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OF THE FEAR OF GOD...OF DIVINE POESY.

No! though arriv'd at all the world can aim,
This is the mark and glory of our frame.
A soul, capacious of the Deity,
Nothing, but he that made, can satisfy.

A thousand worlds, if we with him compare,
Less than so many drops of water are.
Men take no pleasure but in new designs,

And what they hope for, what they have outshines.
Our sheep and oxen seem no more to crave,
With full content feeding on what they have
Vex not themselves for an increase of store,
But think tomorrow we shall give them more.
What we from day to day receive from Heaven,
They do from us expect it should be given.
We made them not, yet they on us rely,
More than vain men upon the Deity:
More beasts than they! that will not understand,
That we are fed from his immediate hand.
Van, that in him has being, moves and lives,
What can he have or use but what he gives?
So that no bread can nourishment afford,
Or useful be, without his sacred word.

CANTO II.

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EARTH praises conquerors for shedding blood,
Beaven, those that love their foes, and do them
It is terrestrial honour to be crown'd
For strowing men, like rushes, on the ground.
True glory 'tis to rise above them all,
Without th' advantage taken by their fall.
He, that in fight diminishes mankind,
Does no addition to his stature find:
But he, that does a noble nature show,
Obliging others, still does higher grow.
for virtue practis'd such an habit gives,
That among men he like an angel lives.
Humbly he doth, and without envy, dwell,
Lov'd and admir'd by those he does excel.
Fools anger show, which politicians hide:
Best with this fear, men let it not abide.
The humble man, when he receives a wrong,
Refers revenge to whom it doth belong,
Nor sees he reason why he should engage,
Or vex his spirit, for another's rage.
Plac'd on a rock, vain men he pities, tost
On raging waves, and in the tempest lost.
The rolling planets and the glorious Sun
Still keep that order which they first begun:
They their first lesson constantly repeat,
Which their Creator, as a law, did set.
Abore, below, exactly all obey:
But wretched men have found another way;
Knowledge of good and evil, as at first,
(That vain persuasion!) keeps them still accurst!
The sacred word refusing as a guide,
Saves they become to luxury and pride.
As clocks, remaining in the skilful hand
Of some great master, at the figure stand,
But when abroad, neglected they do go,

At random strike, and the false hour do show:
So from our Maker wandering, we stray,
Like birds that know not to their nests the way.
In him we dwelt before our exile here,
And may, returning, find contentment there;
True joy may find, perfection of delight,
Behold his face, and shun eternal night.

Silence, my Muse! make not these jewels cheap,
Exposing to the world too large an heap.
Of all we read, the Sacred Writ is best;
Where great truths are in fewest words exprest.

Wrestling with death, these lines I did indite;
No other theme could give my soul delight.
O that my youth had thus employ'd my pen!
Or that I now could write as well as then!
But 'tis of grace, if sickness, age, and pain,
Are felt as throes, when we are born again :
Timely they come to wean us from this Earth,
As pangs that wait upon a second birth.

OF DIVINE POESY.

IN TWO CANTOS.

79

OCCASIONED UPON SIGHT OF THE 53D CHAPTER OF ISAIAH,
TURNED INTO VERSE BY MRS. WHARTON.

CANTO I.

POETS we prize, when in their verse we find
Some great employment of a worthy mind.
Angels have been inquisitive to know
The secret, which this oracle does show.
What was to come, Isaiah did declare,
Which she describes, as if she had been there;
Had seen the wounds, which to the reader's view
She draws so lively, that they bleed anew.
As ivy thrives, which on the oak takes hold,
So, with the prophet's, may her lines grow old!
If they should die, who can the world forgive,
(Such pious lines!) when wanton Sappho's live?
Who with his breath his image did inspire,
Expects it should foment a nobler fire:

Not love which brutes, as well as men may know;
But love like his, to whom that breath we owe.
Verse so design'd, on that high subject wrote,
Is the perfection of an ardent thought,
The smoke which we from burning incense raise,
When we complete the sacrifice of praise.
In boundless verse the fancy soars too high
For any object, but the Deity.

What mortal can with Heaven pretend to share
In the superlatives of wise and fair!

