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Supreme, all wise, eternal Potentate!
Sole author, sole disposer of our fate!
Enthroned in light, and immortality!
Whom no man fully sees, and none can see!
Original of beings, power divine!

Since that I live, and that I think, is thine;
Benign Creator, let thy plastic hand
Dispose its own effect! Let thy command
Restore, great Father, thy instructed son;
And in my act may thy great will be done!

CONSIDERATIONS

ON PART OF THE EIGHTY-EIGHTH PSALM.
A COLLEGE EXERCISE, 1690.

1 HEAVY, O Lord, on me thy judgments lie,
Accursed I am, while God rejects my cry;
O'erwhelmed in darkness and despair I groan,
And every place is hell; for God is gone.
O Lord! arise, and let thy beams control
Those horrid clouds, that press my frighted soul;
Save the poor wanderer from eternal night,
Thou that art the God of light.

2

Downward I hasten to my destined place;
There none obtain thy aid, or sing thy praise.
Soon I shall lie in death's deep ocean drowned:
Is mercy there, or sweet forgiveness found;
O save me yet, whilst on the brink I stand,
Rebuke the storm, and waft my soul to land.
O let her rest beneath thy wing secure,
Thou that art the God of power.

3 Behold the prodigal, to thee I come,
To hail my father, and to seek my home!

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Nor refuge could I find, nor friend abroad,
Straying in vice, and destitute of God.
O let thy terrors, and my anguish end!
Be thou my refuge, and be thou my friend;
Receive the son thou didst so long reprove,
Thou that art the God of love.

TO THE REV. DR FRANCIS TURNER,1

BISHOP OF ELY, WHO HAD ADVISED A TRANSLATION
OF PRUDENTIUS.

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Ir poets, ere they clothed their infant thought,
And the rude work to just perfection brought,
Did still some god, or god-like man invoke,
Whose mighty name their sacred silence broke;
Your goodness, Sir, will easily excuse
The bold requests of an aspiring muse;
Who, with your blessing would your aid implore,
And in her weakness justify your power.
From your fair pattern she would strive to write,
And with unequal strength pursue your flight;
Yet hopes she ne'er can err that follows you,
Led by your blessed commands, and great example too.
Then smiling and aspiring influence give,
And make the muse and her endeavours live;
Claim all her future labours as your due,
Let every song begin and end with you.
So to the blest retreat she 'll gladly go,
Where the saints' palm and muses' laurel grow;
Where kindly both in glad embrace shall join,
And round your brow their mingled honours twine; 20

1 Doctor Francis Turner was at that time master of St John's College, Cambridge. He was one of the petitioning bishops who were committed to the Tower by James II. and one of those who were afterwards deprived of his see for refusing the oaths to the new government.

Both to the virtue due, which could excel,
As much in writing, as in living well.
So shall she proudly press the tuneful string,
And mighty things in mighty numbers sing;
Nor doubt to strike Prudentius' daring lyre,
And humbly bring the verse which you inspire.

A PASTORAL.

TO DR TURNER, BISHOP OF ELY, ON HIS DEPARTURE
FROM CAMBRIDGE.

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DAMON.

TELL, dear Alexis, tell thy Damon, why

Dost thou in mournful shades obscurely lie;
Why dost thou sigh, why strike thy panting breast?
And steal from life the needful hours of rest?

Are thy kids starved by winter's early frost;
Are any

of thy bleating stragglers lost;

Have strangers' cattle trod thy new-ploughed ground; Has great Joanna, or her greater shepherd frowned?

ALEXIS.

See my kids browse, my lambs securely play,
(Ah, were their master unconcerned as they!)
No beasts (at noon I looked) had trod my ground;
Nor has Joanna, or her shepherd, frowned.

DAMON.

Then stop the lavish fountain of your eyes,
Nor let those sighs from your swoln bosom rise;
Chase sadness, friend, and solitude away,

And once again rejoice, and once again look gay.

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ALEXIS.

Say what can more our tortured souls annoy,
Than to behold, admire, and lose our joy;
Whose fate more hard than those who sadly run,
For the last glimpse of the departing sun;
Or what severer sentence can be given,
Than, having seen, to be excluded Heaven?

None, shepherd, none:

DAMON.

ALEXIS.

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Then cease to chide my cares!

And rather pity than restrain my tears;

Those tears, my Damon, which I justly shed,
To think how great my joys, how soon they fled;
I told thee, friend, (now bless the shepherd's name,
From whose dear care the kind occasion came,)
That I, even I, might happily receive

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The sacred wealth, which Heaven and Daphnis give:
That I might see the lovely awful swain,
Whose holy crosier guides our willing plain;
Whose pleasing power and ruling goodness keep
Our souls with equal care as we our sheep;
Whose praise excites each lyre, employs each tongue;
Whilst only he who caused, dislikes the song.
To this great, humble, parting man I gained
Access, and happy for an hour I reigned;
Happy as new-formed man in paradise,
Ere sin debauched his inoffensive bliss;
Happy as heroes after battles won,

Prophets entranced, or monarchs on the throne;
But (oh, my friend!) those joys with Daphnis flew;
To them these tributary tears are due.

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DAMON.

Was he so humble then, those joys so vast?
Cease to admire that both so quickly passed.
Too happy should we be, would smiling fate
Render one blessing durable and great;
But (oh, the sad vicissitude!) how soon
Unwelcome night succeeds the cheerful noon;
And rigid winter nips the flowery pomp of June!
Then grieve not, friend, like you since all mankind
A certain change of joy and sorrow find.
Suppress your sigh, your downcast eyelids raise,
Whom present you revere, him absent praise.

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AN EPISTLE

TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHERD, ESQ.1

WHEN crowding folks with strange ill faces
Were making legs and begging places,
And some with patents, some with merit,
Tired out by good Lord Dorset's spirit;
Sneaking I stood amongst the crew,
Desiring much to speak with you.

I waited while the clock struck thrice,
And footman brought out fifty lies;

Till, patience vexed, and legs grown weary,
I thought it was in vain to tarry:
But did opine it might be better,
By penny-post to send a letter;
Now if you miss of this epistle,
I'm balked again, and may go whistle.
My business, Sir, you'll quickly guess,
Is to desire some little place:

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1 Fleetwood Shepherd, a reputed wit of Charles the Second's court, and the author of several rhymes published in the miscellanies of the times.

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