How on that posture has the beam Divine for ever shone?
An humble heart, God's other seat!* The rival of his throne.
And stoops Omnipotence so low? And condescends to dwell Eternity's inhabitant, Well-pleased in such a cell?
Such honour how shall we repay? How treat our guest divine?— The sacrifice supreme be slain! Let self-will die: Resign.
Thus far, at large on our disease; Now let the cause be shown, Whence rises, and will ever rise, The dismal human groan.
What our sole fountain of distress? Strong passion for this scene; That trifles make important, things Of mighty moment mean.
When earth's dark maxims poison shed
On our polluted souls,
Our hearts and interests fly as far Asunder as the poles.
Like princes in a cottage nursed Unknown their royal race, With abject aims and sordid joys Our grandeur we disgrace.
O for an Archimides new Of moral powers possessed, The world to move and quite expel That traitor from the breast! No small advantage may be reaped From thought whence we descend; From weighing well, and prizing, weighed, Our origin and end;
From far above the glorious sun
To this dim scene we came;
And may, if wise, for ever bask In great Jehovah's beam:
Let that bright beam, on reason roused, In awful lustre rise,
Earth's giant ills are dwarfed at once, And all disquiet dies;
Earth's glories, too, their splendour lose, Those phantoms charm no more, Empire's a feather for a fool,
And Indian mines are poor:
Then leveled quite, whilst yet alive, The monarch and his slave;
Nor wait enlightened minds to learn That lesson from the grave.
A George the Third would then be low As Lewis in renown,
Could he not boast of glory more
Than sparkles from a crown.
When human glory rises high As human glory can;
When, though the king is truly great, Still greater is the man:
The man is dead where virtue fails: And though the monarch proud In grandeur shines, his gorgeous robe Is but a gaudy shroud.
Wisdom! where art thou? None on earth, Though grasping wealth, fame, power, But what, O Death! through thy approach Is wiser every hour.
Approach how swift! how unconfined! Worms feast on viands rare:
Those little epicures have kings
To grace their bill of fare.
From kings what resignation due
To that almighty Will,
Which thrones bestows, and, when they fail,
Can throne them higher still!
Who truly great? the good and brave, The masters of a mind
The will divine to do resolved;
To suffer it resigned.
Madam! if that may give it weight,
The trifle you receive
Is dated from a solemn scene, The border of the grave;
Where strongly strikes the trembling soul Eternity's dread power,
As bursting on it through the thin Partition of an hour.
Hear this, Voltaire! but this from me Runs hazard of your frown; However, spare it; ere you die, Such thoughts will be your own.
In mercy to yourself, forbear My notions to chastise, Lest unawares the gay Voltaire Should blame Voltaire the wise.
Fame's trumpet rattling in your ear Now makes us disagree;
When a far louder trumpet sounds Voltaire will close with me.
How shocking is that modesty Which keeps some honest men
From urging what their hearts suggest, When braved by Folly's pen,
Assaulting truths, of which in all Is sown the sacred seed!
Our constitution 's orthodox, And closes with our creed.
What then are they whose proud conceits Superior wisdom boast?
Wretches, who fight their own belief, And labour to be lost.
Though Vice by no superior joys Her Heroes keeps in pay; Through pure disinterested love Of ruin they obey?
Strict their devotion to the wrong, Though tempted by no prize; Hard their commandments, and their creed A magazine of lies
From Fancy's forge: gay Fancy smiles At Reason plain and cool; Fancy, whose curious trade it is To make the finest fool.
Voltaire! long life's the greatest curse That mortals can receive, When they imagine the chief end Of living is to live.
Quite thoughtless of their day of death, That birthday of their sorrow; Knowing it may be distant far, Nor crush them till-to-morrow.
These are cold, northern thoughts conceived Beneath an humble cot;
Not mine your genius or your state, No Castle is my lot.
