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Saw in the east your joys arise,
When Anna sunk in western skies,
Streaking the heav'ns with crimson gloom,
Emblems of tyranny and Rome,
Portending blood and night to come.
'Twas George diffus'd a vital ray

gave the dying nations day;
His influence sooths the Russian Bear,
Calms rising wars and heals the air;
Join'd with the sun his beams are hurld
To scatter blessings round the world,
Fulfil whate'er the Muse has spoke,
And crown the work that Anne forfook.

August 1, 1721.



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To John Locke, Esq. retired from bufonefs.

Angels are made of heav'nly things,
And light and love our souls conipore,
Their bliss within their bosom springs,
Within their bosom flows;
But narrow minds still make pretence
'To search the coasts of flesh and sense
And fetch diviner pleasures thence.
Men are akin t'ethereal forms,
Buc they belie their nobler birth,
Debase their honour down to earth,
And claim a share with worms.

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He that has treasures of his own
May leave the cottage or the throne,
May quit the globe, and dwell alone
Within his spacious mind.
Locke hath a soul wide as the sea,
Calm as the night, bright as the day,
There may

his vast ideas play, Nor feel a thought confin'd.



To John Shute, Esq. (now Lord Barrington) on Mr.

Locke's dangerous fickness, fome time after be bad retired to study the Scriptures.

June 1704.

AND must the man of wondrous mind
(Now his rich thoughts are just refin'd)
Forsake our longing eyes?
Reason at length submits to wear
The wings of Faith, and lo, they rear
Her chariot high, and nobly bear
Her Prophet to the skies!

7 II. Go, friend, and wait the Prophet's flight, Watch if his mantle chance to light, And seize it for thy own; shute is the darling of his years, young Shute his better likeness bears; All but his wrinkles and his hairs Are copyid in his son.


half our eyes.


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Thus when our follies or our faults
Call for the pity of thy thoughts
Thy pen shall make us wise,
The fallies of whose youthful wit
Could pierce the British fogs with light,
Place our true int’rest * in our sight,
And open

To Mr. William Nokes.

Friendship, 1702.
FriendSHIP, thou charmer of the mind,
Thou sweet deluding ill!
The brightest minute mortals find
And sharpest hours we feel.

2. Fate has divided all our shares
Of pleasure and of pain;
In love the comforts and the cares
Are mix'd and join'd again.

3. But whilft in floods our forrow rolls,
And drops of joy are few,
This dear delight of mingling souls
Serves but to swell our wo.

4. Oh! why should bliss depart in haite
And friendship stay to moan?
Why the fond paflion cling so fast
When ev'ry joy is gone?

* The intereft of England, written by J. S. Efq.





5. Yet never let our hearts divide
Nor death diffolve the chain,
For Love and Joy were once ally'd,
And must be join'd again.


ToNatbanael Gould, Esq. now Sir Nathanael Gould, 1704.

1. 'Tis not by splendour or by state, Exalted mien or lofty gait, My Muse takes measure of a king: If wealth, or height, or bulk, will do, She calls each mountain of Peru

5 A more majestick thing. Frown on me, friend, if e'er I boast O'er fellow-minds enslav'd in clay, Or swell when I shall have engroft A larger heap of shining dust, And wear a bigger load of carth than they, Let the vain world salute me loud, My thoughts look inward, and forget The founding names of high and great, 'The flatt'ries of the crowd.

15 II. When Gould commands his ships to run And search the traffick of the sea, His fleet o’ertakes the falling day And bears the western mines away, Or richer spices from the rising fun,




While the glad tenants of the shore
Shout and pronounce him senator *,
Yet still the man 's the same;
For well the happy merchant knows
The soul with treasure never grows
Nor swells with airy fame.

But trust me, Gould, 't is lawful pride
To rise above the mean control
Of flesh and sense, to which we're ty'd;
This is ambition that becomes a soul.
We steer our course up thro' the skies,
Farewell this barren land;
We ken the heav'nly shore with longing eyes,
There the dear wealth of spirits lies
And beck’ning angels stand.



To Dr. Thomas Gibson.

The life of fouls, 1704:

Swift as the sun revolves the day
We hasten to the dead,
Slaves to the wind we puff away
And to the ground we tread.

* Member of Parliament for a port in Suflex.

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