A meaner subject when with these we grace,
A giant's habit on a dwarf we place.
Sacred should be the product of our Muse,
Like that sweet oil, above all private nse,
On pain of death forbidden to be made,
But when it should be on the altar laid.
Verse shows a rich inestimable vein,
When, dropp'd from Heaven, 'tis thither sent again.
Of bounty 'tis, that he admits our praise,
Which does not him, but us that yield it, raise:
For, as that angel up to Heaven did rise,
Borne on the flame of Manoah's sacrifice :
So, wing'd with praise, we penetrate the sky,
Teach clouds, and stars, to praise him as we fly;
The whole creation (by our fall made groan!)
His praise to echo, and suspend their moan.
For that he reigns, all creatures should rejoice,
And we with songs supply their want of voice.
The church triumphant, and the church below,
In songs of praise their present union show:
Their joys are full; our expectation long;
In life we differ, but we join in song:
Angels and we, assisted by this art,
May sing together, though we dwell apart.

Thus we reach Heaven, while vainer poems must
No higher rise, than winds may lift the dust.
From that they spring; this, from his breath that
To the first dust th' immortal soul we have. [gave

His praise well sung (our great endeavour here)
Shakes off the dust, and makes that breath appear.

CANTO II.

HE4, that did first this way of writing grace,
Convers'd with the Almighty face to face:
Wonders he did in sacred verse unfold,
When he had more than eighty winters told:
The writer feels no dire effect of age,
Nor verse, that flows from so divine a rage.
Eldest, of poets, he beheld the light,
When first it triumph'd o'er eternal night:
Chaos he saw, and could distinctly tell
How that confusion into order fell:
As if consulted with, he has exprest
The work of the Creator, and his rest:

How the flood drown'd the first offending race,
Which might the figure of our globe deface.
For new-made earth, so even and so fair,
Less equal now, uncertain makes the air:
Surpris'd with heat and unexpected cold,
Early distempers make our youth look old:
Our days so evil, and so few, may tell
That on the ruins of that world we dwell."
Strong as the oaks that nourish'd them, and high,
That long-liv'd race did on their force rely,
Neglecting Heaven: but we, of shorter date!
Should be more mindful of impending fate.
To worms, that crawl upon this rubbish here,
This span of life may yet too long appear:
Enough to humble, and to make us great,
If it prepare us for a nobler seat.

Which well observing, he, in numerous lines,
Taught wretched man how fast his life declines:
In whom he dwelt, before the world was made,
And may again retire, when that shall fade.
The lasting Iliads have not liv'd so long,
As his and Deborah's triumphant song.
Delphos unknown, no Muse could them inspire,
But that which governs the celestial choir.
Heaven to the pious did this art reveal,
And from their store succeeding poets steal.
Homer's Scamander for the Trojans fought,
And swell'd so high, by her old Kishon taught:
His river scarce could fierce Achilles stay;
Her's, more successful, swept her foes away.
The host of Heaven, his Phoebus and his Mars,
He arms; instructed by her fighting stars,
She led them all against the common foe:
But he (misled by what he saw below!)
The powers above, like wretched men, divides,
And breaks their union into different sides.
The noblest parts which in his heroes shine
May be but copies of that heroine.
Homer himself and Agamemnon, she
The writer could, and the commander, be.
Truth she relates, in a sublimer strain

Than all the tales the boldest Greeks could feign:
For what she sung, that Spirit did indite,
Which gave her courage and success in fight.
A double garland crowns the matchless dame;
From Heaven her poem and her conquest came.
Though of the Jews she merit most esteem,
Yet here the Christian has the greater theme:
Her martial song describes how Sis'ra fell:
This sings our triumph over Death and Hell.
The rising light employ'd the sacred breath
Of the blest Virgin and Elizabeth.

+ Moses.

In songs of joy the angels sung his birth:
Here, how he treated was upon the Earth,
Trembling we read! th' affliction and the scorn,
Which, for our guilt, so patiently was borne!
Conception, birth, and suffering, all belong
(Though various parts) to one celestial song:
And she, well using so divine an art,
Has, in this concert, sung the tragic part.

As Hannah's seed was vow'd to sacred use,
So here this lady consecrates her Muse;
With like reward may Heaven her bed adorn,
With fruit as fair, as by her Muse is born!

ON THE

PARAPHRASE ON THE LORD'S PRAYER,

WRITTEN BY MRS. WHARTON.

SILENCE, ye winds! listen ethereal lights!
While our Urania sings what Heaven indites:
The numbers are the nymph's; but from above
Descends the pledge of that eternal love.
Here wretched mortals have not leave alone,
But are instructed to approach his throne:
And how can he to miserable men
Deny requests, which his own hand did pen?
In the Evangelists we find the prose,
Which, paraphras'd by her, a poem grows;
A devout rapture! so divine a hymn,
It may become the highest seraphim!
For they, like her, in that celestial choir,
Sing only what the Spirit does inspire.
Taught by our Lord, and theirs, with us they may
For all, but pardon for offences, pray.

