Ah! who is he that with a fonder eye
Meets thine enraptur'd?-'Tis the best of fons! 325
The best of friends!-Too foon is realiz'd
That hope which once forbade thy tears to flow!
Mean while the kindred fouls of every land
(Howe'er divided in the fretful days
Of prejudice and error), mingled now,
In one selected never-jarring state,
Where God himself their only monarch reigns,
Partake the joy; yet, such the sense that still
Remains of earthly woes, for us below,
And for our loss, they drop a pitying tear.
But cease, prefumptuous Muse! nor vainly strive
To quit this cloudy sphere that binds thee down;
'Tis not for mortal hand to trace these scenes,
Scenes that our gross ideas grovelling caft
Behind, and strike our boldest language dumb. 34°
Forgive, immortal Shade! if aught from earth,
From dust low-warbled, to those groves can rise,
Where flows celestial harmony, forgive
This fond fuperfluous verse. With deep-felt voice,
On every heart impress'd, thy deeds themselves 345
Attest thy praise. Thy praise the widows' fighs
And orphans' tears embalm. The good, the bad,
The fons of Justice, and the sons of Strife,
All who or freedom or who interest prize,
A deep-divided nation's parties all
Conspire to swell thy spotless praise to heaven.
Glad heaven receives it, and seraphic lyres
With fongs of triumph thy arrival hail.
How vain this tribute, then! this lowly lay!
Yet nought is vain which gratitude inspires.
The Muse, besides, her duty thus approves
To virtue, to her country, to mankind,
To ruling Nature, that, in glorious charge,
As to her priestess, gives it her, to hymn
Whatever good and excellent she forms.
DEATH OF MR. AIKMAN,
A particular friend of the Author's.
As those we love decay, we die in part,
String after string is sever'd from the heart,
Till loofen'd life, at last, but breathing clay,
Without one pang is glad to fall away.
Unhappy he who latest feels the blow,
Whose eyes have wept o'er every friend laid low,
Dragg'd ling'ring on from partial death to death,
Till, dying, all he can resign is breath.
TO THE REV. MR. MURDOCH,
RECTOR OF STRADDISHALL IN SUFFOLK, 1738.
THUS fafely low, my Friend! thou can'st not fall:
Here reigns a deep tranquillity o'er all:
No noise, no care, no vanity, no ftrife;
Men, woods, and fields, all breathe untroubled life.
Then keep each passion down, however dear;
Trust me, the tender are the most severe.
Guard, while 'tis thine, thy philofophic ease,
And afk no joy but that of virtuous peace;
That bids defiance to the storms of fate:
High bliss is only for a higher state.
ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ ON MISS STANLEY.
HERE, Stanley! rest, escap'd this mortal strife,
Above the joys, beyond the woes of life.
Fierce pangs no more thy lively beauties stain,
And sternly try thee with a year of pain:
No more sweet Patience, feigning oft' relief,
Lights thy fick eye, to cheat a parent's grief:
With tender art, to save her anxious groan,
No more thy bosom presses down its own:
Now well-earn'd peace is thine, and bliss sincere:
Ours be the lenient, not unpleasing tear!
O! born to bloom, then sink beneath the storm,
To show us Virtue in her fairest form;
To show us artless Reason's moral reign,
What boastful Science arrogates in vain;
Th' obedient passions knowing each their part,
Calm light the head, and harmony the heart!
Yes, we must follow foon, will glad obey,
When a few funs have roll'd their cares away,
Tir'd with vain life, will close the willing eye;
'Tis the great birthright of mankind to die.
Blest be the bark that wafts us to the shore
Where death-divided friends shall part no more!
To join thee there, here with thy duft repofe,
Is all the hope thy hapless mother knows.
Latter part of the fixth chapter of St. Matthew.
WHEN my breast labours with oppreffive care,
And o'er my cheek descends the falling tear;
While all my warring passions are at strife,
O! let me listen to the words of Life!
Raptures deep-felt his doctrine did impart,
And thus he rais'd from earth the drooping heart,
Think not, when all your scanty stores afford
Is spread at once upon the sparing board;
Think not, when worn the homely robe appears,
While on the roof the howling tempest bears,
What farther shall this feeble life sustain,
And what shall clothe these shiv'ring limbs again.
Say, does not life its nourishment exceed ?
And the fair body its investing weed?
Behold! and look away your low despair
See the light tenants of the barren air;
To them nor stores nor granaries belong,
Nought but the woodland and the pleasing song;
Yet your kind heavenly Father bends his eye
On the least wing that flits along the sky.
To him they sing when Spring renews the plain,
To him they cry in Winter's pinching reign,
Nor is their music nor their plaint in vain:
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