Soothe the rude north-wind, and the rugged bear,
Calm rising wars, heal the contagious air,
And reign with peaceful influence to the south-
ern sphere.
Note. This poem was written in the year 1705, in that honourable part of the reign of Queen Anne, when she had broke the French power at Blenheim, asserted the right of Charles, the present Emperor, to the crown of Spain; exerted her zeal for the protestant succession; and promised, inviolably, to maintain the toleration to the protestant dissenters. Thus she appeared the chief support of the reformation, and the patroness of the liberties of Europe.
The latter part of her reign was of a different colour, and was by no means attended with the accomplishment of those glorious hopes which we had conceived. Now the Muse cannot satisfy her. self to publish this new edition without acknowledging the mistake of her former presages: and while she does the world this justice, she does herself the honour of a voluntary retraction. J. W.
BRITONS, forgive the forward Muse,
That dar'd prophetic seals to loose,
(Unskill'd in Fate's eternal Book)
And the deep characters mistook.
George is the name, that glorious star;
Ye saw his splendors beaming far ;
Saw, in the East, your joys arise,
When Anna sunk in Western skies,
Streaking the heavens with crimson gloom,
Emblems of Tyranny and Rome,
Portending blood and night to come.
'Twas George diffus'd a vital ray,
And gave the dying nations day:
His influence soothes the Russian bear,
Calms rising wars, and heals the air;
Join'd with the sun, his beams are hurl'd
To scatter blessings round the world:
Fulfil whate'er the Muse has spoke,
And crown the work that Anne forsook.
Aug. 1, 1721.
ANGELS are made of heavenly things,
And light and love our souls compose,
Their bliss within their bosom springs,
Within their bosom flows.
But narrow minds still make pretence
To search the coasts of flesh and sense,
And fetch diviner pleasures thence.
Men are akin to' ethereal forms,
But they belie their nobler birth,
Debase their honour down to earth,
And claim a share with worms.
He that has treasures of his own
May leave the cottage or the throne,
May quit the globe, and dwell alone
Within his spacious mind.
Locke hath a soul wide as the sea,
Calm as the night, bright as the day.
There may his vast ideas play,
Nor feel a thought confin'd.
AFTERWARDS VISCOUNT BARRINGTON.
On Mr. Locke's dangerous Sickness, some time after he had retired to study the Scriptures.
AND must the man of wondrous mind
(Now his rich thoughts are just refin’d)
Forsake our longing eyes?
Reason, at length, submits to wear
The wings of Faith; and lo they rear
Her chariot high, and nobly bear
Her prophet to the skies.
Go, friend, and wait the prophet's flight,
Watch if his mantle chance to light,
And seize it for thy own;
Shute is the darling of his years,
Young Shute his better likeness bears;
All but his wrinkles and his hairs
Are copied in his son.
Thus when our follies, or our faults,
Call for the pity of thy thoughts,
Thy pen shall make us wise:
The sallies of whose youthful wit
Could pierce the British fogs with light,
Place our true interest* in our sight,
And open half our eyes.
*The Interest of England, written by J. S. Esq.
FRIENDSHIP, thou charmer of the mind,
Thou sweet deluding ill,
The brightest minute mortals find,
And sharpest hour we feel.
Fate has divided all our shares
Of pleasure and of pain;
In love the comforts and the cares
Are mix'd and join'd again.
But whilst in floods our sorrow rolls,
And drops of joy are few,
This dear delight of mingling souls
Serves but to swell our woe.
Oh! why should bliss depart in haste,
And friendship stay to moan?
Why the fond passion cling so fast,
When every joy is gone?—
Yet never let our hearts divide,
Nor death dissolve the chain:
For love and joy were once allied,
And must be join'd again.
'Tis not by splendor, or by state,
Exalted mien, or lofty gait,
My Muse takes measure of a king:
If wealth, or height, or bulk will do,
She calls each mountain of Peru
A more majestic thing.
Frown on me, friend, if e'er I boast
O'er fellow minds enslav'd in clay,
Or swell when I shall have engross'd
A larger heap of shining dust,
And bear a bigger load of earth than they.
Let the vain world salute me loud,
My thoughts look inward, and forget
The sounding names of high and great,
The flatteries of the crowd.
When Gould commands his ships to run
And search the traffic of the sea,
His fleet o'ertakes the falling day,
And bears the western mines away,
Or richer spices from the rising sun:
While the glad tenants of the shore
Shout and pronounce him senator,*
Yet still the man's the same:
For well the happy merchant knows-
The soul with treasure never grows,
Nor swells with airy fame.'
* Member of Parliament for a port in Sussex.
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