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ON BARCLAY'S APOLOGY FOR THE QUAKERS.*
THESE sheets primeval doctrines yield,
They sable standing armies break;
Since all unhir'd may preach and pray,
The world can't hear the small still voice,
Place me, O Heav'n, in some retreat;
Then comes the Spirit to our hut,
O Contemplation! air serene!
From damps of sense, and fogs of spleen! Pure mount of thought! thrice holy ground, Where grace, when waited for, is found.
*This celebrated book was written by its author, both in Latin and English, and was afterwards translated into High Dutch, Low Dutch, French, and Spanish, and probably into other languages. It has always been esteemed a very ingenious defence of the principles of Quakerism, even by those who deny the doctrines which it endeavors to establish. The author was born at Edinburgh in 1648, and received part of his education at the Scots College in Paris, where his uncle was principal. His father became one of the earliest converts to the new sect, and from his example, the son seems to have been induced to tread in his steps. He died on the 3d of October, 1690, in the 42 year of his age.
Here 'tis the soul feels sudden youth, And meets exulting, virgin Truth; Here, like a breeze of gentlest kind, Impulses rustle through the mind: Here shines that light with glowing face, The fuse divine, that kindles grace; Which, if we trim our lamps, will last, Till darkness be by dying past. And then goes out at end of night, Extinguish'd by superior light.
Ah me! the heats and colds of life, Pleasure's and pain's eternal strife, Breed stormy passions, which confin'd, Shake, like th' Eolian vale, the mind, And raise despair; my lamp can last, Plac'd where they drive the furious blast.
False eloquence! big empty sound! Like showers that rush upon the ground! Little beneath the surface goes,
All streams along, and muddy flows. This sinks, and swells the buried grain, And fructifies like southern rain.
His art, well hid in mild discourse, Exerts persuasion's winning force, And nervates so the good design, That king Agrippa's case is mine.
Well-natur'd, happy shade forgive! Like you I think, but cannot live. Thy scheme requires the world's contempt, That from dependence life exempt; And constitution fram'd so strong, This world's worst climate cannot wrong. Not such my lot, not Fortune's brat, I live by pulling off the hat; Compell'd by station every hour To bow to images of power; And in life's busy scenes immers'd, See better things, and do the worst.
Eloquent Want, whose reasons sway, And make ten thousand truths give way, While I your scheme with pleasure trace, Draws near, and stares me in the face. "Consider well your state," she cries, "Like others kneel, that you may rise; Hold doctrines, by no scruples vex'd, To which preferment is annex'd; Nor madly prove, where all depends, Idolatry upon your friends. See, how you like my rueful face, Such you must wear, if out of place. Crack'd is your brain to turn recluse Without one farthing out at use. They, who have lands, and safe bank-stock, With faith so founded on a rock, May give a rich invention ease, And construe Scripture how they please. "The honor'd prophet, that of old Us'd Heav'n's high counsels to unfold, Did, more than courier angels, greet The crows, that brought him bread and meat.
WHEN I first came to London, I rambled about,
Say, father Thames, whose gentle pace Gives leave to view what beauties grace Your flow'ry banks, if you have seen The much-sung Grotto of the queen. Contemplative, forget awhile Oxonian towers, and Windsor's pile, And Wolsey's pridet (his greatest guilt) And what great William since has built, And flowing fast by Richmond scenes, (Honor'd retreat of two great queens!) From Sion-House, whose proud survey Browbeats your flood, look 'cross the way, And view, from highest swell of tide, The milder scenes of Surrey side.
Though yet no palace grace the shore,
That men of sense would choose to go:
And jealous gods resentment show At altars rais'd to men below;
Tell those proud lords of Heaven, 'tis fit
Needless it is in terms unskill'd To praise whatever Boyle § shall build; Needless it is the busts to name Of men, monopolists of fame; Four chiefs adorn the modest stone,T For virtue as for learning known; The thinking sculpture helps to raise Deep thoughts, the genii of the place:
† Hampton Court, begun by Cardinal Wolsey, and im proved by King William III.
‡Queen Anne, consort to King Richard II. and Queen Elizabeth, both died at Richmond.
[Sion-House is now a seat belonging to the Duke of Northumberland.
$Richard Boyle, Earl of Burlington, a nobleman remarkable for his fine taste in architecture. "Never were protection and great wealth more generously and judiciously diffused than by this great person, who had every quality of a genius and artist, except envy." He died December 4, 1753.
