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Hence, all ye impious slaves, that bow
To idol lusts, or altars raise,

And to false heroes give fantastic praise!
And hence, ye gods, who to a crime your spurious
beings owe!

But hear, O Heaven, and Earth, and Seas profound!

Hear, ye fathom'd Deeps below,

And let your echoing vaults repeat the sound;
Let Nature, trembling all around,
Attend her Master's awful name,

From whom Heaven, Earth, and Seas, and all the
wide Creation came.

He spoke the great command; and Light,
Heaven's eldest-born and fairest child,
Flash'd in the lowering face of ancient Night,
And, pleas'd with its own birth, serenely smil'd.
The sons of Morning, on the wing,
Hovering in choirs, his praises sung,
When, from the unbounded vacuous space,
A beauteous rising World they saw,
When Nature show'd her yet unfinish'd face,
And Motion took th' establish'd law
To roll the various globes on high;
When Time was taught his infant wings to try,
And from the barrier sprung to his appointed

race.

Supreme, Almighty, still the same!
'Tis he, the great inspiring Mind,

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That animates and moves this universal frame,
Present at once in all, and by no place confin'd.
Not Heaven itself can bound his
sway;
Beyond th' untravell❜d limits of the sky,
Invisible to mortal eye,

He dwells in uncreated day.
Without beginning, without end; 'tis he
That fills th' unmeasur'd growing orb of vast im-
mensity.

What power but his can rule the changeful Main, And wake the sleeping Storm, or its loud rage restrain?

When Winds their gather'd forces try,
And the chaf'd Ocean proudly swells in vain,
His voice reclaims th' impetuous roar;
In murmuring tides th' abated billows fly,
And the spent tempest dies upon the shore.
The meteor world is his, Heaven's wintry store,
The moulded hail, the feather'd snow;
The summer breeze, the soft refreshing shower,
The loose divided cloud, and many-colour'd bow;
The crooked lightning darts around,
His sovereign orders to fulfil;
The shooting flame obeys th' Eternal will,
Launch'd from his hand, instructed where to kill,
Or rive the mountain oak, or blast th' unshelter'd
ground.

Yet, pleas'd to bless, indulgent to supply,
He, with a father's tender care,

Supports the numerous family

That peoples earth, and sea, and air.

From Nature's giant race, th' enormous elephant,
Down to the insect worm and creeping ant;

From th' eagle, sovereign of the sky,

To each inferior feather'd brood;
From crowns and purple majesty,
To humble shepherds on the plain,

His hand unseen, divides to all their food,
And the whole world of life sustains..

At one wide view his eye surveys
His works, in every distant clime;
He shifts the seasons, months, and days,
The short-liv'd offspring of revolving Time;
By turns they die, by turns are born.
Now cheerful Spring the circle leads,
And strows with flowers the smiling meads;
Gay Summer next, whom russet robes adorn,
And waving fields of yellow corn;

Then Autumn, who with lavish stores the lap of
Nature spreads;

Decrepit Winter, laggard in the dance,
(Like feeble Age oppress'd with pain)
A heavy season does maintain,
With driving snows, and winds, and rain;
Till Spring, recruited to advance,
The various year rolls round again.

But who, thou great Ador'd! who can withstand
The terrours of thy lifted hand,

When, long provok'd, thy wrath awakes,
And conscious Nature to her centre shakes?
Rais'd by thy voice, the thunder flies,
Hurling pale Fear and wild Confusion round,
How dreadful is th' inimitable sound,

The shock of Earth and Seas, and labour of the
Skies!

Then where's Ambition's haughty crest?
Where the gay head of wanton Pride?
See! tyrants fall, and wish the opening ground
Would take them quick to shades of rest,
And in their common parent's breast,
From thee, their bury'd forms for ever hide!
In vain for all the elements conspire,

The shatter'd Earth, the rushing Sea,
Tempestuous Air, and raging Fire,
To punish vile mankind, and fight for thee;
Nor Death itself can intercept the blow,
Eternal is the guilt, and without end the woe

O Cyrus! Alexander! Julius! all

Ye mighty Lords, that ever rul'd this ball!
Once gods of Earth, the living destinies.
That made a hundred nations bow!
Where's your extent of empire now!
Say, where preserv'd your phantom Glory lies
Can brass the fleeting thing secure?
Enshrin'd in temples does it stay?

