chant.

Worthy SIR,

THE Subject of the following Elegy was high in your Esteem and enjoy'd a large share of your Affections. Scarce doth his Memory need the Assistance of the Muse to make it perpetual,

But when She can at once pay her Honours to the Venerable Dead, and by this Address acknowledge the Favours She has received from the Living, 'tis a dou∣ble Pleasure to

SIR,

Your obliged humble Servant,

TO THE MEMORY OF THE Reverend Mr. Tho. Gouge, Who Died January 8. 1699/1700.

I.

YE Virgin Souls, whose Sweet Complaint Could teach * 1.31 Euphrates not to flow, Could † 1.32 Sion's Ruine so Divinely Paint Array'd in Beauty and in Woe; Awake, ye Virgin Souls, to mourn, And with your Tuneful Sorrows dress a Prophet's Urn.

O could my Lips, or Flowing Eyes But imitate such Charming Grief, I'de teach the Seas, and teach the Skies Wailings, and Sobs, and Sympathies, Nor should the Stones, or Rocks be deaf; Rocks shall have Eyes, and Stones have Ears, While GOUGE's Death is Mourn'd in Melody and Tears.

II.

Heaven was impatient of our Crimes, And sent his Minister of Death To Scourge the bold Rebellion of the Times, And to demand our Prophet's Breath; He came commission'd for the Fates Of Awful MEAD, and Charming BATES, There he essay'd the Vengeance first, Then took a dismal Aim and brought great GOUGE to Dust.

III.

Great GOUGE to Dust! How Doleful is the Sound? How vast the Stroke is? And how wide the Wound?

Yes, 'tis a vast uncommon Death, Yes, 'tis a Wound unmeasurably wide; No Vulgar Mortal Dy'd When he resign'd his Breath. The Muse that Mourns a Nations Fall Shou'd wait at GOVGE's Funeral, Should mingle Majesty and Groans Such as she Sings to sinking Thrones, And in deep-sounding Numbers tell How Sion trembled when this Pillar fell. Sion grows Weak, and England Poor, Nature her self with all her Store Can furnish such a Pomp for Death no more.

IV.

The Reverend Man let all things mourn; Sure he was some Aethereal Mind, Fated in Flesh to be confin'd, And order'd to be Born. His Soul was of th' Angelick frame, The same Ingredients, and the Mould the same, When the Creator makes a Minister of Flame;

He was all form'd of Heavenly Things, Mortals, believe what my Urania Sings, For she has seen him rise upon his Flamy Wings.

V.

How would he mount, how would he fly, Up thro' the Ocean of the Sky Tow'rd the Coelestial Coast! With what amazing swiftness soar Till Earth's dark Ball was seen no more And all its Mountains lost. Scarce could the Muse pursue him with her Sight, But, Angels, you can tell, For oft you met his Wondrous Flight, And knew the Stranger well; Say, how he past the radiant Spheres And visited your happy Seats, And trac'd the well known Turnings of the Golden Streets, And walk'd among the Stars.

VI.

Tell how he climb'd the Everlasting Hills Surveying all the Realms above,

Born on a Strong-wing'd Faith, and on the Fiery Wheels Of an Immortal Love. 'Twas there he took a glorious Sight Of the Inheritance of Saints in Light, And read their Title in their Saviour's Right. How oft the humble Scholar came, And to your Songs he rais'd his Ears To learn the Unutterable Name, To view the Eternal Base that bears The New Creations Frame. The Countenance of God he saw Full of Mercy, full of Awe, The Glories of his Power, and Glories of his Grace: There he beheld the Wondrous Springs Of those Eternal Sacred Things The Peaceful Gospel and the Fiery Law In that Majestic Face. That Face that all his Gazing Powers employ With most profound Abasement and exalted Joy.

The Rolls of Fate were half unseal'd, He stood adoring by; The Volumes open'd to his Eye, And sweet Intelligence he held With all his shining Kindred of the Sky.

VII.

Ye Seraphs that surround the Throne, Tell how his Name was thro' the Pallace known, How warm his Zeal was, and how like your own: Speak it aloud, let half the Nation hear, And bold Blasphemers shrink and fear: Impudent Tongues, to blast a Prophet's Name! The Poison sure was fetch'd from Hell Where the old Blasphemers dwell, To taint the purest Dust, and blot the whitest Fame. Impudent Tongues! You should be darted thro', Nail'd to your own Black Mouths, and lie Useless and Dead till Slander die, Till Slander die with you.

VIII.

"We saw him, say th' Ethereal Throng, "We saw his warm Devotions rise, "We heard the fervour of his Cries, "And mixt his Praises with our Song: "We knew the secret Flights of his retiring Hours, "Nightly he wak'd his inward Powers, "Young Israel rose to Wrestle with his God, "And with unconquer'd Force scal'd the Coelestial Towers "To reach the Blessing down for those that sought his Blood. "Oft we beheld the Thunderer's Hand "Rais'd high to crush the Factious Foe; "As oft we saw the rolling Vengeance stand "Doubtful t' obey the dread Command, "While his ascending Pray'r witheld the falling Blow.

