PALINOD I A.

BRITONS, forgive the forward Muse

That dar'd prophetic feals to loose,
(Unfkill'd in fate's Eternal Book)
And the deep characters miftook.
George is the name, that glorious star;
Ye faw his fplendors beaming far;
Saw in the Eaft your joys arise,
When Anna funk in western fkies,

Streaking the heavens with crimson gloom,
Emblems of tyranny and Rome,
Portending blood and night to come.
'Twas George diffus'd a vital ray,
And gave the dying nations day:
His influence fooths the Ruffian Bear,
Calms rising wars, and heals the air;
Join'd with the fun his beams are hurl'd
To fcatter bleffings round the world,
Fulfil whate'er the Mufe has fpoke,

And crown the work that Anne forfook.

Aug. 1. 1721.

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TO JOHN LOCKE, Efq; retired from Bufinefs.

ANGELS are made of heavenly things,

And light and love our fouls compose, Their blifs within their bofom fprings, Within their bofom flows.

But

But narrow minds ftill make pretence
To fearch the coafts of flesh and fenfe,
And fetch diviner pleasures thence.
Men are akin to ethereal forms,
But they belye their nobler birth,
Debafe their honour down to earth,

And claim a fhare with worms.

He that has treasures of his own
May leave the cottage or the throne,
May quit the globe, and dwell alone
Within his fpacious mind.

Locke hath a foul wide as the fea,
Calm as the night, bright as the day,
There may his vaft ideas play,

Nor feel a thought confin'd.

To JOHN SHUTE, Efq; (afterwards Lord BARRINGTON.)

On Mr. LOCKE's dangerous Sickness, fome time after he had retired to study the Scriptures.

ND muft the man of wondrous mind

AND

June, 1704.

(Now his rich thoughts are juft refin'd)
Forfake our longing eyes?

Reafon at length fubmits to wear

The wings of Faith; and lo, they rear

Her chariot high, and nobly bear

Her prophet to the skies.

Go,

Go, friend, and wait the prophet's flight,
Watch if his mantle chance to light,
And feize it for thy own;

Shute is the darling of his years,
Young Shute his better likeness bears;
All but his wrinkles and his hairs
Are copy'd in his fon.

Thus when our follies, or our faults,
Call for the pity of thy thoughts,

Thy pen

fhall make us wife:

The fallies of whose youthful wit

Could pierce the British fogs with light,

Place our true *Intereft in our fight,
And open half our eyes.

To Mr. WILLIAM NOKES.

FRIENDSHIP.

FRIENDSHIP, thou charmer of the mind,

Thou sweet deluding ill,

The brigheft minute mortals find,

And sharpeft hour we feel.

Fate has divided all our shares
Of pleasure and of pains

In love the comforts and the cares

Are mix'd and join'd again.

1702.

But

The Intereft of England, written by Mr. Shute,

But whilft in floods our forrow rolls,

And drops of joy are few,

This dear delight of mingling fouls
Serves but to fwell our woe.

Oh! why fhould blifs depart in haste,
And friendship stay to moan?
Why the fond paffion cling so fast,
When every joy is gone?

Yet never let our hearts divide,

Nor death diffolve the chain : For love and joy were once ally'd, And must be join'd again.

To NATHANAEL GOULD, Efq; afterwards

Sir NATHANAEL

GOULD.

1704.

'TIS

IS not by fplendour, or by state,
Exalted mein, or lofty gait,

My Mufe takes measures of a king:
If wealth, or height, or bulk will do,
She calls each mountain of Peru

A more majestic thing.

Frown on me, friend, if e'er I boaft
O'er fellow-minds enflav'd in clay,
Or fwell when I fhall have engrost
A larger heap of fhining duft,

And wear a bigger load of earth than they.

Let

Let the vain world falute me loud,

My thoughts look inward, and forget
The founding names of High and Great,
The flatteries of the crowd.

When Gould commands his fhips to run
And fearch the traffic of the fea,
His fleet o'ertakes the falling day,
And bears the western mines away,
Or richer fpices from the rifing fun :
While the glad tenants of the fhore
Shout, and pronounce him fenator *,
Yet ftill the man's the fame :
For well the happy merchant knows
The foul with treafure never grows,
Nor fwells with airy fame.

But trust me, Gould, 'tis lawful pride

To rife above the mean control

Of flesh and fenfe, to which we 're ty'd;

This is ambition that becomes a foul.

We steer our course up through the skies;
Farewell this barren land:

We ken the heavenly fhore with longing eyes,
There the dear wealth of fpirits lies,
And beckoning angels stand.

* Member of parliament for a port in Suffex.

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