Or in huge amphitheatres endure
The rage of rolling Time, and scorn decay?
Ah, no! the mouldering monuments of Fame
Your vain deluded hopes betray,
Nor show th' ambitious founder's name,
Mix'd with yourselves in the same mass of clay,

Proceed, my Muse! Time's wasting thread pursuc,
And see,
at last, th' unravell'd clue,
When cities sink, and kingdoms are no more,
And weary Nature shall her work give o'er.
Behold th' Almighty Judge on high!
See in his hand the book of Fate!

Myriads of spirits fill the sky

T'attend, with dread solemnity,

The World's last scene, and Time's concluding

date.

The feeble race of short-liv'd Vanity,

And sickly Pomp, at once shall die!

Foul Guilt to midnight caves will shrink away,
Look back, and tremble in her flight,
And curse at Heaven's pursuing light,
Surrounded with the vengeance of that day,

How will you then, ye impious, 'scape your doom, | Self-judg'd, abandon'd, overcome?

Your clouds of painted bliss shall melt before your sight.

Yet shail you not the giddy chase refrain,

Nor hope more solid bliss t' obtain,
Nor once repeat the joys you knew before;
But sigh, a long eternity of pain,

Tost in an ocean of desire, yet never find a shore.
But see where the mild Sovereign sits prepar'd
His better subjects to reward!

Where am I now! what power divine
Transports me! what immortal splendours shine'
Torrents of glory that oppress the sight!
What joys, celestial King! thy throne surround!
The Sun, who, with thy borrow'd beams so bright,
Sees not his peer in all the starry round,
Would here, diminish'd, fade away,
Like his pale sister of the night,
When she resigns her delegated light,
Lost in the blaze of day.

Here wonder only can take place ;

Then, Muse, th' adventurous ilight forbear!
These mystic scenes thou canst no farther trace;
Hope may some boundless future bliss embrace,
But what, or when, or how, or where,
Are mazes all, which Fancy runs in vain;
Nor can the narrow cells of human brain
The vast immeasurable thought contain.

TO MR. ADDISON,

ON HIS TRAGEDY OF CATO.

THOUGH Cato shines in Virgil's epic song,
Prescribing laws anong th' Elysian throng;
Though Lucan's verse, exalted by his naine,
O'er gods themselves has rais'd the hero's fame;
The Roman stage did ne'er his image see,
Drawn at full length; a task reserv'd for thee.
By thee we view the finish'd figure rise,
And awful march before our ravish'd eyes;
We hear his voice, asserting Virtue's cause;
His fate, renew'd, our deep attention draws,
Excites, by turns, our various hopes and fears,
And all the patriot in thy scene appears.

On Tyber's bank thy thought was first inspir'd;
'Twas there, to some indulgent grove retir'd,
Rome's ancient fortunes rolling in thy mind,
Thy happy Muse this manly work design'd:
Or, in a dream, thou saw'st Rome's genius stand,
And, leading Cato in his sacred hand,
Point out th' immortal subject of thy lays,
And ask this labour to record his praise.

'Tis done-the hero lives and charms our 'age! While nobler morals grace the British stage. Great Shakespeare's ghost, the solemn strain to hear,

(Methinks I see the laurel'd shade appear!)
Will hover o'er the scene, and, wondering, view
His favourite Brutus rival'd thus by you.
Such Roman greatness in each action shines,
Such Roman eloquence adorns your lines,
That sure the Sibyls books this year foretold,
And in some mystic leaf was found enroll'd,
"Rome, turn thy mournful eyes from Afric's shore,
Nor in her sands thy Cato's tomb explore!

When thrice six hundred times the circling Su
His annual race shall through the Zodiac run,
An'isle remote his monument shall rear,
And every generous Briton pay a tear."

ADVICE TO MR. POPE,

ON HIS INTENDED TRANSLATION OF HOMER'S ILIAD, 1714.

O THOU, who with a happy genius born,
Canst tuneful verse in flowing numbers turn,
Crown'd on thy Windsor's plains with early bays,
Be early wise, nor trust to barren praise.
Blind was the bard that sung Achilles' rage,
He sung, and begg'd, and curs'd th' ungiving age:
If Britain his translated song would hear,
First take the gold-then charm the listening ear;
So shall thy father Homer smile to see

His pension paid-though late, and paid to thee.