But soon, quite level shall we lie: And what pride most bemoans, Our parts, in rank so distant now, As level as their bones.
Hear you that sound? alarming sound! Prepare to meet your fate!
One who writes finis to our works, Is knocking at the gate.
Far other works will soon be weighed; Far other judges sit:
Far other crowns be lost, or won, Than fire ambitious wit:
Their wit far brightest will be proved Who sunk it in good sense,
· Letter to Lord Lyttleton.
And veneration most profound Of dread Omnipotence.
'Tis that alone unlocks the gate Of blessed eternity!
O may'st thou never, never lose That more than golden key!*
Whate'er may seem too rough, excuse; Your good I have at heart;
Since from my soul I wish you well, As yet we must not part:
Shall you and I, in love with life, Life's future schemes contrive, The world in wonder not unjust, That we are still alive?
What have we left? how mean in man
A shadow's shade to crave? When life so vain! is vainer still, 'Tis time to take our leave.
Happier than happiest life his death, Who, falling in the field
Of conflict with his rebel will, Writes Vici on his shield.
So falling man, immortal heir Of an eternal prize, Undaunted at the gloomy grave, Descends into the skies.
O how disordered our machine, When contradictions mix!
When Nature strikes no less than twelve, And folly points at six!
To mend the movements of your heart, How great is my delight!
Gently to wind your morals up, And set your hand aright!
That hand which spread your wisdom wide To poison distant lands:
Repent, recant: the tainted age Your antidote demands.
To Satan dreadfully resigned Whole herds rush down the steep Of Folly, by lewd wits possessed, And perish in the deep.
Men's praise your vanity pursues: 'Tis well, pursue it still : But let it be of men deceased, And you'll resign the will;
And how superior they to those At whose applause you aim, How very far superior they In number and in name!
But sing no more-no more I sing, Or re-assume the lyre,
Unless vouchsafed an humble part Where Raphael leads the choir.
What myriads swell the concert loud! Their golden harps resound High as the footstool of the throne, And deep as hell profound:
Hell (horrid contrast!) chord and song Of raptured angels drowns In self-will's peal of blasphemies, And hideous burst of groans;
But drowns them not to me; I hear Harmonious thunders roll
(In language low of men to speak) From echoing pole to pole!
Whilst this grand chorus shakes the skies- "Above, beneath the sun,
Through boundless age, by men, by gods, Jehovah's will be done."
"Tis done in heaven; whence headlong hurled Self-will, with Satan fell;
And must from earth be banished too Or earth's another hell.
Was death denied, this world a scene
How dismal and forlorn!
To death we owe, that 'tis to man
A blessing to be born.
When every other blessing fails, Or sapped by slow decay,
Or stormed by sudden blasts of fate, Is swiftly hurled away;
How happy! that no storm, or time,
Of death can rob the just !
None pluck from their unaching heads Soft pillows in the dust!
Well pleased to bear heaven's darkest frown, Your utmost power employ;
'Tis noble chymistry to turn Necessity to joy.
Whate'er the colour of my fate, My fate shall be my choice; Determined am I, whilst I breathe, To praise and to rejoice.
What ample cause? triumphant hope! O rich eternity!
I start not at a world in flames,
Charmed with one glimpse of thee.
And thou! its great inhabitant! How glorious dost thou shine!
And dart through sorrow, danger, death, A beam of joy divine.
The void of joy (with some concern The truth severe I tell)
Is an impenitent in guilt, A fool or infidel.
Weigh this, ye pupils of Voltaire! From joyless murmur free; Or, let us know, which character Shall crown you of the three.
Resign, resign; this lesson none Too deeply can instil;
A crown has been resigned by more Than have resigned the will.
Though will resigned the meanest makes Superior in renown,
And richer in celestial eyes Than he who wears a crown.
Hence in the bosom of cold age Is kindled a strange aim
To shine in song, and bid me boast
The grandeur of my theme:
But, oh! how far presumption falls Its lofty theme below!
