To reach the summit, mounts with weary pains, For man's employ much thought and deed remain, Be Truth, so found, with sacred heed possest, Ah! fool and wretch, who lett'st thy soul be tied Or will it boot thee, at the latest day, This holds alike, and each may plead the same. Wouldst thou to power a proper duty show? 'Tis thy first task the bounds of power to know; The bounds once pass'd, it holds the same no more, Its nature alters, which it own'd before, Power from above, subordinately spread, And left on deserts, rocks and sands, are tost, All the long travel, and in ocean lost. So fares the soul, which more that power reveres, Man claims from God, than what in God inheres. ON BISHOP BURNET'S BEING SET ON FIRE IN HIS CLOSET. FROM that dire era, bane to Sarum's pride, Which broke his schemes, and laid his friends aside, He talks and writes that popery will return, And we, and he, and all his works will burn. What touch'd himself was almost fairly prov'd: Oh, far from Britain be the rest remov'd! For, as of late he meant to bless the age, O'er-wrought with passion, and the subject's weight, Lolling, he nodded in his elbow seat; Down fell the candle; grease and zeal conspire, Heat meets with heat, and pamphlets burn their sire. Here crawls a preface on its half-burn'd maggots, And there an introduction brings its faggots: Then roars the prophet of the northern nation, Scorch'd by a flaming speech on moderation. Unwarn'd by this, go on, the realm to fright, ON MRS. ARABELLA FERMOR LEAVING LONDON. FROM town fair Arabella flies ; The beaux unpowder'd grieve: The rivers play before her eyes; Her lovers swore, they must expire, Yet soon the fair one will return, When Summer quits the plain : 'Tis constancy enough in love That nature's fairly shown: To search for more, will fruitless prove; Romances, and the turtle-dove, The virtue boast alone. CHLORIS APPEARING IN A LOOKING-GLASS. OFT have I seen a piece of art, Of light and shade the mixture fine, Speak all the passions of the heart, And show true life in every line. But what is this before my eyes, It is not Chloris: for, behold, goes; The shifting phantom comes and And when 'tis here, 'tis pale and cold, But 'tis her image, for I feel The very pains that Chloris gives; Oh, could I but the picture save! 'Tis drawn by her own matchless skill; Nature the lively colours gave, And she need only look to kill. |