Of everlasting night and filence call'd
The fhining worlds with one creating word,
And rais'd from nothing all the heavenly hosts,
And with external glories fill'd the void,
Harmonious Seraphs tun'd their golden harps,
And with their chearful Hallelujahs blefs'd
The bounteous author of their happinefs;
From orb to orb th' alternate musick rang,
And from the cryftal arches of the fky
Reach'd our then glorious world, the native seat
Of the first happy pair, who join'd their fongs
To the loud echo's of th' angelic choirs,
And fill'd with blifsful hymns, terreftrial heaven,
The paradife of God where all delights
Abounded, and the pure ambrofial air,

Fann'd by mild zephyrs, breath'd eternal sweets,
Forbidding death and forrow, and bestow'd
Fresh heavenly bloom, and gay immortal youth.
Not fo, alas! the vile apoftate race,

Who in mad joys their brutal hours employ'd,
Affaulting with their impious blafphemies
The Power fupreme that gave them life and breath;
Incarnate fiends! outrageous they defy'd
Th' Eternal's thunder, and almighty wrath
Fearless provok'd, which all the other devils
Would dread to meet; remembering well the day
When, driven from pure immortal seats above,
A fiery tempest hurl'd them down the skies,
And hung upon the rear, urging their fall
To the dark, deep, unfathomable gulph,

Where

Where bound on fulphurous lakes to glowing rocks
With adamantine chains, they wail their woes,
And know Jehovah great as well as good;
And fix'd for ever by eternal fate,

With horror find his arm omnipotent.

Prodigious madnefs! that the facred Mufe,
First taught in heaven to mount immortal heights,
And trace the boundless glories of the sky,
Should now to every idol bafely bow,
And curfe the deity fhe once ador'd,
Erecting trophies to each fordid vice,
And celebrating the infernal praife
Of haughty Lucifer, the desperate foe
Of God and man, and winning every hour
New votaries to hell, while all the fiends
Hear thefe accurfed lays, and, thus outdone,
Raging they try to match the human race,
Redoubling all their hellish blafphemies,
And with loud curfes rend the gloomy vault.
Ungrateful mortals! ah! too late you'll find
What 'tis to banter heaven, and laugh at hell;
To dress-up vice in false delusive charms,

And with gay colours paint her hideous face,
Leading befotted fouls through flowery paths,
In gaudy dreams and vain fantaftic joys,
To dismal fcenes of everlafting woe;

When the great Judge fhall rear his awful throne,
And raging flames furround the trembling globe,
While the loud thunders roar from pole to pole,
And the last trump awakes the fleeping dead;
And guilty fouls to ghaftly bodies driven,

Within thofe dire eternal prifons fhut,

Expect their fad inexorable doom.

Say now, ye men of wit! what turn of thought
Will please you then! Alas, how dull and poor,
Ev'n to yourselves, will your lewd flights appear!
How will you envy then the happy fate

Of idiots! and perhaps in vain you 'll with,
You'd been as very fools as once you thought'
Others, for the fublimeft wifdom scorn'd;

When pointed lightnings from the wrathful Judge
Shall finge your blighted laurels, and the men
Who thought they flew fo high, fhall fall fo low.
No more, my Muse, of that tremendous thought ::
Refume thy more delightful theme, and fing
Th' immortal man, that with immortal verfe
Rivals the hymns of angels, and like them
Defpifes mortal criticks' idle rules:

While the celeftial flame that warms thy foul
Inspires us, and with holy transports moves
Our labouring minds, and nobler fcenes prefents
Than all the Pagan Poets ever fung,

Homer, or Virgil; and far sweeter notes
Than Horace ever taught his founding lyre,
And purer far, though Martial's felf might feem
A modeft Poet in our Chriftian days..

May thofe forgotten and neglected lie,

No more let men be fond of fabulous Gods,
Nor Heathen wit debauch one Christian line,

While with the coarfe and daubing paint we hide
The shining beauties of eternal truth,,

3+

That

That in her native dress appears most bright,
And charms the eyes of angels.-OK! like thee
Let every nobler genius tune his voice

To fubjects worthy of their towering thoughts.
Let Heaven and Anna then your tuneful art
Improve, and confecrate your deathlefs lays

To him who reigns above, and her who rules below.
April 17, 1706.

JOSEPH STANDEN.

To Mr. WATTS, on his Divine Poems..

SAY, human feraph, whence that charming force,
That flame! that foul! which animates each line;
And how it runs with fuch a graceful ease,
Loaded with ponderous fenfe! Say, did not He,
The lovely Jefus, who commands thy breast,
Inspire thee with himself? With Jefus dwells,
Knit in myfterious bands, the Paraclete,
The breath of God, the everlasting fource
Of love: And what is love, in fouls like thine,.
But air, and incenfe to the poet's fire?
Should an expiring faint, whofe fwimming eyes.
Mingle the images of things about him,
But hear the leaft exalted of thy ftrains,
How greedily, he'd drink the music in,
Thinking his heavenly convoy waited near !!
So great a ftrefs of powerful harmony,

Nature

Nature unable longer to fuftain,

Would fink opprefs'd with joy to endless reft.

Let none henceforth of Providence complain, As if the world of fpirits lay`unknown, Fenc'd round with black impenetrable night; What though no fhining angel darts from thence With leave to publish things conceal'd from sense, In language bright as theirs, we are here told, When life its narrow round of years hath roll'd, What 'tis employs the blefs'd, what makes their bliss; Songs fuch as Watts's are, and love like his.

But then, dear Sir, be cautious how you To transports fo intenfely rais'd your Muse, Left, whilft th' ecftatic impulse you obey, The foul leap out, and drop the duller clay. Sept. 4, 1706.

ufe,

HENRY GROVE.

To Dr. WATTS, on the fifth Edition of his Hora Lyrica.

Overeign of facred verfe; accept the lays

Of a young bard that dares attempt thy praise.
A Mufe, the meaneft of the vocal throng,
New to the bays, nor equal to the fong.
Fir'd with the growing glories of thy fame,
Joins all her powers to celebrate thy name.

No vulgar themes thy pious Mufe engage,

No fcenes of luft pollute thy facred page.

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