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was it made to be enflaved to any precife model of elder or later times.

After all, I muft petition my reader to lay aside the four and fullen air of criticism, and to affume the friend. Let him chufe fuch copies to read at particular hours, when the temper of his mind is fuited to the fong. Let him come with a defire to be entertained and pleased, rather than to feek his own disgust and averfion, which will not be hard to find. I am not fo vain as to think there are no faults, nor fo blind as to efpy none: though I hope the multitude of alterations in this fecond edition are not without amendment. There is fo large a difference between this and the former, in the change of titles, lines, and whole poems, as well as in the various tranfpofitions, that it would be useless and endless, and all confufion, for any reader to compare them throughout. The additions alfo make up half the book, and fome of thefe have need of as many alterations as the former. Many a line needs the file to polifh the roughness of it, and many a thought wants richer language to adorn and make it shine. Wide defects and equal fuperfluities may be found, especially in the larger pieces; but I have at prefent neither inclination nor leifure to correct, and I hope I never shall. It is one of the biggest satisfactions I take in giving this volume to the world, that I expect to be for ever free from the temptation of making or mending poems gain. So that my friends may be perfectly fecure

Naturam expellas furcâ licet, ufque recurret." HOR. I this fhort note of Horace excufe a man who has ted nature many years, but has been fometimes vercome? 1736. Edition the 7th.

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against this impreffion's growing wafte upon their hands, and useless as the former has done. Let minds that are better furnished for fuch performances pursue these studies, if they are convinced that poefy can be made ferviceable to religion and virtue. As for myself, I almost blush to think that I have read fo little, and written fo much. The following years of my life shall be more entirely devoted to the immediate and direct labours of my station, excepting those hours that may be employed in finishing my imitation of the Pfalms of David, in chriftian language, which I have now promifed the world *.

I cannot court the world to purchase this book for their pleasure or entertainment, by telling them that any one copy entirely pleases me. The best of them finks below the idea which I form of a divine or moral ode. He that deals in the mysteries of Heaven, or of the Mufes, fhould be a genius of no vulgar mould And as the name Vates belongs to both; fo the furniture of both is comprised in that line of Horace,

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But what Juvenal spake in his age, abides true in ours: A compleat Poet or a Prophet is fuch a one; "Qualem nequeo monftrare, & fentio tantùm." Perhaps neither of these characters in perfection fhall ever be seen on earth, till the feventh angel has founded his awful trumpet; till the victory be compleat over

* In the year 1719 thefe were finished and printed.

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the beast and his image, when the natives of heaven fhall join in concert with prophets and faints, and fing to their golden harps "falvation, honour and glory to "Him that fits upon the throne, and to the Lamb for "ever."

May 14, 1709.

HORÆ

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WHO

With notes of mortal found?

Dangers and glories guard the theme,
And spread despair around.
Destruction waits t' obey his frown,
And Heaven attends his fmile;
A wreath of lightning arms his crown,
But love adorns it ftill.

Celestial king, our spirits lie,

Trembling beneath thy feet,

And wish, and caft a longing eye,

To reach thy lofty feat.

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When shall we fee the Great Unknown,
And in thy prefence stand?
Reveal the fplendors of thy throne,
But fhield us with thy hand.

In thee what endless wonders meet!
What various glory fhines!
The croffing rays too fiercely beat
Upon our fainting minds.

Angels are loft in fweet furprize
If thou unvail thy grace;

And humble awe runs through the skies,
When wrath arrays thy face.

When mercy joins with majesty
To spread their beams abroad,
Not all their faireft minds on high
Are fhadows of a God.

Thy works the strongest feraph fings
In a too feeble strain,

And labours hard on all his strings
To reach thy thoughts in vain.

Created powers, how weak they be !
How short our praises fall!

So much akin to nothing we,
And thou th' eternal All.

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