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Within those dire eternal prisons shut,
Expect their fad inexorable doom.
Say now, ye men of wit! what turn of thought
Will please you then! Alas, how dull and poor,
Ev'n to yourselves, will your lewd flights appear !
How will you envy then the happy fate
Of idiots! and perhaps in vain you 'll wish,
You'd been as very fools as once you thought'
Others, for the sublimest wisdom scorn'd;
When pointed lightnings from the wrathful Judge
Shall finge your blighted laurels, and the men
Who thought they flew so high, shall fall so low.

No more, my Muse, of that tremendous thought:
Resume thy more delightful theme, and fing
Th’immortal man, that with immortal verse
Rivals the hymns of angels, and like them
Despises mortal criticks' idle rules :
While the celestial flame that warms thy soul
Inspires us, and with holy transports moves
Our labouring minds, and nobler scenes presents
Than all the Pagan Poets ever sung,
Homer, or Virgil; and far sweeter notes
Than Horace ever taught his founding lyre,
And purer far, though Martial's self might seems
A modest Poet in our Christian days.
May those forgotten and neglected lie,
No more let men be fond of fabulous Gods,
Nor Heathen wit debauch one Christian line,
While with the coarse and daubing paint we hide
The shining beauties of eternal truth,

That in her native dress appears most bright,
And charms the eyes of angels.-Oh! like thee
Let every nobler genius tune his voice
To fubjects worthy of their towering thoughts.
Let Heaven and Anna then


tuneful art Improve, and consecrate your deathless lays To him who reigns above, and her who rules below. April 17, 1706.


To Mr. WATTS, on his Divine Poems.


human seraph, whence that charming force, That flame! that soul! which animates each line; And how it runs with such a graceful ease, Loaded with ponderous sense! Say, did not He, The lovely Jesus, who commands thy breast, Inspire thee with himself? With Jesus dwells, Knit in mysterious bands, the Paraclete, The breath of God, the everlasting source Of love : And what is love, in souls like thine, But air, and incense to the poet's fire ? Should an expiring faint, whose swimming eyes. Mingle the images of things about him, But hear the least exalted of thy strains, How greedily he 'd drink the music in, Thinking bis heavenly convoy waited near! So great a stress of powerful harmony,


Nature unable longer to sustain,
Would fink oppress'd with joy to endless rest.

Let none henceforth of Providence complain,
As if the worki of spirits lay unknown,
Fenc'd round with black impenetrable night;
What though no shining angel darts from thence
With leave to publish things conceal'd from sense,
In language bright as theirs, we are here told,
When life its narrow round of years hath rolld,
What 'tis employs the bless’d, what makes their blifs;
Songs such as Watts's are, and love like his.

But then, dear Sir, be cautious how you use,
To transports fo intensely rais'd your Muse,
Lest, whilst th' ecstatic impulse you obey,
The foul leap out, and drop the duller clay.
Sept. 4, 1706.


To Dr. WATTS, on the fifth Edition of his

Horæ Lyricæ.

Overeign of sacred verse; accept the lays

Of a young bard that dares attempt thy praise.
A Mule, the meanest of the vocal throng,
New to the bays, nor equal to the song.
Fir’d with the growing glories of thy fame,
Joins all her powers to celebrate thy name.

No vulgar themes thy pious Muse engage,
No scenes of lust pollute thy sacred page.



You in majestic numbers mount the skies,
And meet descending angels as you rise,
Whose just applauses charm the crouded groves,
And Addison thy tuneful fong approves.
Soft harmony and manly vigour join
To form the beauties of each sprightly line,
For every grace of every Muse is thine.
Milton, immortal bard, divinely bright,
Conducts his favourite to the realms of light;
Where Raphael's lyre charms the celestial throng,
Delighted cherubs listening to the song:
From bliss to bliss the happy beings rove,
And taste the sweets of music and of love.
But when the softer scenes of life you paint,
And join the beauteous virgin to the saint,


describe how few the happy pairs,
Whose hearts untied foften all their cares,
We fee to whom the sweetest joys belong,
And Myra's beauties consecrate your song.
Fain the unnumber'd graces I would tell,
And on the pleasing theme for ever dwell ;
But the Mute faints, unequal to the flight,
And hears thy strains with wonder and delight.
When tombs of princes shall in ruins lie,
And all but Heaven-born piety shall die,
When the last trumpet wakes the filent dead,
And each lascivious poet hides his head,
With thee shall thy divine Urania rise,
Crown'd with fresh laurels, to thy native skies ;


Great How and Gouge shall hail thee on thy way,
And welcome thee to the bright realms of day,
Adapt thy tuneful notes, to heavenly strings,
And join the Lyric Ode while fome fair seraph sings.

Sic fpirat, fic optat,

Tui amantissimus



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