Our thoughts in life's December freeze, And numbers cease to flow.
First! Greatest! Best! grant what I wrote
For others, ne'er may rise
To brand the writer; thou alone Canst make our wisdom wise.
And how unwise, how deep in guilt, How infamous the fault,
"A teacher throned in pomp of words, In deed beneath the taught !"
Means most infallible to make The world an infidel,
And with instructions most divine To pave a way to hell.
O for a clean and ardent heart! O for a soul on fire!
Thy praise, begun on earth, to sound Where angels strike the lyre!
How cold is man! to him how hard, (Hard what most easy seems)
"To set a just esteem on that Which yet he most esteems."
What shall we say, when boundless bliss Is offered to mankind,
And to that offer when a race
Of rationals is blind?
Of human nature, ne'er too high Are our ideas wrought;
Of human merit, ne'er too low Depressed the daring thought.
ACCESSION OF KING GEORGE.
JOSEPH ADDISON, ESQ.
Secretary to their Excellencies the Lords Justices.
SIR! I have long, and with impatience, sought To ease the fulness of my grateful thought, My fame at once and duty to pursue, And please the public by respect to you. Though you, long since beyond Britannia known, Have spread your country's glory with your own, To me you never did more lovely shine, Than when so late the kindled wrath divine Quenched our ambition in great Anna's fate, And darkened all the pomp of human state. Though you are rich in fame, and fame decay, Though raised in life, and greatness fade away, Your lustre brightens; virtue cuts the gloom With purer rays, and sparkles near a tomb. Know, Sir! the great esteem and honour due I choose, that moment, to profess to you, When sadness reigned, when Fortune so severe Had warmed our bosoms to be most sincere, And when no motive could have force to raise A serious value, and provoke my praise, But such as rise above, and far transcend, Whatever glories with this world shall end, Then shining forth, when deepest shades shall blot The sun's bright orb, and Cato be forgot.
I sing!-but, ah! my theme I need not tell! See every eye with conscious sorrow swell: Who now to verse would raise his humble voice, Can only show his duty, not his choice. How great the weight of grief our hearts sustain ! We languish, and to speak is to complain.
Let us look back, (for who too oft can view That most illustrious scene, for ever new!) See all the seasons shine on Anna's throne, And pay a constant tribute not their own. Her summer heats not fruits alone bestow, They reap the harvests and subdue the foe; And when black storms confess the distant sun, Her winters wear the wreaths her summers won: Revolving pleasures in their turns appear, And triumphs are the product of the year. To crown the whole, great joys in greater cease, And glorious victory is lost in peace.
Whence this profusion on our favoured isle ? Did partial Fortune on our virtue smile? Or did the sceptre, in great Anna's hand, Stretch forth this rich indulgence o'er our land? Ungrateful Britain! quit thy groundless claim; The queen and thy good fortune are the same.
Hear, with alarms our trumpets fill the sky; 'Tis Anna reigns; the Gallic squadrons fly. We spread our canvass to the southern shore; 'Tis Anna reigns! the South resigns her store. Her virtue sooths the tumult of the main, And swells the field with mountains of the slain; Argyle and Churchill but the glory share, While millions lie subdued by Anna's prayer.
How great her zeal! how fervent her desire! How did her soul in holy warmth expire! Constant devotion did her time divide ! Nor set returns of pleasure or of pride;
Not want of rest, or the sun's parting ray, But finished duty, limited the day. How sweet succeeding sleep! what lovely themes Smiled in her thoughts, and softened all her dreams! Her royal couch descending angels spread, And join their wings, a shelter o'er her head. Though Europe's wealth and glory claimed a part, Religion's cause reigned mistress of her heart; She saw, and grieved, to see the mean estate Of those who round the hallowed altar wait; She shed her bounty piously profuse, And thought it more her own in sacred use. Thus on his furrow see the tiller stand, And fill with genial seed his lavish hand; He trusts the kindness of the fruitful plain, And providently scatters all his grain.
