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النشر الإلكتروني

How on that posture has the beam
Divine for ever shone?
An humble heart, God's other seat!*
The rival of his throne.

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.

nd 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;

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.


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* Isaiah lvil. 15.

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.


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 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.

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.

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,

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!

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Lotter to Lord Lyttleton

*Alluding to Prussia,


Thus have I written, when to write
No mortal should presume;
Or only write, what none should blame,
Hic jacet—for his tomb.
Though public frowns, and censures loud,
My puerile employ:
Though just the censure, if you smile,
The scandal I enjoy.
But sing no more—no more I sing,
Or 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.”

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.

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

Madam! self-will inflicts your pains:
Self-will's the deadly foe
Which deepens all the dismal shades,
And points the shafts of wo.
Your debt to Nature fully paid,
Now Virtue claims her due;
But Virtue's cause I need not plead,
'Tis safe; I write to you.

You know that Virtue's basis lies
In ever judging right;
And wiping Error's clouds away,
Which dim the mental sight.

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

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 !"

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 ?

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!


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

Miscellaneous Pieces.




I sing !—but, ah! my theme I need not tell !

See every eye with conscious sorrow swell: DEATH OF QUEEN ANNE, 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 ! ACCESSION OF KING GEORGE.

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, Secretary to their Ercellencies the Lords Justices.

And pay a constant tribute not their own.
Guadia curis.--Hor.

Her summer heats not fruits alone bestow,

They reap the harvests and subdue the foe; Sır! I have long, and with impatience, sought And when black storms confess the distant sun, To ease the fulness of my grateful thought, Her winters wear the wreaths her summers won: My fame at once and duty to pursue,

Revolving pleasures in their turns appear,
And please the public by respect to you. And triumphs are the product of the year.

Though you, long since beyond Britannia known, To crown the whole, great joys in greater cease,
Have spread your country's glory with your own, And glorious victory is lost in peace.
To me you never did more lovely shine,

Whence this profusion on our favoured isle ?
Than when so late the kindled wrath divine Did partial Fortune on our virtue smile ?
Quenched our ambition in great Anna's fate, Or did the sceptre, in great Anna's hand,
And darkened all the pomp of human state. Stretch forth this rich indulgence o'er our land?
Though you are rich in fame, and fame decay, Ungrateful Britain! quit thy groundless claim;
Though raised in life, and greatness fade away, The queen and thy good fortune are the same.
Your lustre brightens; virtue cuts the gloom Hear, with alarms our trumpets fill the sky;
With purer rays, and sparkles near a tomb. 'Tis Anna reigns; the Gallic squadrons fly.

Know, Sir! the great esteem and honour due We spread our canvass to the southern shore; I choose, that moment, to profess to you, 'Tis Anna reigns! the South resigns her store. When sadness reigned, when Fortune so severe Her virtue sooths the tumult of the main, Had warmed our bosoms to be most sincere, And swells the field with mountains of the slain; And when no motive could have force to raise Argyle and Churchill but the glory share, A serious value, and provoke my praise, While millions lie subdued by Anna's prayer. But such as rise above, and far transcend,

How great her zeal! how fervent her desire ! Whatever glories with this world shall end, How did her soul in holy warmth expire! Then shining forth, when deepest shades shall blot Constant devotion did her time divide ! The sun's bright orb, and Cato be forgot. Nor set returns of pleasure or of pride;

Not want of rest, or the sun's parting ray, August in native worth and regal state,
But finished duty, limited the day.

Anna sat arbitress of Europe's fate;
How sweet succeeding sleep! what lovely themes To distant realms did ev'ry accent fly,
Smiled in her thoughts, and softened all her dreams! And nations watched each motion of her eye.
Her royal couch descending angels spread, Silent, nor longer awful to be seen,
And join their wings, a shelter o'er her head. How small a spot contains the mighty Queen!

Though Europe's wealth and glory claimed a part, No throng of suppliant princes mark the place, Religion's cause reigned mistress of her heart; Where Britain's greatness is composed in peace: She saw, and grieved, to see the mean estate The broken earth is scarce discerned to rise, Of those who round the hallowed altar wait; And a stone tells us where the monarch lies. She shed her bounty piously profuse,

Thus end maturest honours of the crown! And thought it more her own in sacred use. This is the last conclusion of renown! Thus on his furrow see the tiller stand,

So when, with idle skill, the wanton boy And fill with genial seed his lavish hand; Breathes through his tube, he sees, with eager joy, He trusts the kindness of the fruitful plain, The trembling bubble, in its rising small, And providently scatters all his grain.

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 !

High in the air, and shines in various dyes, Her lofty brow more numerous turrets crown,

The little monarch, with a falling tear, And sacred domes on palaces look down;

Sees his world buret at once, and disappear. A noble pride of piety is shown,

'Tis not in sorrow to reverse our doom; And temples cast a lustre on the throne. No groans unlock the inexorable tomb; How would this work another's glory raise; Why then this fond indulgence of our wo! But Anna's greatness robs her of the praise : What fruit can rise, or what advantage flow! Drowned in a greater blaze it disappears. Yes, this advantage from our deep distress, Who dried the widow's and the orphan's tears? We learn how much in George the gods can bless, Who stooped from high to succour the distressed, Had a less glorious princess left the throne, And reconcile the wounded heart to rest ? But half the hero had at first been shown; Great in her goodness, well could we perceive, And Anna falling all the King employs, Whoever sought, it was a queen that gave.

To vindicate from guilt our rising joys: Misfortune lost her name: her guiltless frown Our joys arise, and innocently shine, But made another debtor to the crown,

Auspicious monarch! what a praise is thine! And each unfriendly stroke from fate we bore, Welcome, great Stranger! to Britannia's throne' Became our title to the regal store.

Nor let thy country think thee all her own. Thus injured trees adopt a foreign shoot, Of thy delay how oft did we complain! And their wounds blossom with a fairer fruit. Our hopes reached out, and met thee on the main.

Ye Numbers, who on your misfortunes thrived, With prayer we smoothed the billows for thy fleet. When first the dreadful blast of Fame arrived, With ardent wishes filled thy swelling sheet; Say, what a shock, what agonies you felt, And when thy foot took place on Albion's shore, How did your souls with tender anguish melt! We bending blessed the gods, and asked no more. That grief which living Anna's love suppressed, What hand but thine should conquer and comShook like a tempest every grateful breast.

pose, A second fate our sinking fortunes tried; Join those whom int’rest joins, and chase our A second time our tender parents died !

foes? Heroes returning from the field we crown,

Repel the daring youth's presumptuous aim, And deify the haughty victor's frown;

And by his rival's greatness give him fame! His splendid wreath too rashly we admire, Now in some foreign court he may sit down, Catch the disease, and burn with equal fire. And quit, without a blush, the British crown, Wisely to spend is the great art of gain; Secure his honour, though he lose his store, And one relieved transcends a million slain. And take a lucky moment to be poor. When time shall ask where once Ramillia lay, Nor think, great Sir! now first, at this late hour, Or Danube flowed that swept whole troops away, In Britain's favour you exert your power: One drop of water, that refreshed the dry, To us, far back in time, I joy to trace Shall raise a fountain of eternal joy.

The num'rous tokens of your princely grace. But ah! to that unknown and distant date Whether you choose to thunder on the Rhine, Is Virtue's great reward pushed off by Fate; Inspire grave councils, or in courts to shine: Here random shafts in every breast are found, In the more scenes your genius was displayed, Virtue and merit but provoke the wound. The greater debt was on Britannia laid:

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