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From sordid, groveling Dust, to something,
[higher With double Extafie my Thoughts aspire ; Love and Religion burn with equal Fire. I seem'd translated, and methought I flew, Methought fome Angel from the Temple drew My raprur'd Soul, and here I find it true.
* But when I left the Confecrated Place, How did th’unknowing Herd of Zealots gaze! What Censures of uncharitable Blame I bore, frevild for my Emilia's Name! Poor Men! they knew not that I went to find A better Temple in her beauteous Mind. They knew not how each Minute we improve, Blind in Devotion, but more blind in Love.
Be Thou, my Fair, like fome mysterious Book, Where none but I, thy Minister, may look ;
Where no prophaner Mortal's vent'rous Rage
In Sacred Buildings others may delight,
S N. G.
Set to Mufick by Mr. J. BARRET.
TRTILL A, like Time, is always a flying,
[Sighing, She refuses my Tears, and regards not my If once the slips by me, O then I complain, For no Wishes, nor Words can recal her again. My Friend, be advis’d, for Old Time has, you
[know, A Lock on his Forehead, Myrtilla below. If then you would have her to fly you no mort, To hold her, like Timë, you must take her before:
Drinking a Glass of good Florence
[less Jove, He found below what he had lost above, He found good Florence on the Tuscan Coast ; Sufficient Recompence for Nectar loft!
Part of the
Fourteenth Chapter of Isaiah
Paraphras'd in Blank Verse.
Ninumbient Glories from th'cernal Throne
OW has th’Almighty Father, seated high
In ambient Glories from th'Éternal Throne Vouchsaf'd Compassion; and th’affli&ive Pow'r Has broke, whose Iron Sceptre long had bruis’d The groaning Nations. Now returning Peace, Dove-ey'd, and roab'd in White, the blissful Land Deigns to revisit ; whilst beneath her Steps The Soil, with Civil Slaughter oft mánur'd, Pours forth abundant Olives. Their high Tops The Cedars wave, exulting o’er thy Fall,
Whose Steel from the tall Monarch of the Grove į Sever'd the Regal Honours; and up tore The Cyöns blooming in the Parent Shade.
When Vehicld in Flame, thou slow didst pass Prone thro’the Gates of Night, the dreary Realms With loud Acclaim receiv'd thee. Tyrants old (Gigantick Forms, with Human Blood besmear'd,) Rose from their Thrones; for Thrones they still
[possess, Their Penance and their Guilt: Art thou, they cry, O emulous of our Crimes, here doom'd to Reign Associate of our Woe? Nor com'ft thou girt With Livery'd Slaves,or Bands of Warrior Knights, Which erst before thee stood, a flatt’ring Crowd, Observant of thy Brow. Nor hireling Quires Attemp'ring to the Harp their warbled Airs Thy Panegyric chaunt; but hush'd in Death, Like us thou ly'st unwept; a Corfe obscene With Dust and preying Worms,bare and despoild Of ill-got Pomp. We hail thee our Compeer!
How art thou with diminish'd Glory fall’n From thy proud Zenith, swift as Meteors glide