ON THE FIFTH EDITION OF HIS HORÆ LYRICÆ.
SOVEREIGN of sacred verse, accept the lays
Of a young bard that dares attempt thy praise.
A Muse, the meanest of the vocal throng,
New to the bays, nor equal to the song,
Fir'd with the growing glories of thy fame,
Joins all her powers to celebrate thy name.
No vulgar themes thy pious Muse engage,
No scenes of lust pollute thy sacred page;
You in majestic numbers mount the skies,
And meet descending angels as you rise,
Whose just applauses charm the crowded groves,
And Addison thy tuneful song approves.
Soft harmony and manly vigour join,
To form the beauties of each sprightly line,
For every grace of every Muse is thine.
Milton, immortal bard, divinely bright,
Conducts his favourite to the realms of light.
Where Raphael's lyre charms the celestial throng,
Delighted cherubs listening to the song :
From bliss to bliss the happy beings rove,
And taste the sweets of music and of love.
But when the softer scenes of life you paint,
And join the beauteous virgin to the saint;
When you describe how few the happy pairs,
Whose hearts united, soften all their cares;
We see to whom the sweetest joys belong,
And Myra's beauties consecrate your song.
Fain the unnumber'd graces I would tell,
And on the pleasing theme for ever dwell;
But the Muse faints, unequal to the flight,
And hears thy strains with wonder and delight.
When tombs of princes shall in ruins lie,
And all, but heaven-born Piety, shall die;
When the last trumpet wakes the silent dead,
And each lascivious poet hides his head,
With thee shall thy divine Urania rise,
Crown'd with fresh laurels, to thy native skies:
Great Howe and Gouge' shall hail thee on thy way,
And welcome thee to the bright realms of day,
Adopt thy tuneful notes to heavenly strings,
And join the Lyric Ode while some fair seraph sings.
Sic spirat, sic optat,
READING DR. WATTS'S POEMS
SACRED TO PIETY AND DEVOTION.
REGARD the man who in seraphic lays,
And flowing numbers, sings his Maker's praise :
He needs invoke no fabled Muse's art,
The heavenly song comes genuine from the heart;
I See Dr. Watts's poems, vol. ii.
From that pure heart, which God has deign'd to'
With holy raptures, and a sacred fire. [inspire
Thrice happy man! whose soul, and guiltless breast,
Are well prepar'd to lodge the' Almighty guest!
'Tis HE that lends thy towering thoughts their wing,
And tunes thy lyre, when thou attempt'st to sing:
HE to thy soul lets in celestial day,
Ev'n whilst imprison'd in this mortal clay.
By Death's grim aspect thou art not alarm'd,
HE, for thy sake, has Death itself disarm'd ;
Nor shall the grave o'er thee a victory boast,
Her triumph in thy rising shall be lost,
When thou shalt join the' angelic choirs above,
In never ending songs of praise and love!
ON HIS POEMS SACRED TO DEVOTION,
To murmuring streams, in tender strains,
My pensive Muse no more
Of love's enchanting force complains,
Along the flowery shore.
No more Mirtillo's fatal face
My quiet breast alarms;
His eyes, his air, and youthful grace,
Have lost their usual charms.
No gay Alexis in the grove
Shall be my future theme:
I burn with an immortal love,
And sing a purer flame.
Seraphic heights I seem to gain,
And sacred transports feel,
While, WATTS, to thy celestial strain,
Surpris'd, I listen still.
The gliding streams their course forbear,
When I thy lays repeat;
The bending forest lends an ear,
The birds their notes forget.
With such a graceful harmony,
Thy numbers still prolong;
And let remotest lands reply,
And echo to thy song.
Far as the distant regions, where
The beauteous morning springs,
And scatters odours through the air
From her resplendent wings;
Unto the new-found realms, which see
The latter sun arise,
When, with an easy progress, he
Rolls down the nether skies.
1 Miss Singer, afterwards Mrs. Rowe.
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