SOME REFLECTIONS OF HIS UPON THE SEVERAL PETITIONS IN THE SAME PRAYER.

I. His sacred name, with reverence profound, Should mention'd be, and trembling at the sound! It was Jehovah; 'tis our Father now;

So low to us does Heaven vouchsafe to bows!
He brought it down, that taught us how to pray,
And did so dearly for our ransom pay.

II. His kingdom come. For this we pray in vain,
Unless he does in our affections reign:
Absurd it were to wish for such a King,
And not obedience to his sceptre bring,
Whose yoke is easy, and his burthen light,
His service freedom, and his judgments right.

III. His will be done. In fact 'tis always done;
But, as in Heaven, it must be made our own.
His will should all our inclinations sway,
Whom Nature and the universe obey.
Happy the man! whose wishes are confin'd
To what has been eternally design'd;
Referring all to his paternal care,

To whom more dear, than to ourselves, we are.
IV. It is not what our avarice hoards up;
'Tis he that feeds us, and that fills our cup;
Like new-born babes, depending on the breast,
From day to day, we on his bounty feast.
Nor should the soul expect above a day,
To dwell in her frail tenement of clay:
The setting Sun should seem to bound our race,
And the new day a gift of special grace.

V. That he should all our trespasses forgive,
While we in hatred with our neighbours live;

5 Psalm xviii. 9.

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Though so to pray may seem an easy task,

We curse ourselves when thus inclin'd we ask.
This prayer to use, we ought with equal care
Our souls, as to the sacrament, prepare.
The noblest worship of the Power above,
Is to extol, and imitate, his love:
Not to forgive our enemies alone,

But use our bounty that they may be won.
VL Guard us from all temptations of the foe:
And those we may in several stations know:
The rich and poor in slippery places stand:
Give us enough! but with a sparing hand!
Not ill-persuading want; nor wanting wealth;
But what proportion'd is to life and health.
For not the dead, but living, sing thy praise;
Falt thy kingdom, and thy glory raise.

Favete linguis !.......................
Virginibus puerisque canto.

Horat.

But, had like virtue shin'd in that fair Greek,
The amorous shepherd had not dar'd to seek,
Or hope for pity, but, with silent moan,
And better fate, had perished alone.

OF A LADY WHO WRIT IN PRAISE OF MIRA.

WHILE she pretends to make the graces known
Of matchless Mira, she reveals her own:
And, when she would another's praise indite,
Is by her glass instructed how to write.

TO ONE MARRIED TO AN OLD MAN, SINCE thou wouldst needs (bewitch'd with some ill charms!)

Be bury'd in those monumental arms:
All we can wish, is-May that earth lie light
Upon thy tender limbs! and so good night!

ON THE

FOREGOING DIVINE POEMS6.
Was we for age could neither read nor write,
The subject made us able to indite:
The soul, with nobler resolutions deck'd,
The body stooping, does herself erect:
mortal parts are requisite to raise
Her, that unbody'd can her Maker praise.
The seas are quiet, when the winds give o'er:
Scalm are we, when passions are no more!
For then we know how vain it was to boast

of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.
Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
Caceal that emptiness, which age descries.

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,

Lets in new light, through chinks that time has made:
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become,
As they draw near to their eternal home:
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,
That stand upon the threshold of the new.
Miratur limen Olympi.

Virg.

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AN EPIGRAM ON A PAINTED LADY WITH ILL
TEETH.

WERE men so dull they could not see
That Lycé painted; should they flee,
Like simple birds, into a net,
So grossly woven, and ill set;
Her own teeth would undo the knot,
And let all go that she had got.
Those teeth fair Lycé must not show,
If she would bite: her lovers, though
Like birds they stoop at seeming grapes,
Are disabus'd when first she gapes :
The rotten bones discover'd there
Show 'tis a painted sepulchre.

EPIGRAM UPON the Golden MEDAL.

OUR guard upon the royal side"!
On the reverse, our beauty's pride!
Here we discern the frown and smile;
The force and glory of our isle.
In the rich medal, both so like
Immortals stand, it seems antique;
Carv'd by some master, when the bold
Greeks made their Jove descend in gold;
And Danae wondering at that shower,
Which, falling, storm'd her brazen tower,
Britannia there, the fort in vain
Had batter'd been with golden rain;
Thunder itself had fail'd to pass :
Virtue's a stronger guard than brass,

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82

A judgment! that could make so fair a choice;
So high a subject, to employ his voice:
Still as it grows, how sweetly will he sing
The growing greatness of our matchless king!

