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"The relicks of a lofty mind,
"That lately wars and crowns design'd,
"That living could not bear to fee
"An equal, now lies torn and dead;
"Here his pale trunk, and there his head;
"Lie ftill, my Plutarch, then, and fleep,
"There the vile foot of every clown
EMPT me no more. My foul can ne'er comport
I've an averfion to thofe charms,
And hug dear liberty in both mine arms.
Go, vaffal-fouls, go, cringe and wait, And dance attendance at Honorio's gate,
Then run in troops before him to compofe his fate;
Bend when he speaks; and kifs the ground:
Wait till he fmiles: But lo, the idol frown'd
Thus bafe-born minds: but as for Me,
Like a strong mountain, or fome stately tree,
My foul grows firm upright,
And as I ftand, and as I go,
It keeps my body fo;
No, I can never part with my
I cannot make this iron knee
Bend to a meaner power than that which form'd it free.
Thus my bold harp profufely play'd
I hung my harp aloft, myfelf beneath it laid.
Refum'd the theme, and acted it again.
Sudden rofe a whirling wind
Swelling like Honorio proud,
Around the ftraws and feathers crowd,
Types of a flavish mind;
Upwards the ftormy forces rife,
The duft flies up and climbs the skies,
The meaner plants that grew around,
The willow, and the asp, trembled and kiss'd the ground:
Hard by there ftood the iron trunk
Of an old oak, and all the ftorm defy'd;
On Mr. LoCKE's Annotations upon feveral Parts of the New Teftament, left behind him at his Death.
HUS reafon learns by flow degrees,
What faith reveals; but ftill complains
Of intellectual pains,
-And darkness from the too exuberant light.
Pour'd all at once on nature's eyes
Reafon could fcarce fuftain to fee
Scarce could her pride defcend to own
Faith, thou bright cherub, speak, and say
Coft thee more toil, or larger grace,
To melt and bend it to obey.
'Twas hard to make fo rich a soul submit,`
And lay her fhining honours at thy fovereign feet.
Sister of faith, fair charity,
Shew me the wondrous man on high,
Tell how he fees the Godhead Three in One;
His noblest powers in deep proftration lie
"Forgive, he cries, ye faints below,
"Of that unhappy book,
"Where glimmering reafon with falfe luftre fhines, "Where the mortal pen miftook "What the celeftial meant!"
TRUE RICHE S.
AM not concern'd to know
What to-morrow fate will do:
'Tis enough that I can say,
I've poffefs'd myself to-day:
Seize my flesh, and ftop my breath,
Heir to the best part of me.
Glittering stones, and golden things, Wealth and honours that have wings, Ever fluttering to be gone,
I could never call my own: