POE M S,

Chiefly of the LYRIC Kind,

In THREE BOOK S.

SACRED

I. TO DEVOTION and PIETY.

II. TO VIRTUE, HONOUR, and FRIENDSHIP. III. To the MEMORY of the Dead.

'

By I. WATTS, D. D.

-Si non Uraniê Lyram

"Cœleftem cohibet, nec Polyhymnia
“Humanum refugit tendere Barbiton.”

HOR. Od. I. initat.

Αθάνατον μὲν πρῶτα Θεὸν, νόμῳ ὡς διάκειται,
Τίμα, (κὶ σέβα αὐτὸν) ἔπειθ' Ἥρωες αγαύης,
Τάς τε Καταχθονίας.

PYTHAG, Aur, Cap.

RECOMMENDATORY VERSES.

On Reading Mr. WATTS's Poems, facred to Piety and Devotion.

EGARD the man who in feraphic lays,

RE

And flowing numbers, fings his Maker's praise : He needs invoke no fabled Mufe's art,

The heavenly fong comes genuine from his heart,
From that pure heart, which God has deign'd t'infpire
With holy raptures, and a facred fire.

Thrice happy man! whofe foul, and guiltless breast,
Are well prepar'd to lodge th' Almighty gueft!
'Tis He that lends thy towering thoughts their wing,
And tunes thy lyre, when thou attempt'st to fing:
He to thy foul lets-in celeftial day,

Ev'n whilft imprifon'd in this mortal clay.
By death's grim afpect thou art not alarm'd,
He, for thy fake, has death itself difarm'd;
Nor fhall the grave o'er thee a victory boast;.
Her triumph in thy rifing fhall be loft,
When thou shalt join th' angelic choirs above,
In never-ending fongs of praife and love.

To Mr. WATTS, on his Poems.

To murmuring ftreams, in tender strains,

My penfive Muse no more

Of love's enchanting force complains,
Along the flowery fhore.

No more MIRTILLO'S fatal face
My quiet breaft alarms,

His eyes, his air, and youthful grace,
Have loft their ufual charms.

No

gay ALEXIS in the grove
Shall be my future theme:

I burn with an immortal love,
And fing a purer flame.

Seraphic heights I feem to gain,
And facred transports feel,

While, WATTS, to thy celeftial strain,

Surpriz'd, I liften still.

The gliding ftreams their courfe forbear,
When I thy lays repeat;

The bending foreft lends an ear;
The birds their notes forget.

With fuch a graceful harmony
Thy numbers ftill prolong;
And let remoteft lands reply,

And echo to thy fong.

Far

Far as the diftant regions, where

The beauteous morning fprings,

And scatters odours through the air,

From her refplendent wings;

Unto the new-found realms, which fee

The latter fun arise,

When, with an easy progrefs, he

Rolls down the nether fkies.

July, 1706.

PHILOMELA.

To Mr. WATTS, on reading his Hora Lyrica.

HAIL, heaven-born Mufe! that with celeftial flame,
And high feraphic numbers, durft attempt

To gain thy native kies. No common theme
Merits thy thought, felf-conscious of a foul
Superior, though on earth detain'd a-while ;
Like fome propitious angel, that's defign'd
A refident in this inferior orb,

To guide the wandering fouls to heavenly blifs,
Thou feem'ft; while thou their everlasting fongs
Haft fung to mortal ears, and down to earth
Transferr'd the work of heaven; with thought fublime,
And high fonorous words, thou fweetly fing'ft
To thy immortal lyre. Amaz'd, we view
The towering height ftupendous, while thou foar'ft
Above the reach of vulgar eyes or thought,
Hymning th' Eternal Father; as of old
When first th' Almighty from the dark abyfs.