Nor its fet way o'er ftiles and bridges make,

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That is fall'n into its pow'r;

As if his gen'rous hunger understood
That he can never want plenty of food,
He only fucks the tasteful blood,

And to fresh game flies cheerfully away;

To kites and meaner birds he leaves the mangled

prey.

CHRIST'S PASSION.

Taken out of a Greek Ode,

WRITTEN BY MR. MASTERS,

Of New-College in Oxford.

1.

ENOUGH, my Mufe! of earthly things,

And infpirations but of wind;

Take up thy lute, and to it bind
Loud and everlasting strings,
And on 'em play, and to 'em fing,
The happy mournful ftories,
The lamentable glories,

Of the great crucify'd King,

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Mountainous heap of wonders! which doft rife
Till earth thou joineft with the skies!

Too large at bottom, and at top too high,

To be half feen by mortal eye.

How fhall I grafp this boundless thing?
What fhail I play? what shall I fing?

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I'll fing the mighty riddle of mysterious love, Which neither wretched men below, nor bleffed fp'rits With all their comments. can explain,

[above, How all the whole world's Life to die did not disdain.

II.

I'll sing the searchlefs depths of the compaflion divine, The depths unfathom'd yet

By Reason's plummet and the line of Wit;

Too light the plummet, and too fhort the line,
How the eternal Father did beftow

His own eternal Son as ranfome for his foe:
I'll fing aloud, that all the world may hear
The triumph of the bury'd Conqueror;
How Hell was by its pris'ner captive led,
And the great flayer Death, flain by the dead.

Methinks I hear of murder'd men the voice,

Mix'e with the murderers' confufed noise,

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Sound from the top of Calvary;

My greedy eyes fly up the hill, and fee

Who 't is hangs there the midmost of the three.

Oh how unlike the others he!

[the tree!

Look how he bends his gentle head with bleffings from

His gracious hands, ne'er stretch'd but to do good, 36 Are nail'd to the infamous wood;

And finful man does fondly bind

The arms which he extends t'embrace all humankind.

Doft thou not fee thy Prince in purple clad all o'er,

If that be yet not crucify'd,

Look on his hands, look on his feet, look on his side.

V.

Open, oh! open wide the fountains of thine eyes, 60 And let 'em call

Their flock of moisture forth, where'er it lies,

For this will ask it all.

"Twould all, alas! too little be,

Tho' thy falt tears came from a fea;

Can't thou deny him this, when he

Has open'd all his vital fprings for thee?

Take heed; for by his fide's mysterious flood
May well be understood,

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That he will still require fome waters to his blood. 70

HORACE, LIB. III. ODE I.

Odi profanum vulgus, &c.

I.

HENCE, ye Profane! I hate ye all,

Both the great vulgar, and the small.

To virgin Minds, which yet their native whitenefs hold Not yet difcolour'd with the love of gold,

(That jaundice of the foul

Which makes it look fo gilded and fo foul)

To you, ye very few! thefe truths I tell;

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The Mufe infpires my fong; hark, and obferve it well.

II.

We look on men, and wonder at fuch odds
'Twixt things that were the fame by birth;
We look on kings as giants of the earth;
These giants are but pigmies to the gods.
The humbleft bush and proudest oak

Are but of equal proof against the thunder-stroke.

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Beauty, and strength, and wit, and wealth, and pow'r, Have their fhort flourishing hour,

And love to fee themselves, and smile,

And joy in their preeminence awhile;
Ev'n fo in the fame land

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Poor weeds, rich corn, gay flow'rs, together ftand: 20
Alas! Death mows down all with an impartial hand.
JII.

And all you men, whom greatnefs does so please,
Ye feaft, I fear, like Damocles:

If you your eyes could upwards mové,
(But you, I fear, think nothing is above)
You would perceive by what a little thread
The fword ftill hangs over your head:
No tide of wine would drown your cares,

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No mirth or mufick over-noise your fears:

The fear of death would you fo watchful keep.
As not t' admit the image of it, Sleep.

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IV.

Sleep is a god too proud to wait in palaces,

And yet fo humble, too, as not to scorn
The meanest country cottages;

His poppy grows among the corn.

The halcyon Sleep will never build his nest

In any ftormy breast:

Tis not enough that he does find

Clouds and darkness in their mind;
Darkness but half his work will do;

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'Tis not enough, he must find quiet too..

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