Forms it a large one, while his royal mind
Makes heaven its council, from the rolls above
Draws its own ftatutes, 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,
Though gilt with fun-beams and fet round with stars.
A monarch He that conquers all his fears,
And treads upon them; when he stands alone,
Makes his own camp; four guardian virtues wait
His nightly flumbers, and fecure his dreams.
Now dawns the light; he ranges all his thoughts
In fquare battalions, bold to meet th' attacks
Of time and chance, himfelf a numerous hoft,
All eye, all ear, all wakeful as the day,
Firm as a rock, and moveless as the centre.
In vain the harlot, pleafure, fpreads her charms,
To lull his thoughts in luxury's fair lap,
To fenfual eafe (the bane of little kings,
Monarchs whofe waxen images of fouls
Are moulded into foftnefs); ftill his mind
Wears its own fhape, 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 applaufe, that empty found;
Nor feels the flying arrows of reproach,
Or spite or envy. In himself fecure,
Wisdom his tower, and confcience is his fhield,
His peace all inward, and his joys his own.
my ambition fwells, my wishes foar,
This be my kingdom; fit above the globe
My rifing foul, and drefs thyfelf around
And fhine in virtue's armour, climb the height
Of wisdom's lofty cafle, there refide
Safe from the fmiling 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,
Crouding and bustling in a thousand forms
Of ftrife and toil, to purchase wealth and fame,
A bubble or a duft: Then call thy thoughts
Up to thyfelf to feed on joys unknown,
Rich without gold, and great without renown.
TRUE COURAGE.
HONOUR demands my fong. Forget the ground,
My generous Muse, and fit among the stars!
There fing the foul, that, confcious of her birth,
Lives like a native of the vital world,
Among these dying clods, and bears her state
Juft to herself: how nobly the maintains
Her character, fuperior to the fiefh,
She wields her paffions like her limbs, and knows
The brutal powers were only born t' obey.
This is the man whom storms could never make
Meanly complain; nor can a flattering gale
Make him talk proudly: he hath no defire
To read his fecret fate: yet unconcern'd
And calm could meet his unborn destiny,
In all its charming, or its frightful shapes.
He that unfhrinking, and without a groan,
Bears the firft wound, may finish all the war
With meer courageous filence, and come off
Conqueror for the man that well conceals
The heavy strokes of fate, he bears them well.
He, though th' Atlantic and the Midland feas
With adverse furges meet, and rife on high
Sufpended 'twixt the winds, then rush amain
Mingled with flames, upon his fingle head,
And clouds, and ftars, and thunder, firm he ftands,
Secure of his beft life; unhurt, unmov'd;
And drops his lower nature, born for death.
Then from the lofty caftle of his mind
Sublime looks down, exulting, and furveys
The ruins of creation (Souls alone
Are heirs of dying worlds); a piercing glance
Shoots upwards from between his clofing lids,
To reach his birth-place, and without a figh
He bids his batter'd flesh lie gently down
Amongst his native rubbish; whilst the spirit
Breathes and flies upward, an undoubted guest
Of the third heaven, th' unruinable sky.
Thither, when fate has brought our willing fouls,
No matter whether 'twas a fharp disease,
Or a sharp fword that help'd the travellers on,
And push'd us to our home. Bear up, my friend,
Serenely, and break through the ftormy brine
With steady prow; know, we shall once arrive
At the fair haven of eternal blifs.
To which we ever steer; whether as kings
Of wide command we've spread the spacious fea
With a broad painted fleet, or row'd along
In a thin cock-boat with a little oar.
There let my native plank shift me to land
And I'll be happy: Thus I'll leap ashore
Joyful and fearless on th' immortal coast,
Since all I leave is mortal, and it must be loft.
To the much honoured Mr. THOMAS ROWE, the DIRECTOR of my youthful STUDIES.
USTOM, that tyrannefs of fools,
That leads the learned round the schools,
In magic chains of forms and rules!
My genius ftorms her throne:
No more, ye flaves, with awe profound
Beat the dull track, nor dance the round;
Loofe hands, and quit th' inchanted ground:
Knowledge invites us each alone.
I hate thefe fhackles of the mind
Forg'd by the haughty wife;
Souls were not born to be confin'd,
And led, like Samfon, blind and bound;
But when his native strength he found
He well aveng'd his eyes.
I love thy gentle influence, Rowe,
Thy gentle influence, like the fun,
Only diffolves the frozen fnow,
Then bids our thoughts like rivers flow,
And chuse the channels where they run.
Thoughts fhould be free as fire or wind;
The pinions of a fingle mind
Will through all nature fly:
But who can drag up to the poles
Long fetter'd ranks of leaden fouls ?
A genius which no chain controls
Roves with delight, or deep, or high:
Swift I furvey the globe around,
Dive to the centre through the solid ground,
Or travel o'er the sky.
To the REVEREND MR. BENONI ROWE.
THE WAY OF THE MULTITUDE.
ROWE, if we make the crowd our guide
Through life's uncertain road,
Mean is the chafe; and wandering wide
We miss th' immortal good;
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