Things that the crowd call great and brave
With me how low their value's brought!
Titles and names, and life and breath,
Slaves to the wind, and born for death:
The foul's the only thing we have
Worth an important thought.

II.

The foul 'tis of th' immortal kind,
Nor form'd of fire, or earth, or wind,

ΤΟ

Outlives the mould'ring corpfe, and leaves the globe In limbs of clay tho' fhe appears,

[behind. Array'd in rofy skin and deck'd with ears and eyes, The flesh is but the foul's disguise;

19

There's nothing in her frame kin to the dress fhe From all the laws of matter free,

From all we feel and all we see,

[wears:

She stands eternally distinct, and muft for ever be.

III.

Rife then my thoughts on high,

Soar beyond all that's made to die :
Lo! on an awful throne

Sits the Creator and the Judge of fouls,

25

Whirling the planets round the poles,

[on.

Winds off our threads of life, and brings our periods

Swift the approach and folemn is the day

30

When this immortal mind,

IV.

Think of the fands run down to waste;

35

We poffefs none of all the past;

None but the present is our own:
Grace is not plac'd within our pow'r,
'Tis but one short one fhining hour,
Bright and declining as a fetting fun :
See the white minutes wing'd with haste;
The Now that flies may be the last:
Scize the falvation ere 'tis past,
Nor mourn the bleffing gone :
A thought's delay is ruin here;
A closing eye, a gasping breath,
Shuts up the golden fcene in death,
And drowns you in despair.

To William Blackbourn, Efq.

Cafimire, lib. ii. ode 2. imitated.

Quae tegit canas modo Bruma valles, c.

40

45

48

MARK how it fnows! how faft the valley fills!
And the sweet groves the hoary garment wear,
Yet the warm funbeams bounding from the hills
Shall melt the veil away and the young green ap-

pear.

2. But when old age has on your temples fhed Her filver froft there's no returning fun;

4

Swift flies our autumn, fwift our fummer's fled, When youth, and love, and spring, and golden joys, are gone.

3. Then cold and winter and your aged fnow Stick faft upon you: not the rich array,

Not the green garland nor the rofy bough,
Shall cancel or conceal the melancholy gray.

8

12

4. The chase of pleasures is not worth the pains While the bright fands of health run wasting down, And honour calls you from the fofter fcenes

To fell the gaudy hour for ages of renown.

5.

16

'Tis but one youth, and fhort, that mortals have, And one old age diffolves our feeble frame;

But there's a heav'nly art t' elude the grave,
And with the hero race immortal kindred claim. 20
6. The man that has his country's facred tears
Bedewing his cold hearfe has liv'd his day: [heirs;
Thus, Blackbourn! we fhould leave our names our
Old Time and waning moons sweep all the rest

away.

True monarchy, 1701.

THE rifing year beheld th' imperious Gaul
Stretch his dominion, while a hundred towns
Crouch'd to the victor; but a fleady foul
Stands firm on its own base, and reigns as wide
As abfolute, and sways ten thousand slaves,
Lufts and wild fancies, with a fov'reign hand.

24

5

We are a little kingdom; but the man

That chains his rebel will to Reafon's throne
Forms it a large one, whilft his royal mind

Makes Heav'n its counfel, from the rolls above ΙΟ Draws his own ftatutes, and with joy obeys.

'Tis not a troop of wellappointed guards Create a monarch, not a purple robe

Dy'd in the people's blood, not all the crowns
Or dazzling tiars that bend about the head,
Tho' gilt with funbeams and fet round with stars.
A monarch he that conquers all his fears
And treads upon them; when he stands alone
Makes his own camp; four guardian Virtues wait
His nightly flumbers and fecure his dreams.
Now dawns the light, he ranges all his thoughts
In fquare battalions, bold to meet th' attacks
Of time and chance, himself a num'rous hoft,
All eye, all ear, all wakeful as the day,

15

20

Firm as a rock, and moveless as the centre.

25

In vain the harlot Pleasure spreads her charms

Tô lull his thoughts in Luxury's fair lap
To fenfual eafe; (the bane of little kings,
Monarchs whofe waxen images of fouls
Are moulded into foftnefs) still his mind
Wears its own fhape, nor can the heav'nly form
Stoop to be modell'd by the wild decrees
Of the mad vulgar, that unthinking herd.

Volume VI.

C

30

He lives above the crowd, nor hears the noise

Of wars and triumphs, nor regards the shouts
Of popular applause, that empty found,
Nor feels the flying arrows of reproach,
Or fpite or envy; in himself secure,

Wisdom his tow'r, and confcience is his shield,
His peace all inward, and his joys his own.

35

40

Now my ambition fwells, my wishes foar,

This be my kingdom: fit above the globe
My rifing foul! and dress thyfelf around,
And shine in Virtue's armour, climb the height
Of Wisdom's lofty caftle, there refide

45

Safe from the fmiling and the frowning world.
Yet once a day drop down a gentle look
On the great molehill, and with pitying eye
Survey the bufy emmets round the heap.
Crowding and bustling in a thousand forms
Of ftrife and toil to purchase wealth and fame,
A bubble or a duft; then call thy thoughts
Up to thyself to feed on joys unknown,

50

Rich without gold and great without renown.

54

True courage.

HONOUR demands my fong: forget the ground
My gen'rous Mufe, and fit amongst the stars,
There fing the foul that confcious of her birth
Lives like a native of the vital world