IX.

Draw the past Scenes of thy Delight My Muse, and bring the Wondrous Man to Sight.

Place him surrounded as he stood With Pious Crowds, while from his Tongue A Stream of Harmony ran soft along, And every Ear drank in the flowing Good: Softly it ran its Silver Way, Till warm Devotion rais'd the Current strong; Then fervid Zeal on the sweet Deluge rode, Life, Love, and Glory, Grace, and Joy Divinely roll'd promiscuous on the Torrent-Flood, And bore our Raptur'd Sense away, and Thoughts and Souls to God. O might we dwell for ever there! No more return to breath this grosser Air, This Atmosphere of Sin, Calamity, and Care.

X.

But Heavenly Scenes soon leave the Sight While we belong to Clay, Passions of Terror and Delight Demand alternate Sway. Behold the Man whose awful Voice Could well proclaim the Fiery Law,

Kindle the Flames that Moses saw, And swell the Trumpets Warlike noise. He stands, the Herald of the Threatning Skies, Lo, on his Reverend Brow the Frowns Divinely rise, All Sinai's Thunder on his Tongue, and Lightning in his Eyes. Round the high Roof the Cursès flew Distinguishing each guilty Head, Far from th' unequal War the Atheist fled, His Kindled Arrows still pursue, His Arrows strike the Atheist thro', And fix him down to Dread. The Marble Heart groans with an inward Wound: Blaspheming Souls of harden'd Steel Shriek out amaz'd at the new Pangs they feel, And dread the Eccho's of the Sound. The Lofty Wretch Arm'd and Array'd In gaudy Pride sinks down his Impious Head, Plunges in dark Despair, and mingles with the Dead.

XI.

Now Muse assume a softer Strain, Now sooth the Sinners Raging Smart, Borrow of GOVGE the wondrous Art To calm the Surging Conscience, and asswage the Pain. He from a Bleeding God derives Life for the Souls that Guilt had slain, And strait the dying Rebel lives, The Dead arise again. The opening Skies almost obey His powerful Song, a Heavenly Ray Awakes Despair to Light, and sheds a cheerful Day. His wondrous Voice rolls back the Spheres, Recalls the Scenes of Ancient Years To make the Saviour known; Sweetly the flying Charmer roves Thro' all his Labours and his Loves, The Anguish of his Cross, and Triumphs of his Throne.

XII.

Hark, he invites our Feet to try The steep ascent of Calvary, And sets the fatal Tree before our Eye: See here Coelestial Sorrow reigns; Rude Nails and ragged Thorns lay by Ting'd with the Crimson of Redeeming Veins. In wondrous Words he sung the Vital Flood Where all our Sins were drown'd, Words fit to heal and fit to wound, Sharp as the Spear, and Balmy as the Blood. In his Discourse Divine Afresh the Purple Fountain flow'd, Our falling Tears kept Sympathetick Time And trickled to the Ground, While every Accent gave a doleful Sound, Sad as the breaking Heart-strings of th' Expiring God.

XIII.

Down to the Mansions of the Dead With trembling Joy our Souls are lead, The Captives of his Tongue;

There the dear Prince of Light reclines his Head Darkness and Shades among. With pleasing Horror we survey The Caverns of the Tomb, Where the Belov'd Redeemer lay And shed a sweet Persume. Hark, the Old Earthquake roars again In GOUGE's Voice, and breaks the Chain Of heavy Death, and tears the Tombs; The Rising God! he comes, he comes, With Throngs of waking Saints, a long triumphing Train.

XIV.

See the bright Squadrons of the Sky, Downward on Wings of Joy and Hast they fly, Meet their returning Sovereign and attend him high. A shining Carr the Conqueror fills Form'd of a Golden Cloud; Slowly the Pomp rolls up the Azure Hills, Old Satan foams and yells aloud, And gnaws th' Eternal Brass that binds him to the Wheels.

The opening Gates of Bliss receive their King, The Father-God Smiles on his Son, Pays him the Honours he has won, The lofty Thrones adore, and little Cherubs Sing. Behold him on his Native Throne, Glory sits fast upon his Head; Dress't in new Light and Beamy Robes His Hand rolls on the Seasons and the shining Globes, And sways the living Worlds and Regions of the Dead.

XV.

GOUGE was his Envoy to this Realm below, Vast was the Trust, and great his Skill, Bright the Credentials he could show, And Thousands own'd the Seal. His Hallowed Lips could well impart The Grace, the Promise, and Command: He knew the Pity of EMMANUEL's Heart, And Terrors of JEHOVAH's Hand. How did our Souls start out to hear The Embassies of Love he bore,

While every Ear in Rapture hung Upon the Charming Wonders of his Tongue. Lifes busie Cares a Sacred Silence bound, Attention stood with all her Powers, With fixed Eyes and Awe profound, Chain'd to the Pleasure of the Sound, Nor knew the flying Hours.

