Part 33 (1/2)

And dart through sorrow, danger, death, A beam of joy divine!

The void of joy (with some concern The truth severe I tell) Is an impenitent in guilt, A fool or infidel!

Weigh this, ye pupils of Voltaire!

From joyless murmur free; Or, let us know, which character Shall crown you of the three.

Resign, resign: this lesson none Too deeply can instill; A crown has been resign'd by more, Than have resign'd the will;

Though will resign'd the meanest makes Superior in renown, And richer in celestial eyes, Than he who wears a crown;

Hence, in the bosom cold of age, It kindled a strange aim To s.h.i.+ne in song; and bid me boast The grandeur of my theme:

But oh! how far presumption falls Its lofty theme below!

Our thoughts in life's December freeze, And numbers cease to flow.

First! greatest! best! grant what I wrote For others, ne'er may rise To brand the writer! thou alone Canst make our wisdom wise;

And how unwise! how deep in guilt!

How infamous the fault!

”A teacher thron'd in pomp of words, Indeed, beneath the taught!”

Means most infallible to make The world an infidel; And, with instructions most divine, To pave a path to h.e.l.l;

O! for a clean and ardent heart, O! for a soul on fire, Thy praise, begun on earth, to sound Where angels string the lyre;

How cold is man! to him how hard (Hard, what most easy seems) ”To set a just esteem on that, Which yet he-most esteems!”

What shall we say, when boundless bliss Is offer'd to mankind, And to that offer when a race Of rationals is blind?

Of human nature ne'er too high Are our ideas wrought; Of human merit ne'er too low Depress'd the daring thought.

ON THE LATE QUEEN'S DEATH, AND HIS MAJESTY'S ACCESSION TO THE THRONE

Inscribed to Joseph Addison, Esq. Secretary to Their Excellencies the Lords Justices.

Gaudia curis.

-HOR.

Sir, I have long, and with impatience, sought To ease the fulness of my grateful thought, My fame at once, and duty to pursue, And please the public, by respect to you.

Though you, long since beyond Britannia known, Have spread your country's glory with your own; To me you never did more lovely s.h.i.+ne, Than when so late the kindled wrath divine Quench'd our ambition, in great Anna's fate, And darken'd all the pomp of human state.

Though you are rich in fame, and fame decay, Though rais'd in life, and greatness fade away, Your l.u.s.tre brightens: virtue cuts the gloom With purer rays, and sparkles near a tomb.

Know, sir, the great esteem and honour due, I chose that moment to profess to you, When sadness reign'd, when fortune, so severe, Had warm'd our bosoms to be most sincere.

And when no motives could have force to raise A serious value, and provoke my praise, But such as rise above, and far transcend, Whatever glories with this world shall end, Then s.h.i.+ning forth, when deepest shades shall blot The sun's bright orb, and Cato be forgot.

I sing-but ah! my theme I need not tell, See every eye with conscious sorrow swell: Who now to verse would raise his humble voice, Can only show his duty, not his choice.

How great the weight of grief our hearts sustain!

We languish, and to speak is to complain.

Let us look back, (for who too oft can view That most ill.u.s.trious scene, for ever new!) See all the seasons s.h.i.+ne on Anna's throne, And pay a constant tribute, not their own.

Her summer's heats nor fruits alone bestow, They reap the harvest, and subdue the foe; And when black storms confess the distant sun, Her winters wear the wreaths her summers won.

Revolving pleasures in their turns appear, And triumphs are the product of the year.

To crown the whole, great joys in greater cease, And glorious victory is lost in peace.

Whence this profusion on our favour'd isle?

Did partial fortune on our virtue smile?

Or did the sceptre, in great Anna's hand, Stretch forth this rich indulgence o'er our land?

Ungrateful Britain! quit thy groundless claim, Thy queen and thy good fortune are the same.