The Comet thro' the long elliptic curve, As round innumerous worlds he wound his way, Till to the forehead of our evening sky Return'd, the blazing wonder glares anew, And o'er the trembling nations shakes dismay. The heavens are all his own, from the wild rule Of whirling vortices and circling spheres To their first great fimplicity restor'd.
The Schools aftonish'd stood, but found it vain 85 To combat ftill with demonflration strong, And, unawakened, dream beneath the blaze Of Truth. At once their pleasing visions fled, With the gay fhadows of the morning mix'd, When Newton rofe, our philofophic Sun.
Th' aërial flow of Sound was known to him, From whence it firft in wavy circles breaks, Till the touch'd organ takes the message in. Nor could the darting beam of Speed immense Escape his fwift purfuit and measuring eye. Even Light itself, which every thing displays, Shone undiscover'd, till his brighter mind Untwisted all the fhining robe of day; And, from the whitening undiftinguish'd blaze Collecting every ray into his kind,
To the charm'd eye educ'd the gorgeous train Of parent-colours. Firft the flaming Red, Sprung vivid forth; the tawny Orange next; And next delicious Yellow; by whose fide
Fell the kind beams of all-refreshing Green: Then the pure Blue, that fwells autumnal skies, Ethereal play'd; and then, of fadder hue, Emerg'd the deepened Indico, as when The heavy-skirted evening droops with froft; While the last gleamings of refracted light Dy'd in the fainting Violet away. Thefe, when the clouds diftil the rofy shower, Shine out diftin&t adown the watry bow, While o'er our heads the dewy vision bends Delightful, melting on the fields beneath. Myriads of mingling dyes from these result, And myriads ftill remain; infinite fource Of beauty, ever-flushing, ever-new! Did ever poet image aught fo fair,
Dreaming in whifpering groves by the hoarse brook! Or prophet, to whofe rapture Heaven defcends! 121 Even now the fetting fun and shifting clouds, Seen, Greenwich, from thy lovely heights, declare How juft, how beauteous the refractive law.
The noiseless tide of time, all bearing down 125 To vaft eternity's unbounded fea,
Where the green islands of the happy shine, He stemm'd alone, and to the fource (involv'd Deep in primeval gloom) afcending, rais'd His lights at equal distances, to guide Hiftorian, wilder'd on his dark some way.
But who can number up his labours? whe
His high difcoveries fing? when but a few
Of the deep-ftudying race can ftretch their minds To what he knew? in Fancy's lighter thought, 135 How fhall the Muse then grafp the mighty theme? What wonder, then, that his devotion fwell'd Refponfive to his knowledge! for could he, Whose piercing mental eye diffusive saw The finish'd university of things
In all its order, magnitude, and parts, Forbear inceffant to adore that Power Who fills, fuftains, and actuates the whole? Say, ye who beft can tell, ye happy few! Who faw him in the fofteft lights of life, All unwith-held, indulging to his friends The vast unborrow'd treasures of his mind,
Oh, fpeak the wondrous Man! how mild, how calm, How greatly humble, how divinely good;
How firm eftablish'd on eternal truth;
Fervent in doing well, with every nerve
Still preffing on, forgetful of the past, And panting for perfection; far above Those little cares and visionary joys
That fo perplex the fond impaffion'd heart Of ever-cheated, ever-trufting man.
And you, ye hopelefs, gloomy-minded Tribe! You who, unconfcious of thofe nobler flights That reach impatient at immortal life, Against the prime endearing privilege
Of being dare contend, say, can a soul Of fuch extenfive, deep, tremendous powers, Enlarging ftill, be but a finer breath
Of spirits dancing thro' their tubes a while, And then for ever loft in vacant air?
But hark! methinks I hear a warning voice, Solemn as when fome awful change is come, [full; Sound thro' the world-"'Tis done-The measure's "And I resign my charge."-Ye mouldering Stones! That build the towering pyramid, the proud Triumphal arch, the monument effac'd By ruthless ruin, and whate'er fupports The worshipp'd name of hoar Antiquity, Down to the duft! what grandeur can ye boast, While Newton lifts his column to the skies, Beyond the waste of time. Let no weak drop Be shed for him. The virgin in her bloom Cut off, the joyous youth, and darling child, These are the tombs that claim the tender tear
And elegiac fong; but Newton calls
For other notes of gratulation high,
That now he wanders thro' thofe endless worlds He here fo well defcried, and wondering talks, And hymns their Author with his glad compeers. O Britain's boaft! whether with angels thou 185 Sitteft in dread difcourfe, or fellow-bleft, Who joy to fee the honour of their kind; Or whether mounted on cherubic wing,
Thy fwift career is with the whirling orbs, Comparing things with things, in rapture loft, 190 And grateful adoration, for that light
So plenteous ray'd into thy mind below, From Light himself; Oh! look with pity down On human-kind, a frail, erroneous race! Exalt the spirit of a downward world! O'er thy dejected Country chief preside, And be her Genius called! her studies raise, Correct her manners, and inspire her youth: For, thoughdeprav'd and funk, fhe brought thee forth, And glories in thy name; the points thee out To all her fons, and bids them eye thy star; While in expectance of the fecond life, When time shall be no more, thy facred duft Sleeps with her kings, and dignifies the scene.
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