XVI.

But Oh! my everlasting Grief! Heaven has recall'd his Envoy from our Eyes, Hence Deluges of Sorrow rise, Nor hope th' Impossible Relief. Ye Remnants of the Sacred Tribe Who feel the Loss, come share the Smart, And mix your Groans with mine: Where is the Tongue that can describe Infinite Things with Equal Art, Or Language so Divine? Our Passions want the Heavenly Flame, Almighty Love Breaths faintly in our Songs, And Awful Threatnings languish on our Tongues; HOWE is a Great, but single Name.

Amidst the Crowd he stands alone; Stands yet, but with his Starry Pinions on, Dress't for the Flight and ready to be gone: Eternal God, command his Stay, Stretch the dear Months of his Delay; O we could wish his Age were one Immortal Day! But when the Flaming Chariot's come And shining Guards t' attend thy Prophet Home, Amidst a thousand Weeping Eyes Send an Elisha down, a Soul of Equal Size, Or burn the Worthless Globe, and take us to the Skies.

AN EPITAPH ON King WILLIAM III. Of Glorious Memory, Who Died March 8th. 1701.

I.

BEneath these Honours of a Tomb GREATNESS in humble Ruine lies: (How Earth confines in narrow Room What Heroes leave below the Skies!)

II.

Preserve, Oh Venerable PILE, Inviolate thy Sacred Trust; To thy cold Arms the BRITTISH Isle Weeping commits her Richest Dust.

III.

Ye gentlest Ministers of FATE Attend the Monarch as he lies, And bid the Softest SLUMBERS wait With Silken Cords to bind his Eyes.

IV.

Rest his dear SWORD beneath his Head; Round him his Faithful ARMS shall stand; Fix his bright ENSIGNS on his Bed, The Guards and Honors of our Land.

V.

Ye Sister Arts of PAINT and VERSE, Place ALBION fainting by his Side, Her Groans arising 'ore the Herse, And BELGIA sinking when he Dy'd.

VI.

High o're the Grave RELIGION set In Solemn Gold: pronounce the Ground Sacred, to bar unhallow'd Feet, And plant her Guardian VERTUES round.

VII.

Fair LIBERTY in Sables drest Write his lov'd Name upon his Urn, WILLIAM, the Scourge of Tyrants past, And Awe of Princes yet Unborn.

VIII.

Sweet PEACE his Sacred Relicks keep With Olives blooming round her Head, And stretch her Wings across the Deep To bless the Nations with the Shade.

IX.

Stand on the Pile, Immortal FAME, Broad Stars adorn thy brightest Robe, Thy thousand Voices sound his Name In Silver Accents round the Globe.

X.

FLATTERY shall faint beneath the Sound, While Hoary TRUTH inspires the Song; ENVY grow pale and bite the Ground, And MALICE gnaw her Forky Tongue.

XI.

NIGHT and the GRAVE remove your Gloom; Darkness becomes the Vulgar Dead; But GLORY bids the Royal Tomb Disdain the Horrors of a Shade,

XII.

GLORY with all her Lamps shall burn, And watch the Warriors sleeping Clay, Till the last Trumpet rouze his Urn To aid the Triumphs of the Day.

FINIS.

Notes

• * 1.1

  The Gospel.
• * 1.2

  Job 4. 6.
• † 1.3

  Luc. 22. 44.
• * 1.4

  Zec. 13. 7.
• * 1.5

  2 Col. 15.
• † 1.6

  22 Luc. 44.
• * 1.7

  Neque sempec arcum Tendit Apollo. Horat. lib. 2. Od. 10.
• * 1.8

  Horat. Lib. 1. Sat. 6.
• * 1.9

  M. Casimirus Sarbiewski Poeta insign is Polonus.
• * 1.10

  M. Casimirus Sarbiewski Poeta insign is Polonus.
• † 1.11

  Od. 5. Lib. 2.
• * 1.12

  The House.
• † 1.13

  The Foundations.
• ‖ 1.14

  The Walls.
• * 1.15

  The Hall.
• † 1.16

  The Rooms.
• * 1.17

  The Paintings.
• † 1.18

  The Doors.
• * 1.19

  The Windows.
• * 1.20

  The Roof.
• † 1.21

  The Turret.
• * 1.22

  Our Conversation there.
• * 1.23

  The adjacent Country.
• † 1.24

  The Brook.
• * 1.25

  The Trees.
• * 1.26

  The Gardens.
• † 1.27

  The Air.
• * 1.28

  The Groves.
• * 1.29

  The Turret.
• * 1.30

  The Golden Ball.
• * 1.31

  Psalm Cxxxvii.
• † 1.32

  Lam: 1. 2, 3.