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;

Isaiah lvii. 15.

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!

'Alluding to Prussia.

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.

ON THE

DEATH OF QUEEN ANNE,

AND THE

ACCESSION OF KING GEORGE.

INSCRIBED TO

JOSEPH ADDISON, ESQ.

Secretary to their Excellencies the Lords Justices.

-Guadia curis.-Hor.

SIR! I have long, and with impatience, sought
To ease the fulness of my grateful thought,
My fame at once and duty to pursue,
And please the public by respect to you.
Though you, long since beyond Britannia known,
Have spread your country's glory with your own,
To me you never did more lovely shine,
Than when so late the kindled wrath divine
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;