ΤΟ

THE MEMORY OF MILTON.

HOMER'S DESCRIPTION OF HIMSELF, UNDER THE CHA RACTER OF DEMODOCHUS THE MUSICIAN, AT THE FEAST OF KING ALCINOUS.

FROM THE EIGHTH BOOK OF THE ODYSSEYS.

THE Muse with transport lov'd him; yet, to fill
His various lot, she blendid good with ill;
Depriv'd him of his eyes, but did impart
The heavenly gift of song, and all the tuneful art.

TO A LADY,

WITH THE TRAGEDY OF CATO.

Two shining maids this happy work displays;
Each moves our rapture, both divide our praise;
In Marcia, we her godlike father trace;
While Lucia triumphs with each softer grace.
One strikes with awe, and one gives chaste delight:
That bright as lightning, this serene as light.
Yet by the Muse the shadow'd forins were wrought,
And both are creatures of the poet's thought.

In her that animates these lines, we view
The wonder greater, the description true;
Each living virtue, every grace combin'd,
And Marcia's worth with Lucia's sweetness join'd
Had she been born ally'd to Cato's name,
Numidia's prince had felt a real flame;
And pouring his resistless troops from far,
With bolder deeds had turn'd the doubtful war;
Cæsar had fled before his conquering arms,
And Roman Muses sung her beauty's charms.

A FRAGMENT.

PROMISCUOUS Crowds to worthless riches born,
Thy pencil paints, 'tis true, yet paints with scor
Sometimes the fool, by Nature left half-made,
Mov d by some happy instinct, asks thy aid,
To give his face to reason some pretence,
And raise his looks with supplemental sense.

SERENATA FOR TWO VOICES,

ON THE MARRIAGE OF THE

HORATIUS.

IN LIBRO PRIMO EPISTOLARUM.

RIGHT HON. THE LORD COBHAM TO MRS. DIMIDIUM facti, qui cœpit, habet. Sapere aude:

ANNE HALSEY.

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Incipe. Vivendi rectè qui prorogat horam, Rusticus expectat dum defluat amnis: at ille Labitur & labetur in omne volubilis ævum.

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Fair Honour, next in beauty and in grace,
Shines in her turn, and claims the second place;
She fills the well-born soul with noble fires,
And generous thoughts and godlike acts inspires.
Then Honesty, with native air, succeeds,
Plain is her look, unartful are her deeds;
And, just alike to friends and foes, she draws

The bounds of right and wrong, nor errs from equal laws.

From Heaven this scale of virtue thus descends
By just degrees, and thy full choice defends.
So when, in visionary trains, by night
Attending angels bless'd good Jacob's sight,
The mystic ladder thus appear'd to rise,
Its foot on earth, its summit in the skies.

HYMN.

SUNG BY THE CHILDREN OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL, at the
ENTRY OF KING GEORGE
INTO LONDON, 1714.

HEAR

EAR US, O God, this joyful day!
Whole nations join their voice,
To thee united thanks to pay,

And in thy strength rejoice.
For led by thee, O King of Kings!
Our sovereign George we see;
Thy hand the royal blessing brings,
He comes, he reigns, by thee!
Plenteous of grace, pour from above

Thy favours on his head;
Truth, Mercy, Righteousness, and Love,
As guards around him spread.
With length of days, and glory crown'd,

With wealth and fair increase, Let him abroad be far renown'd, Still blest at home with peace.

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Yet stone and brass our hopes betray,
Age steals the mimic forms and characters away.
In vain, Egypt, to the wondering skies,
With giant pride, thy pyramids arise;
Whate'er their vast and gloomy vaults contain,
No names distinct of their great dead remain.
Beneath the mass confus'd, in heaps thy monarchs
Unknown, and blended in mortality. [he,

To Death ourselves and all our works we owe.
But is there nought, O Muse, can save
Our memories from darkness and the grave,

And some short after-life bestow?
"That task is mine," the Muse replies,
And, hark! she tunes the sacred lyre!
Verse is the last of human works that dies,
When Virtue does the song inspire.

