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On Reading Mr. WATTS's Poems, sacred to
Piety and Devotion.
EGARD the man who in seraphic lays,
And flowing numbers, fings his Maker's praise : : He needs invoke no fabled Muse's art, The heavenly song comes genuine from his heart, From that pure heart, which God has deign’d t’inspire With holy raptures, and a sacred fire. Thrice happy man! whose fou!, and guiltless breast, Are well prepar'd to lodge th' Almighty guest! 'Tis He that lends thy towering thoughts their wing, i And tunes thy lyre, when thou attempt'st to sing : He to thy foul lets-in celestial day, Ev’n whilst imprison'd in this mortal clay. By death’s grim aspect thou art not alarm’d, He, for thy fake, has death itself difarm'd; Nor Thall the grave o'er thee a victory boast ; Her triumph in thy rising fhall be lost, When thou shaly join th' angelic choirs above, In never-ending songs of praise and love.,
To Mr. WATTS, on his Poems.
To murmuring streams, in tender strains,
Along the flowery shore.
My quiet breast alarms,
his air, and youthful grace, Have loit their usual charms.
No gay Alexis in the grove
Shall be my future theme : I burn with an immortal love, And sing a purer
flame. Seraphic heights I seem to gain,
And sacred transports feel,
Surpriz'd, I listen ftill.
When I thy lays repeat;
The birds their notes forget.
Thy numbers still prolong; And let remoteft lands reply,
And echo to thy song.
Far as the distant regions, where
The beauteous morning springs, And scatters odours through the air,
From her refplendent wings;
Unto the new-found realms, which see
The latter fun arise,
Rolls down the nether skies.
To Mr. WATTS, on reading his Horæ Lyricæ.
AIL, heaven-born Muse! that with celestial flame,
And high seraphic numbers, durft attempt To gain thy native skies. No common theme. Merits thy thought, felf-conscious of a foul Superior, though on earth detain'd a-while; Like some propitious angel, that's delign'd A resident in this inferior orb, To guide the wandering fouls to heavenly bliss, Thou seem'st; while thou their everlasting songs Hast sung to mortal ears, and down to earth Transferr'd the work of heaven ; with thought sublime, And high sonorous words, thou sweetly fing'st To thy immortal lyre. Amaz’d, we view The towering height stupendous, while thou foar'st Above the reach of vulgar eyes or thought, Hymning th’ Eternal Father; as of old When first th' Almighty from the dark abyss
Of everlasting night and silence call'd
Not fo, alas ! the vile apottate race,
Where bound on sulphurous lakes to glowing rocks
Prodigious madness! that the sacred Muse,
Ungrateful mortals! ah! too late you 'll find