LONG AND SHORT LIFE.

CIRCLES are prais'd, not that abound In largeness, but th' exactly round: So life we praise, that does excel Not in much time, but acting well.

TRANSLATED OUT OF SPANISH. THOUGH We may seem importunate, While your compassion we implore: They, whom you make too fortunate, May with presumption vex you more.

TRANSLATED OUT OF FRENCH.
FADE, flowers, fade; Nature will have it so;
'Tis but what we must in our autumn do!
And, as your leaves lie quiet on the ground,
The loss alone by those that lov'd them found:
So, in the grave, shall we as quiet lie,
Miss'd by some few that lov'd our company.
But some so like to thorns and nettles live,
That none for them can, when they perish, grieve.

PRIDE.

Nor the brave Macedonian youth' alone,
But base Caligula, when on the throne,
Boundless in power, would make himself a god;
As if the world depended on his nod.
The Syrian king 2 to beasts was headlong thrown
Ere to himself he could be mortal known.
The meanest wretch, if Heaven should give him line,
Would never stop, till he were thought divine:
All might within discern the serpent's pride,
If from ourselves nothing ourselves did hide.
Let the proud peacock his gay feathers spread,
And woo the female to his painted bed:
Let winds and seas together rage and swell:
This Nature teaches, and becomes them well.
Pride was not made for men 3: a conscious sense
Of guilt and folly, and their consequence,
Destroys the claim: and to beholders tells,
Here nothing but the shape of manhood dwells.

EPITAPH ON SIR GEORGE SPEKE.

UNDER this stone lies virtue, youth,
Unblemish'd probity, and truth:
Just unto all relations known,
A worthy patriot, pious son:
Whom neighbouring towns so often sent,
To give their sense in parliament;

With lives and fortunes trusting one,
Who so discreetly us'd his own.
Sober he was, wise, temperate;
Contented with an old estate,

SOME VERSES OF AN IMPERFECT COPY, DESIGNED Which no foul avarice did increase,

FOR A FRIEND,

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF OVID'S FASTI.

ROME's holy days you tell, as if a guest
With the old Romans you were wont to feast.
Numa's religion, by themselves believ'd,
Excels the true, only in show receiv'd.
They made the nations round about them bow,
With their dictators taken from the plough:
Such power has justice, faith, and honesty!
The world was conquer'd by morality.
Seeming devotion does but gild a knave,
That's neither faithful, honest, just, nor brave:
But, where religion does with virtue join,
It makes a hero like an angel shine.

ON THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES THE FIRST,
AT CHARING-CROSS.

IN THE YEAR 1674.

THAT the first Charles does here in triumph ride,
See his son reign, where he a martyr dy'd,
And people pay that reverence, as they pass,
(Which then he wanted!) to the sacred brass,
Is not th' effect of gratitude alone,

To which we owe the statue and the stone:
But Heaven this lasting monument has wrought,
That mortals may eternally be taught,
Rebellion, though successful, is but vain;
And kings so kill'd rise conquerors again.
This truth the royal image does proclaim,
Loud as the trumpet of surviving Fame.

Nor wanton luxury make less.

While yet but young, his father dy'd,
And left him to an happy guide:
Not Lemuel's mother with more care
Did counsel or instruct her heir;
Or teach with more success her son
The vices of the time to shun.
An heiress, she, while yet alive,
All that was hers to him did give:
And he just gratitude did show
To one that had oblig'd him so:
Nothing too much for her he thought,
By whom he was so bred and taught,
So (early made that path to tread,
Which did his youth to honour lead)
His short life did a pattern give,
How neighbours, husbands, friends, should live.
The virtues of a private life
Exceed the glorious noise and strife
Of battles won: in those we find
The solid interest of mankind.

Approv'd by all, and lov'd so well,
Though young, like fruit that's ripe, he fell.

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Saw what great Alexander in the East
And mighty Julius conquer'd in the West.

