WHilft Melchor to his Harp with wondrous skill (For fuch were Poets then, and should be still)
His noble Verse through Nature's Secrets lead;
He fung what Spirit, through the whole Mass is spread
Ev'ry where all; how Heaven's God's Law approve,
And think it Reft eternally to Moves
How the kind Sun usefully comes and goes,
Wants it himself, yet gives to Man reposes
How his round Journey does for ever laft,
And how he baits at every Sea in haste.
He fung how Earth blots the Moon's gilded Wanes
Whilft foolish Men beat sounding Brass in vain.
Why the Great Waters her flight Horns obey,
Her changing Horns, not conftanter than they
He fung how grilly Comets hang in Air,
Why Sword and Plague attend their fatal Hair.
God's Beacons for the World, drawn up so far,
To publish ill, and raise all Earth to War.
Why Contraries feed Thunder in the Cloud,
What Motions vex it, till it roar fo loud.
How Lambent Fires become so wond'rous Tame,
And bear such shining Winter in their Flame.
What radiant Pencil draws the matry Bow:
What ties up Hail, and picks the fleecy Snow.
What Palsy of the Earth here makes fixt Hills
From off her Brows, and here whole Rivers spills
Thus did this Heathen Nature's Secrets tell,
And fometimes mift the Cause, but fought it well.
WELL then; I now do plainly fee,
This bufie World and I shall ne're agree";
The very Honey of all Earthly Joy
Does of all Meats the foonest Cloy :
And they, methinks, deserve my pity,
Who for it can endure the Stings
The Crowd, and Buz, and Murmurings
Of this great Hive the City.
Ah, yet, e're I descend to th' Grave
May I a small House, and large Garden have!
And a few Friends, and many Books, both true,
Both wife, and both delightful too!
And fince Love ne'er will from me flee,
A Mistress moderately fair,
And good as Guardian-Angels are,
Only belov'd, and loving me!
Oh, Fountains, when in you shall I
My felf, eas'd of unpeaceful Thoughts espy?
Oh Fields! Oh Woods! When, when shall I be made
The happy Tenant of your Shade ?
Here's the Spring-Head of Pleasure's Flood;
Where all the Riches lie, that the
Has coin'd and stamp'd for Good.
Pride and Ambition here,
Only in far-fetch'd Metaphors appear; Here nought but Winds can hurtful Murmurs scatter, And nought but Eccho flatter.
The Gods, when they defcended, hither From Heav'n did always chuse their way; And therefore we may boldly fay,
That 'tis the way too thither.
How happy here should I,
And one dear she live, and embracing dye?
She who is all the World, and can exclude
In Defarts Solitude.
I should have then this only fear,
Lest Men when they my Pleasures fee,
Should hither throng to live like me,.
And fo make a City here.
UPON a Couch of Down in these Abodes,
Indulging Dreams his Godhead lull to Eafe,
With Murmurs of foft Rills, and whisp'ring Trees.
The Poppy and each numming Plant dispense
Their drowzy Virtue, and dull Indolence.
No Paffions interrupt his easy Reign,
No Problems puzzle his Lethargick Brain.
But dark Oblivion guards his peaceful Bed,
And lazy Fogs hang ling'ring o're his Head.
As at full Length the pamper'd Monarch lay
Batt'ning in Ease, and slumb'ring Life away :
The flumb'ring God amaz'd at fome new din,
Thrice strove to rise, and thrice funk down again.
Listless he stretch'd, and gaping rubb'd his Eyes,
Then falter'd thus betwixt half Words and Sigh
Dr. Garth's Difpo
Supine with folded Arms he thoughtless Nods
Nough, my Mule of Earthly Things,
And Inspirations but of Wind, f
Take up thy Lute, and to it bind
Loud and everlasting Strings;
And on 'em play, and to 'em fing
The happy mournful Stories,
The lamentable Glories,,
Of the great crucified King.
Mountainous heap of wonders! which does rife
Till Earth thou joynest with the Skies!
Foo large at Bottom, and at Top too high,
To be half feen by Mortal Eye.
How fhalil graspithis boundless Thing!
What shall Irplay? what shall hing?
I'll fing the mighty Riddle of Mysterious Love,
Which neither wretched Men below, nor blessed
(Spirits above,
With all their Comments, can explain;
How all the whole World's Life to die did not difdain.
I'll fing the fearchless Depths of the Compaffion
The Depths unfathom'd yet
By Reason's Plummet, and the Line of Wit
Too light the Plummer, and too short the Line.
How the Eternal Father did beftow
His own Eternal Son as Ransom for his Foe,
I'll fing aloud, that all the World may hear
The Triumph of the buried Conqueror.
How Hell was by its Pris'ner captive led,
And the great Slayer, Death, flain by the Dead.
Methinks I hear of murthered Men the Voice..
Mixt with the Murtherers confused Noise,
Sound from the Top of Calvary;
My greedy Eyes fly up the Hill, and fee
Who 'tis Hangs there, the midmost of the Three,
Oh, how unlike the others, He!
Look how he bends his gentle Head with Bleffings (from the Tree!
His gracious Hands, ne'r stretcht but to do good,
Are nail'd to the infamous wood;
And finful Man does fondly bind
The Arms, which he extendst'embrace all humane
Unhappy Man, canst thou stand by, and fee
All this as patient, as He?
Since he thy Sins does bear,
Make thou his Sufferings thine own,
And weep, and figh, and groan,
And beat thy Breaft, and tear
Thy Garments and thy Hair,
And let thy Grief, and let thy Love
Through all thy Bleeding Bowels move.
Doft thou not fee thy Prince in Purple clad all o're,
Not Purple brought from the Sidonian Shore,
But made at Home with richer gore?
Do'ft thou not fee the Rofes, which adorn
Thy Thorny Garland, by him worn?
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