Then look, Eliza, happy saint, look down!
Pause from immortal joys awhile
To hear, and gracious, with a smile,
The dedicated numbers own;

Say, how in thy life's scanty space,

So short a space, so wondrous bright, Bright as a summer's day, short as a summer's night, Could'st thou find room for every crowded grace? As if thy thrifty soul foreknew, Like a wise envoy, Heaven's intent, Soon to recall whom it had sent,

And all its task resolv'd at once to do.

Or wert thou but a traveller below,

That bither didst awhile repair,

Curious our customs and our laws to know >
And, sickening in our grosser air,
And tir'd of vain repeated sights,
Our foolish cares, our false delights,
Back to thy native seats would'st go?
Oh! since to us thou wilt no more return,
Permit thy friends, the faithful few,
Who best thy numerous virtues knew,
Themselves, not thee, to mourn.

Now, pensive Muse, enlarge thy flight!
(By turns the pensive Muses love
The hilly heights and shady grove)
Behold where, swelling to the sight,
Balls, a fair structure, graceful stands!
And from yon verdant rising brow

Sees Hertford's ancient town, and lands, Where Nature's hand, in slow meanders, leads The Lee's clear stream its course to flow Through flowery vales, and moisten'd meads, And far around in beauteous prospects spreads Her map of plenty all below.

'Twas here and sacred be the spot of earth! Eliza's soul, born first above, Descended to an humbler birth,

And with a mortal's frailties strove.

So, on some towering peak that meets the sky, When missive Seraphs downward fly,

They stop, and for awhile alight,

Put off their rays celestial-bright,

Then take some milder form familiar to our eye

Swiftly her infant virtues grew :
Water'd by Heaven's peculiar care,
Her morning bloom was doubly fair,
Like Summer's day-break, when we see
The fresh-dropp'd stores of rosy dew
(Transparent beauties of the dawn)
Spread o'er the grass their cobweb-lawṇ,

Or hang moist pearls on every tree.
Pleas'd with the lovely sight, awhile
Her friends behold, and joyful smile,
Not think the Sun's exhaling ray
Will change the scene ere noon of day,

Dry up the glistering drops, and draw those dews away.

Yet first, to fill her orb of life,
Behold, in each relation dear,

The pious saint, the duteous child appear,
The tender sister, and the faithful wife.
Alas! but must one circlet of the year
Unite in bliss, in grief divide

The destin'd bridegroom and the bride? Stop, generous youth, the gathering tear, That, as you read these lines or hear, Perhaps may start, and seem to say, "That short-liv'd year was but a day!" Forbear-nor fruitless sorrowings now employ, Think she was lent awhile, not given, (Such was th' appointed will of Heaven) Then, grateful, call that year an age of virtuous joy.

AN ALLUSION TO HORACE.

BOOK I. ODE XXII.

PRINTED AT THE BREAKING OUT OF THE REBELLION IN THE YEAR 1715.

THE

man that loves his king and nation,

And shuns each vile association,

That trusts his honest deeds i' th' light,
Nor meets in dark cabals, by night,
With fools, who, after much debate,

Get themselves hang'd, and save the state,
Needs not his hall with weapons store;
Nor dreads each rapping at his door;
Nor sculks, in fear of being known,
Or hides his guilt in parson's gown;
Nor wants, to guard his generous heart,'
The poniard or the poison'd dart;
And, but for ornament and pride,
A sword of lath might cross his side.

If o'er St. James's park he stray,
He stops not, pausing in his way;
Nor pulls his hat down o'er his face,

Nor starts, looks back, and mends his pace:

Or if he ramble to the Tower,

He knows no crime, and dreads no power,
But thence returning, free as wind,
Smiles at the bars he left behind.

Thus, as I loiter'd t' other day,
Humming-O every month was May

And, thoughtless how my time I squander'd,

From Whitehall, through the Cockpit wander'd,
A messenger with surly eye

View'd me quite round, and yet pass'd by.
No sharper look or rougher mien
In Scottish highlands e'er was seen;
Nor ale and brandy ever bred
More pimpled cheeks, or nose more red;
And yet, with both hands in my breast,
Careless I walk'd, nor shunn'd the beast.

Place me among a hundred spies,
Let all the room be ears and eyes;
Or search my pocket-books and papers,
No word or line shall give me vapours.

VOL X,

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