Then, with a mind as great as theirs, he came
To find at home occasion for his fame :
Where dark confusion did the nations hide,
And where the juster was the weaker side.
Two loyal brothers took their sovereign's part,
Employ'd their wealth, their courage, and their art:
The elder 4 did whole regiments afford;
The younger brought his conduct and his sword.
Born to command, a leader he begun,
And on the rebels lasting honour won:
The horse, instructed by their general's worth,
Sell made the king victorious in the North:
Where Ca'ndish fought, the royalists prevail'd;
Neither his courage nor his judgment fail'd:
The current of his victories found no stop,

Cromwell came, his party's chiefest prop.
Equal success had set these champions high,
And both resolv'd to conquer or to die:
Virtue with rage, fury with valour, strove;
But that must fall which is decreed above!
Conwell, with odds of number and of Fate,
Benov'd this bulwark of the church and state:
Which the sad issue of the war declar'd,
And made his task, to ruin both, less hard.
& when the bank, neglected, is o'erthrown,
The boundless torrent does the country drown.
Thus fell the young, the lovely, and the brave;
new bays and flowers upon his honour'd grave!

EPITAPH ON THE LADY SEDLEY.

Har lies the learned Savil's heir;
Sarly wise, and lasting fair!
That none, except her years they told,
Thought her a child, or thought her old.
Al that her father knew, or got,
Es art, his wealth, fell to her lot:
And she so well improv❜d that stock,
Both of his knowledge and his flock,
That Wit and Fortune, reconcil'd
In her, upon each other smil'd.
While she to every well-taught mind
Was so propitionsly inclin'd,
dad gave such title to her store,

That none, but th' ignorant, were poor.
The Muses daily found supplies,

Bath from her hands and from her eyes;
Ber bounty did at once engage,

And matchless beauty warm their rage.
Such was this dame in calmer days,
Her nation's ornament and praise!
But, when a storm disturb'd our rest,
The port and refuge of th' opprest.
This made her fortune understood,
Jad look'd on as some public good;
that (her person and her state
Exempted from the common fate)
in all our civil fury she

od, like a sacred temple, free.
May here her monument stand so,
To credit this rude age! and show
To future times, that even we
Se patterns did of virtue see:
at one sublime example had
god, among so many bad.

• William earl of Devonshire.

EPITAPH TO BE WRITTEN UNDER THE LATIN
INSCRIPTION UPON THE TOMB OF THE ONLY
SON OF THE LORD ANDOVER.

'Tis fit the English reader should be told,
'Tis not a noble corpse alone does lie
In our own language, what this tomb does hold.
Under this stone, but a whole family:
His parents' pious care, their name, their joy,
And all their hope, lies buried with this boy:
This lovely youth! for whom we all made moan,
That knew his worth, as he had been our own.

Had there been space and years enough allow'd,
His courage, wit, and breeding to have show'd,
We had not found, in all the numerous roll
Of his fam'd ancestors, a greater soul:
His early virtues to that ancient stock
Gave as much honour, as from thence he took.
Like buds appearing ere the frosts are past,
To become man he made such fatal haste,
And to perfection labour'd so to climb,
Preventing slow experience and time,
That 'tis no wonder Death our hopes beguil'd:
He's seldom old, that will not be a child.

EPITAPH, UNFINISHED.

GREAT Soul! for whom Death will no longer stay,
But sends in haste to snatch our bliss away.
O cruel Death! to those you take more kind,
Than to the wretched mortals left behind!
Here beauty, youth, and noble virtue shin'd;
Free from the clouds of pride that shade the mind.
Inspir'd verse may on this marble live,
But can no honour to thy ashes give.

EPITAPH ON HENRY DUNCH, ESQ.

IN NEWINGTON CHURCH IN OXFORDSHIRE, 1686.
HERE lies the prop and glory of his race,
Who, that no time his memory may deface,
His grateful wife, under this speaking stone
His ashes hid, to make his merit known.
Sprung from an opulent and worthy line,
Whose well-us'd fortune made their virtues shine,
A rich example his fair life did give,
How others should with their relations live.
A pious son, a husband, and a friend,
To neighbours too his bounty did extend
So far, that they lamented when he died,
As if all to him had been near allied.
His curious youth would men and manners know,
Which made him to the southern nations go.
Nearer the Sun, though they more civil seem,
Revenge and luxury have their esteem;
Which well observing, he return'd with more
Value for England, than he had before;
Her true religion, and her statutes too,

He practised not less than seek'd to know;
And the whole country griev'd for their ill fate,

To lose so good, so just a magistrate.

To shed a tear may readers be inclin'd,
And pray for one he only left behind,
Till she, who does inherit his estate,
May virtue love like him, and vices hate.

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