TO MR. C. AND S. FLEETWOOD.
FLEETWOODS, young generous pair,
Despise the joys that fools pursue;
Bubbles are light and brittle too,
Born of the water and the air.
Tried by a standard bold and just
Honour and gold, and paint and dust;
How vile the last is, and as vain the first!
Things that the crowd call great and brave,
With me how low their value's brought!
Titles and names, and life and breath,
Slaves to the wind, and born for death;
The soul's the only thing we have
Worth an important thought.
The soul! 'tis of the' immortal kind, Nor form'd of fire, or earth, or wind, Outlives the mouldering corpse, and leaves the globe behind.
In limbs of clay though she appears, Array'd in rosy skin, and deck'd with ears and eyes, The flesh is but the soul's disguise,
There's nothing in her frame, kin to the dress she
From all the laws of matter free,
From all we feel, from all we see,
She stands eternally distinct, and must for ever be.
Rise then, my thoughts, on high, Soar beyond all that's made to die; Lo! on an awful throne
the Creator and the Judge of souls,
Whirling the planets round the poles,
Winds off our threads of life, and brings our periods
Swift the approach, and solemn is the day,
When this immortal mind,
Strip'd of the body's coarse array,
To endless pain, or endless joy,
Must be at once consign'd.
Think of the sands run down to waste,
We possess none of all the past,
None but the present is our own;
Grace is not plac'd within our pow'r,
'Tis but one short, one shining hour,
Bright and declining as a setting sun.
See the white minutes wing'd with haste;
The now that flies may be the last;
Seize the salvation ere 'tis pass'd,
Nor mourn the blessing gone:
A thought's delay is ruin here,
A closing eye, a gasping breath,
Shuts up the golden scene in death,
And drowns you in despair.
TO WILLIAM BLACKBOURN, ESQ.
CASIMIR, LIB. II. OD. 2. IMITATED.
Quæ tegit canas modo Bruma valles, &c.
MARK how it snows! how fast the valley fills!
And the sweet groves the hoary garments wear; Yet the warm sun-beams bounding from the hills. Shall melt the veil away, and the young green appear.
But when old age has on your temples shed
Her silver-frost, there's no returning sun;
Swift flies our autumn, swift our summer's fled,
When youth, and love, and spring, and golden
joys are gone.
Then cold, and winter, and your aged snow,
Stick fast upon yon; not the rich array,
Not the green garland, nor the rosy bough,
Shall cancel or conceal the melancholy grey.
The chase of pleasures is not worth the pains, While the bright sands of health run wasting down; And honour calls you from the softer scenes,
To sell the gaudy hour for ages of renown.
'Tis but one youth, and short, that mortals have, And one old age dissolves our feeble frame; But there's a heavenly art to' elude the grave, And with the hero-race immortal kindred claim.
The man that has his country's sacred tears Bedewing his cold hearse, has liv'd his day: Thus, Blackbourn, we should leave our names our [away. Old time and waning moons sweep all the rest
THE rising year beheld the' imperious Gaul Stretch his dominion, while a hundred towns Crouch'd to the victor: but a steady soul Stands firm on its own base, and reigns as wide,
As absolute: and sways ten thousand slaves,
Lusts and wild fancies with a sovereign hand.
We are a little kingdom; but the man
That chains his rebel will to reason's throne,
Forms it a large one; whilst his royal mind
Makes Heaven its council, from the rolls above
Draws its own statutes, and with joy obeys.
'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
Or dazzling tiars that bend about the head, [stars.
Though gilt with sun-beams and set round with
A monarch's he that conquers all his fears,
And treads upon them; when he stands alone,
Makes his own camp; four guardian virtues wait
His nightly slumbers, and secure his dreams.
Now dawns the light; he ranges all his thoughts
In square battalions, bold to meet the' attacks
Of time and chance, himself a numerous host,
All eye, all ear, all wakeful as the day,
Firm as a rock, and moveless as the centre.
In vain the harlot, Pleasure, spreads her charms, To lull his thoughts in luxury's fair lap
To sensual ease, (the bane of little kings,
Monarchs whose waxen images of souls
Are moulded into softness) still his mind
Wears its own shape, nor can the heavenly form
Stoop to be model'd by the wild decrees
Of the mad vulgar, that unthinking herd.
He lives above the crowd, nor hears the noise
Of wars and triumphs, nor regards the shouts
Of popular applause, that empty sound;
Nor feels the flying arrows of reproach,
Or spite or envy. In himself secure,
Wisdom his tower, and conscience is his shield,
His peace all inward, and his joys his own.
Now my ambition swells, my wishes soar,
This be my kingdom: sit above the globe
My rising soul, and dress thyself around
And shine in virtue's armour, climb the height
Of wisdom's lofty castle, there reside
Safe from the smiling and the frowning world.
Yet once a day drop down a gentle look
On the great mole-hill, and with pitying eye
Survey the busy emmets round the heap,
Crowding and bustling in a thousand forms
Of strife and toil, to purchase wealth and fame,
A bubble or a dust: then call thy thoughts
Up to thyself to feed on joys unknown,
Rich without gold, and great without renown,
HONOUR demands my song. Forget the ground,
My generous Muse, and sit amongst the stars!
There sing the soul, that, conscious of her birth,
Lives like a native of the vital world,
Amongst these dying clods, and bears her state
Just to herself: how nobly she maintains
Her character, superior to the flesh,
She wields her passions, like her limbs, and knows
The brutal powers were only born to' obey.
This is the man whom storms could never make Meanly complain; nor can a flattering gale Make him talk proudly: he hath no desire To read his secret fate; yet unconcern'd
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