Why to its caverns should it sometimes creep, Why should its numerous waters stay Till winds and tides exert their high command! Why does the constant Sun, With measur'd steps, his radiant journies run? Man does, with dangerous curiosity, He reigns how long? till some usurper rise; On earth, in air, amidst the seas and skies, Mountainous heaps of wonders rise, Whose towering strength will ne'er submit To Reason's batteries, or the mines of Wit: Yet still inquiring, still mistaken man, Each hour repuls'd, each hour dares onward press: And, levelling at God his wandering guess, (That feeble engine of his reasoning war, [spair) Which guides his doubts, and combats his deLaws to his Maker the learn'd wretch can give: Can bound that nature, and prescribe that will, Whose pregnant word did either ocean fill: Can tell us whence all beings are, and how they move and live. Through either ocean, foolish man! Let cunning Earth her fruitful wonders hide; To trembling Calvary's astonish'd top; Then down with all thy boasted volumes, down; Only reserve the sacred one: Low, reverently low, Make thy stubborn knowledge bow; Weep out thy reason's and thy body's eyes; Deject thyself, that thou may'st rise; To look to Heaven, be blind to all below. Then Faith, for Reason's glimmering light, shall And Grace's presence Nature's loss retrieve: So politic an instrument, To reach the Heaven of heavens, the high abode, CONSIDERATIONS ON PART OF THE LXXXVIIITH PSALM. A COLLEGE EXERCISE, 1690. HEAVY, O Lord, on me thy judgments lie, Accurst I am, while God rejects my cry. O'erwhelm'd in darkness and despair I groan; And every place is hell; for God is gone. O Lord, and let thy beam control Those horrid clouds, that press my frighted soul: Save the poor wanderer from eternal night, Thou that art the God of Light. Downward I hasten to my destin'd place; Behold the prodigal! to thee I come, TO THE REV. DR. F. TURNER, BISHOP OF ELY, WHO HAD ADVISED A TRANSLATION OF PRUDENTIUS IF Then mock thy knowledge, and confound thy pride, Whose mighty name their sacred silence broke: Explaining how Perfection suffer'd pain Your goodness, sir, will easily excuse From your fair pattern she would strive to write, too. Then siniling and aspiring influence give, And make the Muse and her endeavours live; Claim all her future labours as your due, Let every song begin and end with you: So to the blest retreat she'll gladly go, Where the saints' palm and Muses' laurel grow; Where kindly both in glad embrace shall join, And round your brow their mingled honours twine; Both to the virtue due, which could excel, As much in writing, as in living wellSo shall she proudly press the tuneful string, And mighty things in mighty numbers sing; Nor doubt to strike Prudentius' daring lyre, And humbly bring the verse which you inspire. A PASTORAL. TO THE BISHOP OF ELY, ON HIS DEPARTURE FROM CAMBRIDGE. DAMON. TELL, dear Alexis, tell thy Damon, why ALEXIS. See my kids browze, my lambs securely play: (Ah! were their master unconcern'd as they !) No beasts (at noon I look'd) had trod my ground; Nor has Joanna, or her shepherd, frown'd. DAMON. Then stop the lavish fountain of your eyes, ALEXIS. Say what can more our tortur'd souls annoy, DAMON. None, shepherd, none— ALEXIS, Then cease to chide my cares ! And rather pity than restrain my tears; Those tears, my Damon, which I justly shed, To think how great my joys; how soon they fled. I told thee, friend, (now bless the shepherd's name, From whose dear care the kind occasion came) That I, ever I, might happily receive [gite: The sacred wealth, which Heaven and Daphnis That I might see the lovely awful swain, Whose holy crosier guides our willing plain; Whose pleasing power and ruling goodness keep | Our souls with equal care as we our sheep; Whose praise excites each lyre, employs each tongue : Whilst only he who caus'd, dislikes the song. DAMON. Was he so humble then? those joys so vast? TO THE COUNTESS OF EXETER, PLAYING ON THE LUTE. [kind Have been the pleasing subjects of my song: The Persians thus, first gazing on the Sun, Admir'd how high 'twas plac'd, how bright it shone : But, as his power was known, their thoughts were rais'd; And soon they worship'd, what at first they prais'd. Strange force of harmony, that thus controls That with your numbers you our zeal might raise, And, like himself, communicate your jov. When to your native Heaven you shall repair, And with your presence crown the blessings there, Your lute may wind its strings but little higher, To tune their notes to that immortal quire. Your art is perfect here; your numbers do, As in some piece, while Luke his skill exprest, To burning Rome, when frantic Nero play'd, The raging flames; but, struck with strange sur prise, Confess'd them less than those of Anna's eyes: ON A PICTURE OF SENECA DYING IN A BATH; BY JORDAIN: AT THE EARL of Exeter's, aT BURLEIGH-House. WHILE Cruel Nero only drains AN ODE. WHILE blooming youth and gay delight To triumph o'er this destin'd breast. On power you know I must obey? And do an ill, because you may? The fate of vulgar beauty find: Forc'd compliments, and formal bows, A talking dull Platonic I shall turn : Then shun the ill, and know, my dear, So vast a weight as that of love. If thou canst wish to make my flames endure, Haste, Celia, haste, while youth invites, And give thy soul a loose to joys: As liking any youth beside: What men e'er court thee, fly them, and believe So shall I court thy dearest truth, So time itself our raptures shall improve, AN EPISTLE TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHARD, ES2. WHEN crowding folks, with strange ill faces, Were making legs, and begging places, And some with patents, some with merit, Tir'd out my good lord Dorset's spirit: Sneaking I stood amongst the crew, Desiring much to speak with you. I waited while the clock struck thrice, And footman brought out fifty lies; TiH, patience vext, and