But whilft in floods our forrow rolls,

And drops of joy are few,

This dear delight of mingling fouls
Serves but to fwell our woe.

Oh! why should blifs depart in hafte,
And friendship stay to moan?
Why the fond paffion cling so fast,
When every joy is gone?

Yet never let our hearts divide,

Nor death diffolve the chain :

For love and joy were once ally'd,
And must be join'd again.

To NATHANAEL GOULD, Efq. afterwards Sir NATHANAEL GOUL D.

"TIS not by fplendor, or by state,
Exalted mein, or lofty gait,

My Mufe takes measures of a king:
If wealth, or height, or bulk will do,
She calls each mountain of Peru

A more majeftic thing.

Frown on me, friend, if e'er I boaft
O'er fellow-minds enflav'd in clay,
Or fwell when I shall have engrost
A larger heap of shining duft,
And wear a bigger load of earth than they.

1704.

Let

Let the vain world falute me loud,

My thoughts look inward, and forget
The founding names of High and Great,
The flatteries of the crowd.

When Gould commands his fhips to run
And search the traffic of the sea,
His fleet o'ertakes the falling day,

And bears the western mines away,
Or richer fpices from the rifing fun :
While the glad tenants of the shore
Shout, and pronounce him fenator *,
Yet ftill the man's the fame :

For well the happy merchant knows
The foul with treasure never grows,
Nor fwells with airy fame.

But trust me, Gould, 'tis lawful pride
To rife above the mean control

Of flesh and sense, to which we're ty'd;

This is ambition that becomes a foul.

We steer our course up through the skies;
Farewell this barren land:

We ken the heavenly fhore with longing eyes,
There the dear wealth of spirit lies,
And beckoning angels ftand.

* Member of parliament for a port in Suffex.

Το

To DR. THOMAS GIBSON.

THE LIFE OF SOULS.

1704

WIFT as the fun revolves the day

SWIFT

We haften to the dead,

Slaves to the wind we puff away,

And to the ground we tread.

'Tis air that lends us life, when first The vital bellows heave:

Our flesh we borrow of the duft;

And when a mother's care has nurft

The babe to manly fize, we must
With ufury pay the grave.

Rich juleps drawn from precious ore
Still tend the dying flame:

And plants, and roots, of barbarous name,
Torn from the Indian fhore.

Thus we fupport our tottering flesh,

Our cheeks resume the rose afresh,
When bark and steel play well their game
To fave our finking breath,

And Gibson, with his awful power,
Rescues the poor precarious hour

From the demands of death.

But

But art and nature, powers and charms,
And drugs, and recipes, and forms,
Yield us, at laft, to greedy worms
A despicable prey;

I'd have a life to call my own,

That shall depend on heaven alone;
Nor air, nor earth, nor fea

Mix their bafe effences with mine,
Nor claim dominion fo divine

To give me leave to Be.

Sure there's a mind within, that reigns
O'er the dull current of my veins;
I feel the inward pulse beat high
With vigorous immortality.

Let earth refume the flesh it

gave,

And breath diffolve amongst the winds
Gibson, the things that fear a grave,
That I can lofe, or you can save,
Are not akin to minds.

We claim acquaintance with the skies,
Upward our fpirits hourly rife,

And there our thoughts employ:

;

When heaven shall fign our grand release,
We are no ftrangers to the place,
The bufinefs, or the joy.

FALSE

MY

FALSE GREATNESS.

YLO, forbear to call him bleft
That only boasts a large eftate,
Should all the treafures of the Weft
Meet, and confpire to make him great.
I know thy better thoughts, I know
Thy reafon can't defcend fo low.
Let a broad ftream with golden fands
Through all his meadows roll,
He's but a wretch, with all his lands,
That wears a narrow foul.

He fwells amidst his wealthy ftore,
And proudly poizing what he weighs,
In his own fcale he fondly lays
Huge heaps of fhining ore.

He spreads the balance wide to hold
His manors and his farms,

And cheats the beam with loads of gold
He hugs between his arms.

So might the plough-boy climb a tree,
When Crofus mounts his throne,
And both ftand up, and fmile to fee
How long their fhadow's grown.
Alas! how vain their fancies be

To think that thape their own!

Thus