Within thofe dire eternal prifons fhut,
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 yourfelves, 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 fublimeft wisdom fcorn'd;
When pointed lightnings from the wrathful Judge
Shall finge your blighted laurels, and the men
Who thought they flew fo high, shall fall so low.
No more, my Mufe, of that tremendous thought:
Refume thy more delightful theme, and fing
Th' immortal man, that with immortal verse
Rivals the hymns of angels, and like them
Defpifes mortal criticks' idle rules:
While the celeftial flame that warms thy foul
Infpires us, and with holy transports moves
Our labouring minds, and nobler fcenes prefents
Than all the Pagan Poets ever fung,
Homer, or Virgil; and far fweeter notes
Than Horace ever taught his founding lyre,
And purer far, though Martial's self might seem
A modeft Poet in our Chriftian days.
May thofe forgotten and neglected lie,
No more let men be fond of fabulous Gods,
Nor Heathen wit debauch one Chriftian line,
While with the coarfe and daubing paint we hide
The fhining beauties of eternal truth,
That in her native drefs appears most bright,
And charms the eyes of angels.-Oh! like thee
every nobler genius tune his voice
To fubjects worthy of their towering thoughts.
Let Heaven and Anna then your tuneful art
Improve, and confecrate your deathlefs lays
To him who reigns above, and her who rules below.
April 17, 1706.
To Mr. WATTS, on his Divine Poems.
AY, human feraph, whence that charming force,
That flame! that foul! which animates each line; And how it runs with fuch a graceful eafe, Loaded with ponderous fenfe! Say, did not He, The lovely Jefus, who commands thy breaft, Infpire thee with himself? With Jefus dwells, Knit in mysterious bands, the Paraclete, The breath of God, the everlafting fource Of love: And what is love, in fouls like thine, But air, and incenfe to the poet's fire? Should an expiring faint, whofe fwimming eyes. Mingle the images of things about him, But hear the leaft exalted of thy ftrains, How greedily he 'd drink the mufic in, Thinking his heavenly convoy waited near! So great a stress of powerful harmony,
Nature unable longer to fuftain,
Would fink opprefs'd with joy to endless rest.
Let none henceforth of Providence complain,
As if the world of fpirits lay unknown,
Fenc'd round with black impenetrable night;
What though no fhining 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 roll'd,
What 'tis employs the blefs'd, what makes their blifs;
Songs fuch as Watts's are, and love like his.
But then, dear Sir, be cautious how you use,
To tranfports fo intenfely rais'd your Muse,
Left, whilft th' ecftatic impulfe you obey,
The foul leap out, and drop the duller clay.
Sept. 4, 1706.
To Dr. WATT s, on the fifth Edition of his
Overeign of facred verfe; accept the lays
Of a young bard that dares attempt thy praise.
A Mufe, the meaneft of the vocal throng,
New to the bays, nor equal to the fong.
Fir'd with the growing glories of thy fame,
Joins all her powers to celebrate thy name.
No vulgar themes thy pious Mufe engage,
No fcenes of luft pollute thy facred page.
You in majestic numbers mount the skies,
And meet defcending angels as you rise,
Whofe juft applaufes charm the crouded groves,
And Addison thy tuneful fong approves.
Soft harmony and manly vigour join
To form the beauties of each fprightly line,
For every grace of every Mufe 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 fong:
From blifs to blifs the happy beings rove,
And tafte the fweets of mufic and of love.
But when the fofter fcenes of life you paint,
And join the beauteous virgin to the faint,
When you describe how few the happy pairs,
Whofe hearts untied foften all their cares,
We fee to whom the fweeteft joys belong,
And Myra's beauties confecrate your song.
Fain the unnumber'd graces I would tell,
And on the pleafing theme for ever dwell;
But the Mufe faints, unequal to the flight,
And hears thy strains with wonder and delight.
When tombs of princes fhall in ruins lie,
And all but Heaven-born piety fhall die,
When the last trumpet wakes the filent dead,
And each lafcivious poet hides his head,
With thee fhall thy divine Urania rife,
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 feraph fings..
Sic fpirat, fic optat,
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