legs grown weary, I thought it was in vain to tarry : But did opine it might be better By penny-post to send a letter; Now, if you miss of this epistle, I'm baulk'd again, and may go whistle. My business, sir, you'll quickly guess, Is to desire some little place; And fair pretensions I have for 't, Much need, and very small desert. Whene'er I writ to you, I wanted; I always begg'd, you always granted. Now, as you took me up when little, Gave me my learning and my vittle; Ask'd for me, from my lord, things fitting, Kind as I'ad been your own begetting; Confirm what formerly you've given, Nor leave me now at six and seven, As Sunderland has left Mun Stephen. No family, that takes a whelp When first he laps, and scarce can yelp, Neglects or turns him out of gate My uncle, rest his soul! when living, There's one thing more I had almost slipt, But that may do as well in postscript: My friend Charles Montague's preferr'd; Nor would I have it long observ'd, That one mouse eats, while t'other's starv'd. ANOTHER EPISTLE TO THE SAME, SIR, BURLEIGH, MAY 14, 1689. Or, not to rove, and pump one's fancy To those might better spare them ten; Then take it, sir, as it was writ, To pay respect, and not shew wit: Nor look askew at what it saith; There's no petition in it-'faith. Here some would scratch their heads, and try If once for principle 'tis laid, I argue thus: the world agrees Writes best, who never thinks at all. Verse comes from Heaven, like inward light; Mere human pains can ne'er come by 't: The god, not we, the poem makes; We only tell folks what he speaks. Hence, when anatomists discourse, How like brutes' organs are to ours; They grant, if higher powers think fit, A bear might soon be made a wit; And that, for any thing in nature, Pigs might squeak love-odes, dogs bark satire. Memnon, though stone, was counted vocal; But 'twas the god, meanwhile, that spoke all. Rome oft has heard a cross haranguing, With prompting priest behind the hanging: The wooden head resolv'd the question; While you and Pettis help'd the jest on. Your crabbed rogues, that read Lucretius, Are against gods, you know; and teach us, The gods make not the poet; but The thesis, vice-versa put, Should Hebrew-wise be understood; And means, the poet makes the god, Egyptian gardeners thus are said to Have set the leeks they after pray'd to: And Romish bakers praise the deity They chipp'd while yet in its paneity. That when you poets swear and cry, "The god inspires! I rave, I die!" If inward wind does truly swell ye, 'T must be the colic in your belly: That writing is but just like dice, And lucky mains make people wise: That jumbled words, if Fortune throw 'em, Shall, well as Dryden, form a poem ; Or make a speech, correct and witty, As you know who-at the committee. So atoms dancing round the centre, They urge, made all things at a venture. But, granting matters should be spoke By method, rather than by luck; This may confine their younger styles, Whom Dryden pedagogues at Will's; But never could be meant to tye Authentic wits, like you and I: For as young children, who are tied in Go-carts, to keep their steps from sliding; When members knit, and legs grow stronger, Make use of such machine no longer; But leap pro libitu, and scout On horse call'd hobby, or without; So when at school we first declaim, Old Busby walks us in a theme, Whose props support our infant vein, And help the rickets in the brain : But, when our souls their force dilate, And thoughts grow up to wit's estate; In verse or prose, we write or chat, Not sixpence matter upon what. 'Tis not how well an author says; But 'tis how much, that gathers praise. Tonson, who is himself a wit, Counts writers' merits by the sheet. Thus cach should down with all he thinks, As boys cat bread, to fill up chinks. Kind sir, I should be glad to see you; I hope y' are well; so God be wi' you. Was all I thought at first to write; But things, since then, are alter'd quite : Fancies flow in, and Muse flies high; So God knows when my clack will lie. I must, sir, prattle on, as afore, And beg your pardon yet this half hour. So at pure barn of loud Non-con, Where with my granam I have gone, When Lobb had sifted all his text, And I well hop'd the pudding next; "Now to apply has plagu'd me more Than all his villain cant before. For your Religion, first, of her Not sour'd with cant, nor stumm'd with merit; In politics, I hear, you 're stanch, Are in no plots; but fairly drive at For me, whom wandering Fortune threw Are, that they did their work, and din'd. The books, of which I'm chiefly fond, That rob in clans, like men o' th' Highland; Of apes that storm, or keep a town, Elks, mermaids, mummies, witches, satyrs, Critics I read on other men, And hypers upon them again; From whose remarks I give opinion On twenty books, yet ne'er look in one. Then all your wits, that fleer and sham, Down from Don Quixote to Tom Tram; From whom I jests and puns purloin, And slily put them off for mine: Fond to be thought a country wit: The rest-when Fate and you think fit. Sometimes I climb my mare, and kick her To bottled ale, and neighbouring vicar; Sometimes at Stamford take a quart, "Squire Shephard's health"-"With all my heart." Thus, without much delight or grief, I fool away an idle life: Till Shadwell from the town retires TO THE COUNTESS OF DORSET. WRITTEN IN HER MILTON. BY MR. BRADBURY. SEE here how bright the first-born virgin shone, And how the first fond lover was undone. TO THE LADY DURSLEY. ON THE SAME SUBJECT. HERE reading how fond Adam was betray'd, You still, fair mother, in your offspring trace With virtue strong as yours had Eve been arm'd, In vain the fruit had blush'd, or serpent charm'd; Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought; Nor had frail Adam fall'n, nor Milton wrote. TO MY LORD BUCKHURST, VERY YOUNG, PLAYING WITH A CAT. THE amorous youth, whose tender breast Was by his darling cat possest, |