On heaven, their home, they fix their eyes, The temple of their God : With morning incenfe up they rife Across the road a feraph flew, "Mark, (faid he) that happy pair, Charm'd with the pleafure and furprize, "Bleft be the power that fprings their flight, "That turns their love to facrifice, To Mr. C. and S. FLEETWOOD. FLE LEETWOODS, young generous pair, Bubbles are light and brittle too, Try'd by a standard bold and juft Titles and names, and life and breath, The foul's the only thing we have The foul! 'tis of th' immortal kind, Nor form'd of fire, or earth, or wind, [behind. Out-lives the mouldering corpfe, and leaves the globe In limbs of clay though the appears, Array'd in rofy fkin, and deck'd with ears and eyes, The flesh is but the foul's difguife, There's nothing in her frame kin to the dress she wears a From all the laws of matter free, From all we feel, and all we fee, She ftands eternally diftin&t, and must for ever be. Rife then, my thoughts, on high, Soar beyond all that 's made to die; Sits the Creator and the Judge of fouls, Whirling the planets round the poles, Winds off our threads of life, and brings our periods on. Swift the approach, and folemn is the day, When this immortal mind Stript of the body's coarse array To endless pain, or endless joy, Think of the fands run down to waste, None None but the prefent is our own ; To WILLIAM BLACKBOURN, Efq; CASIMIR. Lib. II. Od. 2. imitated. "Quæ tegit canas modo Bruma valles, &c." MARK how it fnows! how fast the valley fills! And the fweet groves the boary garment wear; Yet the warm fun-beams bounding from the hills Shall melt the vail away, and the young green appear. But when old age has on your temples fhed Her filver-froft, there's no returning fun; Swift flies our autumn, fwift our fummer 's fled, When youth, and love, and spring, and golden joys are gone. Then Then cold, and winter, and your aged fnow, The chace of pleasures is not worth the pains, 'Tis but one youth, and short, that mortals have, Thus, Blackbourn, we should leave our names our heirs ; TRUE MONARCHY. THE rifing year beheld th' imperious Gaul 1701 Stretch his dominion, while a hundred towns Crouch'd to the victor: but a steady foul We are a little kingdom; but the man Forms Forms it a large one, whilft his royal mind 'Tis not a troop of well-appointed guards Create a monarch, not a purple robe Dy'd in the people's blood, not all the crowns In vain the harlot, pleasure, fpreads her charms, Of the mad vulgar, that unthinking herd. He lives above the crowd, nor hears the noife Of wars and triumphs, nor regards the fhouts Of popular applaufe, that empty found; Nor |