Where bound on fulph'rous lakes to glowing rocks
With adamantine chains they wail their woes,
And know Jehovah great as well as good,
And fix'd for ever by eternal Fate

With horrour find his arm omnipotent.

Prodigious madness! that the facred Muse,

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First taught in heav'n to mount inimortal heights,
And trace the boundless glories of the sky,
Should now to ev'ry idol bafely bow
And curse the Deity the once ador'd,
Erecting trophies to each fordid vice,
And celebrating the infernal praise
Of haughty Lucifer, the defp'rate foe

Of God and man, and winning ev'ry hour
New votaries to hell, while all the fiends
Hear these accursed lays, and thus outdone
Raging they try to match the human race,
Redoubling all their hellish blasphemies,
And with loud curfes rend the gloomy vault.
Ungrateful mortals! ah! too late you'll find
What 't is to banter leav'n and laugh at hell,
To dress up vice in falfe delufive charms,
And with gay colours paint her hideous face,
Leading befotted fouls thro' flow'ry paths
In gaudy dreams and vain fantastick joys
To difmal fcenes of everlasting wo,

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When the great Judge fhall rear his awful throne, And raging flames furround the trembling globe, 75

Volume V.

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While the loud thunders roar from pole to pole,
And the last trump awakes the fleeping dead,
And guilty fouls to ghaftly bodies driv'n,
Within thofe dire eternal prifons fhut,
Expect their fad inexorable doom.

Say now, ye Men of wit! what turn of thought
Will please you then? alas! how dull and poor
Ev'n to yourselves will your lewd flights appear!
How will you envy then the happy fate

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Of idiots! and perhaps in vain you 'll with
You'ad been as very fools as once you thought
Others, for the fublimest wisdom scorn'd,
When pointed lightnings from the wrathful Judge
Shall finge your laurels, and the very men
Who thought they flew fo high fhall fall fo low.

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No more, my Mufe! of that tremendous thought;
Refume thy more delightful theme, and fing
Th' immortal man that with immortal verfe
Rivals the hymns of angels, and like them
Defpifes mortal criticks' idle rules;

While the celeftial flame that warms thy foul
Infpires us, and with holy transports moves
Our lab'ring minds, and nobler fcenes presents
Than all the Pagan poets ever fung,
Homer or Virgil, and far fweeter notes
'Than Horace ever taught his founding lyre,
And purer far, tho' Martial's felf might seem
A modeft poet in our Christian days.

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May thofe forgotten and neglected lie;

No more let men be fond of fabulous gods,

Nor Heathen wit debauch one Christian line,
While with the coarfe and daubing paint we hide
The fhining beauties of eternal Truth,

That in her native drefs appears moft bright,

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And charms the eyes of angels-Oh! like thee 110
Let ev'ry nobler genius tune his voice

To fubjects worthy of their tow'ring thoughts:
Let Heav'n and Anna then your tuneful art
Improve, and confecrate your deathless lays
To him who reigns above and her who rules below.

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April 17. 17.06.

JOSEPH STANDEN.

To Dr. Watts on bis divine poems.

SAY, human feraph! whence that charming force,
That flame, that soul, which animates each line,
And how it runs with fuch a graceful ease,
Loaded with pond'rous fenfe? Say, did not he,
The lovely Jefus, who commands thy breast,
Inspire thee with himself? With Jefus dwells,
Knit in myfterious bands, the Paraclete,
The breath of God, the everlasting fource

Of love and what is love in fouls like thine

:

But air and incense to the poet's fire?

Should an expiring faint, whose swimming eyes

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Mingle the images of things about him,
But hear the least exalted of thy strains
How greedily he'd drink the mufick in,
Thinking his heav'nly convoy waited near!
So great a ftrefs of pow'rful harmony
Nature, unable longer to sustain,
Would fink opprefs'd with joy to endless reft.
Let none henceforth of Providence complain,
As if the world of fpirits lay unknown,
Fenc'd round with black impenetrable night:
What tho' no fhining angel darts from thence
With leave to publifh things conceal'd from sense?
In language bright as theirs we are here told,
When life its narrow round of years hath roll'd, 25
What 'tis employs the blefs'd, what make their blifs
Songs fuch as Watts's are, and love like his.

But then, dear Sir, be cautious how you use
To tranfports fo intenfely rais'd your Mufe,
Left whilft th' ecftatick impulse you obey
The foul leap out and drop the duller clay.

Sept. 4. 1706.

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HENRY GROVE.

To Dr. Watts on the fifth edition of his Hora Lyrica.

SOV'REIGN of Sacred Verfe! accept the lays
Of a young bard that dares attempt thy praise :
A Muse the meanest of the vocal throng,
New to the bays, nor equal to the fang,

Fir'd with the growing glories of thy fame,
Joins all her pow'rs to celebrate thy name.

No vulgar themes thy pious Mufc engage,
No fcenes of luft pollute thy facred page:
You in majestick numbers mount the skies,
And meet defcending angels as you rife,
Whose just applaufes charm the crowded groves,
And Addison thy tuneful fong approves.

}

Soft harmony and manly vigour join
To form the beauties of each sprightly line,
For ev'ry grace of ev'ry Mufe is thine.
Milton, immortal bard! divinely bright,
Conduas his fav'rite to the realms of light,
Where Raphael's lyre charms the celestial throng,
Delighted cherubs lift'ning to the fong:
From blifs to blifs the happy beings rove,

And taste the sweets of mufick and of love:
But when the fofter fcenes of life you paint,
And join the beauteous virgin to the faint,
When you defcribe how few the happy pairs
Whose hearts united foften all their cares,
We fee to whom the fweeteft joys belong,
And Myra's beauties confecrate your fong.
Fain the unnumber'd graces I would tell,
And on the pleasing theme for ever dwell,
But the Muse faints, unequal to the flight,
And hears thy strains with wonder and delight.

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