Whene'er he preach'd, the throng attentive ftood,
Feafted with manna, and celestial food :
He taught them how to live, and how to die;
Nor did his actions give his words the lye.
Go, happy foul! fublimely take thy flight
Through fields of æther, in long tracks of light,
The guest of angels; range from place to place,
And view thy great Redeemer face to face.
Juft God! eternal fource of power and love!
Whom we lament on earth, give us above;
Oh! grant us our companion and our friend,
In blifs without alloy, and without end!
Upon HUGH LUMBER, Husbandman.
N Cottages and homely cells,
True Piety neglected dwells;
Till call'd to heaven, her native seat,
Where the good man alone is great:
'Tis then this humble duft shall rife,
And view his judge with joyful eyes;
While haughty tyrants shrink afraid,
And call the mountains to their aid.
The HIP. TO WILLIAM COLMORE, Efq;
The Day after the great Meteor, in March 1715
THIS difmal morn, when caft winds blow,
And every languid pulfe beats low,
With face most forrowfully grim,
And head opprefs'd with wind and whim,
Grave as an owl, and just as witty,
To thee I twang my doleful ditty;
And in mine own dull rhymes would find-
Mufic to soothe my restless mind :
Since thou art gone my heart's defire,
And heaven, and earth, and fea confpire,
To make my miseries compleat;
Where fhall a wretched Hip retreat?
What shall a drooping mortal do,
Who pines for funshine and for you?
If in the dark alcove I dream,
And you, or Phillis, is my theme,
While love or friendship warm my foul,
My shins are burning to a coal.
If rais'd to fpeculations high,
gaze the stars and spangled fky,
With heart devout and wondering eye,
Amaz'd I view strange globes of light,
Meteors with horrid luftre bright,
My guilty trembling soul affright.
To mother earth's prolific bed,
Penfive I ftoop my giddy head,
From thence too all my hopes are fled.
Nor flowers, nor grafs, nor fhrubs appear,
To deck the smiling infant
year;
But blafts my tender bloffoms wound,
And defolation reigns around.
If fea-ward my dark thoughts I bend,
O! where will my misfortunes end?
My loyal foul distracted meets
Attainted dukės, and * Spanish fleets.
Thus jarring elements unite,
Pregnant with wrongs, and arm'd with spight,
Succeffive mifchiefs every hour
On my devoted head they pour.
Whate'er I do, wheree'er I go,
'Tis ftill an endless scene of woe.
'Tis thus difconfolate I mourn,
I faint, I die, till thy return;
'Till thy brisk wit, and humorous vein,
Reftore me to myself again.
Let others vainly seek for ease,
From Galen and Hippocrates,
I fcorn fuch naufeous aids as thefe.
Hafte then, my dear, unbrib'd attend,
The beft elixir is a friend.
* An invafion from Spain was then expected.
Who made me a Prefent of a Silver Pen.
FAIR.ONE, accept the thanks I owe,
all a grateful heart can do.
If e'er my foul the Muse inspire
With raptures and poetic fire,
Your kind munificence I'll praife,
Το you a thousand altars raise :
Jove shall defcend in golden rain,
Or die a swan; but fing'in vain.
Phoebus the witty and the gay,
Shall quit the chariot of the day,
To bask in your superior ray.
Your charms fhall every god fubdue,
And every goddess envy you.
Add this but to your bounty's ftore,
This one great boon, I ask no more:
O gracious nymph, be kind as fair,
Nor with difdain neglect my prayer,
So fhall your goodness be confefs'd,
And I your flave entirely blefs'd;
This pen no vulgar theme fhall stain,
The nobleft palm your gift shall gain,
To write to you, nor write in vain.
Prefenting to a Lady a White Rofe and a Red on the Tenth of June.
IF this pale rofe offend your fight,
'Twill blush to find itself lefs white,
And turn Lancastrian there.
But, Celia, fhould the red be chose,
With gay vermilion bright;
'Twould ficken at each blush that glows,
And in despair turn white.
Let politicians idly prate,
Their Babels build in vain ;
As uncontrolable as fate,
Imperial Loye shall reign.
Each haughty faction shall obey,
And whigs and tories join,
Submit to your defpotic fway,
Confefs your right divine.
Yet this, my gracious monarch, own,
They're tyrants that opprefs;
mercy muft fupport your throne,
And 'tis like heaven to blefs.
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