¶ The author should have said five; there being the busts of Newton, Locke, Wollaston, Clarke, and Boyle
To the mind's ear, and inward sight,
Destroy more slow life's frail machine;
The greater prey upon the less:
Let not profane this sacred place,
Or Pomp, mixt state of pride and care;
The Jesuit-remedy for vows;
Or priest, perfuming crowned head,
O Delia! when I touch this string,
Nor watch the wainscot's hollow blow;
Far from my theme, from method far, Convey'd in Venus' flying car, I go compell'd by feather'd steeds, That scorn the rein, when Delia leads. No daub of elegiac strain
These holy wars shall ever stain;
Reason her logic armor quit,
And plays with curls instead of leaves :
O kindly view our letter'd strife,
What virtue is we judge by you;
Father! forgive, thus far I stray, Drawn by attraction from my way. Mark next with awe the foundress well Who on these banks delights to dwell; You on the terrace see her plain, Move like Diana with her train. If you then fairly speak your mind, In wedlock since with Isis join'd, You'll own, you never yet did see, At least in such a high degree, Greatness delighted to undress; Science a sceptred hand caress; A queen the friends of freedom prize; A woman wise men canonize.
THE SPARROW AND DIAMOND.
I LATELY saw, what now I sing, Fair Lucia's hand display'd; This finger grac'd a diamond ring, On that a sparrow play'd.
The feather'd play thing she caress'd, She strok'd its head and wings; And while it nestled on her breast, She lisp'd the dearest things.
With chisel'd bill a spark ill-set He loosen'd from the rest,
And swallow'd down to grind his meat, The easier to digest.
She seiz'd his bill with wild affright, Her diamond to descry:
'Twas gone! she sicken'd at the sight, Moaning her bird would die.
The tongue-tied knocker none might use, The curtains none undraw,
The footmen went without their shoes, The street was laid with straw.
The doctor us'd his oily art
When physic ceas'd to spend its store,
Picks up, when let alone.
His eyes dispell'd their sickly dews,
Meanwhile within her beauteous breast
Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing,
Could take thy life away.
Drive av'rice from your breasts, ye fair
Ye would not let it harbor there,
It made a virgin put on guile,
THOMAS TICKELL, a poet of considerable ele-Gentleman at Avignon." Both these are selected gance, born at Bridekirk, near Carlisle, in 1686, for the purpose of the present volume. He was was the son of a clergyman in the county of Cum- about this time taken to Ireland, by Addison, who berland. He was entered of Queen's College, Ox- went over as secretary to Lord Sunderland. When ford, in 1701, and having taken the degree of M. A. Pope published the first volume of his translation of in 1708, was elected fellow of his college, first ob- the Iliad, Tickell gave a translation of the first taining from the crown dispensation from the book of that poem, which was patronized by Addistatute requiring him to be in orders. He then son, and occasioned a breach between those emicame to the metropolis, where he made himself nent men. Tickell's composition, however, will known to several persons distinguished in letters. bear no poetical comparison with that of Pope, and When the negotiations were carrying on which accordingly he did not proceed with the task. On brought on the peace of Utrecht, he published a the death of Addison, he was intrusted with the poem entitled "The Prospect of Peace," which ran charge of publishing his works, a distinction which through six editions. Addison, with whom he had he repaid by prefixing a life of that celebrated ingratiated himself by an elegant poem on his opera man, with an elegy on his death, of which Dr. Johnof Rosamond, speaks highly of "The Prospect of son says, "That a more sublime or elegant funeral Peace," in a paper of the Spectator, in which he poem is not to be found in the whole compass of expresses himself as particularly pleased to find English literature." Another piece, which might be that the author had not amused himself with fables justly placed at the head of sober lyrics, is his out of the Pagan theology. This commendation "Ode to the Earl of Sunderland," on his installaTickell amply repaid by his lines on Addison's tion as a knight of the Garter; which, keeping Cato, which are superior to all others on that sub- within the limits of truth, consigns a favorite name ject, with the exception of Pope's Prologue. to its real honors.
Tickell, being attached to the succession of the House of Hanover, presented George I. with a poem entitled "The Royal Progress ;" and more effectually served the cause by two pieces, one called "An Imitation of the Prophecy of Nereus;" the other, "An Epistle from a Lady in England, to al
COLIN AND LUCY.
Or Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair,
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream
Her coral lips, and damask cheeks,
Oh! have you seen a lily pale,
By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains
Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Tickell is represented as a man of pleasing manners, fond of society, very agreeable in conversation, and upright and honorable in his conduct. He was married, and left a family. His death took place at Bath, in 1740, in the 54th year of his age.
Three times, all in the dead of night,
And shrieking at her window thrice,
Too well the lovelorn maiden knew
"I hear a voice, you cannot hear,
By a false heart, and broken vows,
Was I to blame, because his bride
"Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,
Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,