Yet should tumultuous storms arise,

And mingle earth, and feas, and fkies,

Should the waves fwell, and make her roll
Across the line, or near the pole,
Still fhe's at peace; for well she knows
To launch the stream that duty shows,
And makes her home where'er fhe goes.
Bear her, ye feas, upon your breast,
Or waft her, winds, from East to West
On the foft air; fhe cannot find
A couch fo eafy as her mind,

Nor breathe a climate half fo kind.

}

}

To JOHN HARTOPP, Esq. (Afterwards Sir JOHN HARTOPP, Bart.)

Cafimire, Book I, Ode 4. imitated.

"Vive jucundæ metuens juvente," &c.

LIVE, my dear Hartopp, live to-day,

Nor let the fun look down and fay,

Inglorious here he lies;"

Shake off your ease, and fend your name

To immortality and fame,

By every hour that flies.

Youth's a foft fcene, but truft her not:

Her airy minutes, fwift as thought,

I 2

July, 1700.

Slide

Slide off the flippery sphere;

Moons with their months make hafty rounds,
The fun has pafs'd his vernal bounds,
And whirls about the year.

Let folly drefs in green and red,
And gird her wafte with flowing gold,
Knit blushing roses round her head,
Alas! the gaudy colours fade,
The garment waxes old.

Hartopp, mark the withering rose,
And the pale gold how dim it shows!

Bright and lafting blifs below

Is all romance and dream;

Only the joys celestial flow
In an eternal ftream,

The pleasures that the smiling day
With large right hand beltows,
Falfely her left conveys away,
And fhuffles in our woes.
So have T feen a mother play,
And cheat her filly child,

She and took a toy away,
gave

The infant cry'd and smil'd.

The wheels impetuous roll;

The harnest hours and minutes ftrive,

And days with stretching pinions drive

-down fiercely on the goal.

Not half fo faft the galley flies

O'er the Venetian sea, :

When fails, and oars, and labouring.fkies,
Contend to make her way.
Swift wings for all the flying hours

The God of time prepares,
The reft lie ftill yet in their neft
And grow for future years.

HE noify world complains of me

That I should fhun their fight, and flee

Vifits, and crowds, and company.

Gunfton, the lark dwells in her neft

Till fhe afcend the skies;

And in my closet I could reft

Till to the heavens I rise.

I 3

1700.

Yet

Yet they will urge, "This private life
"Can never make you bleft,

"And twenty doors are still at ftrife

"T'engage you for a guest."

Friend, fhould the towers of Windfor or Whitehall
Spread open their inviting gates
To make my entertainment gay;
I would obey the royal call,

But short should be my stay,

Since a diviner service waits

T'employ my hours at home, and better fill the day.

When I within myself retreat,

I fhut my doors against the great;
My bufy eye-balls inward roll,
And there with large furvey I fee

All the wide theatre of Me,

And view the various fcenes of my retiring foul;
There I walk o'er the mazes I have trod,
While hope and fear are in a doubtful strife,
Whether this Opera of life

Be acted well to gain the Plaudit of my God.

There's a day haftening, ('tis an awful day!)
When the great fovereign fhall at large review
All that we speak, and all we do,

The feveral parts we act on this wide ftage of clay:

These he approves, and thofe he blames, And crowns perhaps a porter, and a prince he damns.

O if the judge from his tremendous feat

Shall not condemn what I have done,

I fhall be happy though unknown,

Nor need the gazing rabble, nor the shouting street.

I hate the Glory, friend, that fprings
From vulgar breath, and empty found;
Fame mounts her upward with a flattering gale
Upon her airy wings,

Till Envy shoots, and Fame receives the wound:
Then her flagging pinions fail,
Down glory falls, and ftrikes the ground,
And breaks her batter'd limbs.

Rather let me be quite conceal'd from Fame;
How happy I should lie

In sweet obfcurity,

Nor the loud world pronounce my little name!
Here I could live and die alone;

Or if fociety be due

To keep our tafte of pleasure new,
Gunfton, I'd live and die with you,
For both our fouls are one.

Here we could fit and pass the hour,
And pity kingdoms, and their kings,
And smile at all their shining things,
Their toys of ftate, and images of power;
Virtue fhould dwell within our feat,
Virtue alone could make it sweet,

Nor is herself fecure, but in a close retreat,