And Fancy's telescope applies
With tinctur'd glafs to cheat his eyes.
Such thoughts, as love the gloom of night,
I close examine by the light;
For who, though brib'd by gain to lie,
Dare fun-beam-written truths deny,
And execute plain common sense
On faith's mere hearsay evidence?
That fuperftition mayn't create,
And club its ills with those of fate,
I many a notion take to task,
Made dreadful by its visor-mask.
Thus fcruple, fpafm of the mind,
Is cur'd, and certainty I find.
Since optic reafon fhews me plain,
I dreaded spectres of the brain.
And legendary fears are gone,
Though in tenacious childhood fown.
Thus in opinions I commence
Freeholder in the proper fenfe,
And neither fuit nor fervice do,
Nor homage to pretenders fhew,
Who boast themselves by fpurious roll
Lords of the manor of the foul;
Preferring fenfe, from chin that's bare,
To nonsense thron'd in whisker'd hair.
To thee, Creator uncreate,
O Entium Ens! divinely great!
Hold, Mufe, nor melting pinions try,
Nor near the blazing glory fly,
Nor ftraining break thy feeble bow,
Unfeather'd arrows far to throw :
Through fields unknown nor madly stray,
Where no ideas mark the way.
With tender eyes, and colours faint,
And trembling hands forbear to paint.
Who features veil'd by light can hit ?
Where can, what has no outline, fit?
My foul, the vain attempt forego,
Thyself, the fitter fubject, know.
He wifely fhuns the bold extreme,
Who foon lays by th' unequal theme,
Nor runs, with wifdom's Sirens caught,
On quickfands fwall'wing fhipwreck'd thought;
But, confcious of his distance, gives
Mute praife, and humble negatives.
In one, no object of our fight,
Immutable, and infinite,
Who can't be cruel, or unjust.
Calm and refign'd, I fix my trust;
To him my past and prefent ftate
I owe, and muft my future fate.
A ftranger into life I'm come,
Dying may be our going home,
Transported here by angry Fate,
The convicts of a prior state.
Through life's foul way, like vagrant pass'd,
He'll grant a fettlement at last.
And with fweet eafe the wearied crown,
By leave to lay his being down.
If doom'd to dance th' eternal round
Of life no fooner loft but found,
And diffolution foon to come,
Like fpunge, wipes out life's prefent fum,
But can't our state of pow'r bereave
An endless feries to receive;
Then, if hard dealt with here by fate,
We ballance in another state,
And confcioufnefs muft go along,
And fign th' acquittance for the wrong.
He for his creatures muft decree
More happiness than misery,
Or be fuppofed to create,
Curious to try, what 'tis to hate:
And do an act, which rage infers,
'Cause lameness halts, or blindness errs.
Thus, thus I fteer my bark, and fail
On even keel with gentle gale;
At helm I make my reafon fit,
My crew of paffions all submit.
If dark and bluft'ring prove fome nights,
Philofophy puts forth her lights;
Experience holds the cautious glafs,
To fhun the breakers, as I pafs,
And frequent throws the wary lead,
To fee what dangers may be hid:
And once in feven years I'm feen
At Bath or Tunbridge, to careen.
Though pleas'd to fee the dolphins play,
I mind my compafs and my way,
With ftore fufficient for relief,
And wifely ftill prepar'd to reef,
Ner wanting the difperfive bowl
Of cloudy weather in the foul,
I make (may heav'n propitious fend
Such wind and weather to the end)
Neither becalm'd, nor over-blown,
Life's voyage to the world unknown.
EPIGRAM,
On the Reverend Mr. LAURENCE ECHARD's, and Bishop GILBERT BURNET'S Hiftories.
His sharp and ftrong incifion pen
Hiftorically cuts up men,
And does with lucid skill impart
Their inward ails of head and heart.
LAURENCE proceeds another way,
And well drefs'd figures doth display
His characters are all in flesh,
Their hands are fair, their faces fresh;
And from his fweet'ning art derive
A better fcent than when alive.
He wax-work made to please the fons,
Whofe fathers were GIL's skeletons.
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