August in native worth and regal state, Anna sat arbitress of Europe's fate; To distant realms did ev'ry accent fly, And nations watched each motion of her eye. Silent, nor longer awful to be seen,
How small a spot contains the mighty Queen! No throng of suppliant princes mark the place, Where Britain's greatness is composed in peace: The broken earth is scarce discerned to rise, And a stone tells us where the monarch lies. Thus end maturest honours of the crown! This is the last conclusion of renown!
So when, with idle skill, the wanton boy Breathes through his tube, he sees, with eager joy, The trembling bubble, in its rising small, And by degrees, expands the glittering ball;
What strikes my sight! does proud Augusta rise But when, to full perfection blown, it flies New to behold, and awfully surprise!
Her lofty brow more numerous turrets crown, And sacred domes on palaces look down; A noble pride of piety is shown, And temples cast a lustre on the throne. How would this work another's glory raise; But Anna's greatness robs her of the praise: Drowned in a greater blaze it disappears. Who dried the widow's and the orphan's tears? Who stooped from high to succour the distressed, And reconcile the wounded heart to rest? Great in her goodness, well could we perceive, Whoever sought, it was a queen that gave. Misfortune lost her name: her guiltless frown But made another debtor to the crown, And each unfriendly stroke from fate we bore, Became our title to the regal store.
Thus injured trees adopt a foreign shoot, And their wounds blossom with a fairer fruit. Ye Numbers, who on your misfortunes thrived, When first the dreadful blast of Fame arrived, Say, what a shock, what agonies you felt, How did your souls with tender anguish melt! That grief which living Anna's love suppressed, Shook like a tempest every grateful breast. A second fate our sinking fortunes tried; A second time our tender parents died!
Heroes returning from the field we crown, And deify the haughty victor's frown; His splendid wreath too rashly we admire, Catch the disease, and burn with equal fire. Wisely to spend is the great art of gain; And one relieved transcends a million slain. When time shall ask where once Ramillia lay, Or Danube flowed that swept whole troops away, One drop of water, that refreshed the dry, Shall raise a fountain of eternal joy.
But ah! to that unknown and distant date Is Virtue's great reward pushed off by Fate; Here random shafts in every breast are found, Virtue and merit but provoke the wound.
High in the air, and shines in various dyes, The little monarch, with a falling tear, Sees his world burst at once, and disappear.
'Tis not in sorrow to reverse our doom; No groans unlock the inexorable tomb; Why then this fond indulgence of our wo! What fruit can rise, or what advantage flow! Yes, this advantage from our deep distress, We learn how much in George the gods can bless. Had a less glorious princess left the throne, But half the hero had at first been shown; And Anna falling all the King employs, To vindicate from guilt our rising joys: Our joys arise, and innocently shine, Auspicious monarch! what a praise is thine!
Welcome, great Stranger! to Britannia's throne' Nor let thy country think thee all her own. Of thy delay how oft did we complain! Our hopes reached out, and met thee on the main. With prayer we smoothed the billows for thy fleet. With ardent wishes filled thy swelling sheet; And when thy foot took place on Albion's shore, We bending blessed the gods, and asked no more. What hand but thine should conquer and com- pose,
Join those whom int'rest joins, and chase our foes?
Repel the daring youth's presumptuous aim, And by his rival's greatness give him fame! Now in some foreign court he may sit down, And quit, without a blush, the British crown, Secure his honour, though he lose his store, And take a lucky moment to be poor.
Nor think, great Sir! now first, at this late hour, In Britain's favour you exert your power: To us, far back in time, I joy to trace The num'rous tokens of your princely grace. Whether you choose to thunder on the Rhine, Inspire grave councils, or in courts to shine: In the more scenes your genius was displayed, The greater debt was on Britannia laid:
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