To thy great strength, and golden arms unequal.
Io! while thy unerring hand elanc'd
Another, and another dart; the people
Joyful repeated Io! Io Pean!

Elance the dart, Apollo: for the safety,

And health of man, gracious thy mother bore thee.
Envy thy latest foe fuggested thus:

Like thee I am a pow'r immortal; therefore
To thee dare speak. How canst thou favour partial
Those poets who write little? vast and great
Is what I love: The far-extended ocean
To a small riv'let I prefer. Apollo

Spurn'd Envy with his foot; and thus the god:
Daemon, the head long current of Euphrates,
Affyrian river, copious runs, but muddy;
And carries forward with his stupid force
Polluting dirt; his torrent still augmenting,

His wave ftill more defil'd: mean while the nymphs Meliffan, facred and reclufe to Ceres,

Studious to have their off'rings well receiv'd,

And fit for heav'nly ufe, from little urns
Pour streams felect, and purity of waters.
Io! Apollo, mighty king, let Envy
Ill-judging and verbofe, from Lethe's lake,
Draw tuns unmeasurable; while thy favour
Administers to my ambitious thirst

The wholsome draught from Aganippe's spring
Genuine, and with soft murmurs gently rilling
Adown the mountains where thy daughters haunt.

CHARITY.

A PARAPHRASE on the thirteenth CHAPTER of the
First EPISTLE to the CORINTHIANS.

DID

ID fweeter founds adorn my flowing tongue,
Than ever man pronounc'd, or angel fung:
Had I all knowledge, human and divine,
That thought can reach, or science can define;
And had I pow'r to give that knowledge birth,
In all the speeches of the babling earth:
Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire,
To weary tortures, and rejoice in fire;
Or had I faith like that which Ifrael faw,
When Mofes gave them miracles, and law:
Yet gracious Charity, indulgent guest,
Were not thy pow'r exerted in my breast;
Those speeches would send up unheeded pray'r:
That scorn of life would be but wild despair:
A tymbal's found were better than my voice:
My faith were form: my eloquence were noise.
Charity, decent, modeft, easy, kind,

Softens the high, and rears the abje&t mind;
Knows with juft reins, and gentle hand to guide,
Betwixt vile fhame, and arbitrary pride.
Not foon provok'd, she easily forgives;
And much the fuffers, as the much believes.
Soft peace fhe brings where-ever fhe arrives:
She builds our quiet, as she forms our lives;
Lays the rough paths of peevish nature ev'n;
And opens in each heart a little Heav'n.

Each other gift, which God on man bestows,
Its proper bounds, and due restriction knows;
To one fix'd purpose dedicates its power;
And finishing its act, exifts no more.
Thus, in obedience to what Heav'n decrees,
Knowledge fhall fail, and prophecy shall cease:
But lafting Charity's more ample sway,
Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay,
In happy triumph shall for ever live,

And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive.
As thro' the artist's interveening glafs,

Our eye obferves the diftant planets pass;

A little we discover; but allow,

That more remains unfeen, than art can show:
So whilst our mind its knowledge would improve
(Its feeble eye intent on things above)
High as we may, we lift our reafon up,
By Faith directed, and confirm'd by Hope:
Yet are we able only to survey

Dawnings of beams, and promises of day.
Heav'n's fuller effluence mocks our dazl'd fight;
Too great its swiftness, and too strong its light.
But foon the mediate clouds fhall be difpell'd:
The fun shall foon be face to face beheld,
In all his robes, with all his glory on,
Seated fublime on his meridian throne.

Then conftant Faith, and holy Hope shall die,
One loft in certainty, and one in joy:
Whilft thou, more happy pow'r, fair Charity,
Triumphant fifter, greatest of the three,
Thy office, and thy nature still the fame,
Lafting thy lamp, and unconfum'd thy flame,
Shalt ftill furvive-

Shalt stand before the host of Heav'n confeft,
For ever bleffing, and for ever bleft.

Engraven on a COLUMN in the church of HALSTEAD in
Essex. The fpire of which, burnt down by
lightning, was rebuilt at the expence of
Mr. SAMUEL FISKE, 1717.

VIEW

VIEW not this fpire by measure giv'n
To buildings rais'd by common hands:

That fabric rifes high as heav'n,

Whofe bafis on devotion ftands.

While yet we draw this vital breath,
We can our Faith and Hope declare:
But Charity beyond our death

Will ever in our works appear.

Beft be he call'd among good men,
Who to his God this column rais'd:

Tho' lightning strike the dome again;
The man, who built it, shall be prais’d.

Yet fpires and towers in duft shall lie,
The weak efforts of human pains:
And Faith, and Hope themselves shall die;
While deathless Charity remains.

Written in MONTAIGNE's effays, given to the Duke of
SHREWSBURY in FRANCE, after the peace,

DIC

1713.

ICTATE, O mighty judge, what thou hast seen Of cities, and of courts, of books, and men; And deign to let thy servant hold the pen.

Thro' ages thus I may presume to live;
And from the transcript of thy prose receive,
What my own short-liv❜d verse can never give.

Thus fhall fair Britain with a gracious smile
Accept the work; and the instructed isle,
For more than treaties made, shall bless my toil.

Nor longer hence the Gallic style preferr'd, Wifdom in English Idiom shall be heard;

While Talbot tells the world, where Montaigne err❜ð.

Defering the QUEEN's picture. Written at Paris, 1714.
But left unfinished, by the fudden news of her
MAJESTY's death.

THE train of équipage and pomp of ftate,
The fhining fide-board, and the burnish'd plate

Let other minifters, great Anne, require;
And partial fall thy gift to their defire.