« AnteriorContinuar »
That jewel oft unpolish'd has remain'd;
BACON himself, whose universal wit
While fame is young, too weak to fly away,
Thus nature, tir'd with his unusual length
Writteri over a Gate.
ERE lives a man, who, by relation,
Depends upon predestination;
The MIRACLE, 1707.
ERIT they hate, and wit they slight;
They neither act, nor reason right,
A council without sense.
Bestrid poor ISRAEL:
Without a miracle ?
OOD angels (natch'd him eagerly on high;
While we, alas ! lamenting lie.
Composing new their heav'nly song:
David himself improv'd the harmony, [found.
Genius sublime in either art!
A man just after God's own heart!
For, sure, the noble thirst of fame
From whence at first it came.
'Tis fure no little proof we have
That part of us survives the grave, And in our fame below still bears a share: Why is the future else so much our care, Ev'n in our latest moment of despair ? And death despis’d for fame by all the wise and brave?
Oh, all ye blest harmonious choir ! Who pow'r Almighty only love, and only that admire! Look down with pity from your peaceful bow'r,
On this fad ille perplex'd,
And ever, ever vex'd With anxious care of trifles, wealth, and pow'r.
In our rough minds due reverence infuse [muse. For fweet melodious sounds, and each harmonious
Mufick exalts man's nature, and inspires High eleyated thoughts, or gentle, kind desires,