O Lord, arife, and let thy beams controul
Those horrid clouds, that prefs my frighted foul':
Save the poor wanderer from eternal night,
Thou that art the God of Light.
Downward I haften to my deftin'd place;
There none obtain thy aid, or fing thy praife.
Soon I fhall lie in death's deep ocean drown'd:
Is mercy there ; or fweet forgiveness found?
O fave me yet, whilst on the brink I stand;
Rebuke the ftorm, and waft my foul to land.
O let her reft beneath thy wing secure,
Thou that art the God of Power.
Behold the prodigal! to thee I come,
To hail my father, and to feek my home.
Nor refuge could I find, nor friend abroad,
Straying in vice, and deftitute of God.
O let thy terrors, and my anguish end!
Be thou my refuge and be thou my friend :
Receive the fon thou didft fo long reprove,
Thou that art the God of Love.
To the Rev. Dr. F. TURNER, Bishop of ELY; who had advised a Tranflation of PRUDENTIUS.
IF poets, ere they cloath'd their infant thought,
And the rude work to just perfection brought,
Did ftill fome god, or godlike man invoke,
Whose mighty name their facred filence broke :
Your goodness, Sir, will eafily excufe,
The bold requests of an aspiring Muse;
Who, with your bleffing would your aid implore,
And in her weakness justify your power.➡
From your fair pattern fhe would ftrive to write,
And with unequal ftrength purfue your flight;
Yet hopes, the ne'er can err that follows you,
Led by your bleft commands, and great example too.
Then fmiling and afpiring influence give,
And make the Mufe and her endeavours live;
Claim all her future labours as your due,
Let every fong begin and end with you:
So to the bleft retreat she'll gladly go,
Where the Saints' palm and Mufes' laurel grow;
Where kindly both in glad embrace fhall join,
And round your brow their mingled honours twine;
Both to the virtue due, which could excel,
As much in writing, as in living well.—
So fhall the proudly prefs the tuneful string,
And mighty things in mighty numbers fing;
Nor doubt to ftrike Prudentius' daring lyre,
And humbly bring the verfe which you infpire.
A PASTORA L. To the Bishop of ELY on his Departure from Cambridge.
TELL, dear Alexis, tell thy Damon, why
Doft thou in mournful shades obscurely lie?
Why doft thou figh, why strike thy panting breaft
And steal from life the needful hours of rest?
Are thy kids ftarv'd by winter's early frost?
Are any of thy bleating ftragglers loft ?
Have strangers' cattle trod thy new-plough'd ground?
Has great Joanna, or her greater fhepherd, frown'd?
ALEXIS.
See my kids browze, my lambs fecurely play:
(Ah! were their master unconcern'd as they !)
No beafts (at noon I look'd) had trod my ground;
Nor has Joanna, or her fhepherd, frown'd.
Then stop the lavish fountain of your eyes,
Nor let thofe fighs from your fwoln bosom rise;
Chafe fadness, friend, and folitude away;
And once again rejoice, and once again look gay.
ALEXIS.
Say what can more our tortur'd fouls annoy,
Than to behold, admire, and lose our joy ; .
Whofe fate more hard than those who fadly run,
For the laft glimpse of the departing fun?
Or what severer fentence can be given,
Than, having feen, to be excluded heaven?
Then ceafe to chide my cares!
And rather pity than reftrain my tears;
Thofe tears, my Damon, which I justly shed,
To think how great my joys; how foon they fled;
I told thee, friend, (now bless the fhepherd's name, From whofe dear care the kind occasion came,) That I, even I, might happily receive
The facred wealth, which Heaven and Daphnis give :
That I might fee the lovely awful fwain,
Whofe holy crofier guides our willing plain;
Whose pleafing power and ruling goodness keep
Our fouls with equal care as we our sheep;
Whose praise excites each lyre, employs each tongue:
Whilft only he who caus'd, diflikes the fong.
To this great, humble, parting man I gain'd
Accefs, and happy for an hour I reign'd;
Happy as new-form'd man in paradife,
Ere fin debauch'd his inoffenfive blifs;
Happy as heroes after battles won,
Prophets entranc'd, or monarchs on the throne;
But (oh, my friend!) those joys with Daphnis flew : To them these tributary tears are due.
Was he fo humble then? those joys so vast?
Cease to admire that both fo quickly past.
Too happy fhould we be, would fmiling fate
Render one bleffing durable and great;
But (oh the fad viciffitude!) how foon
Unwelcome night fucceeds the chearful noon;
And rigid winter nips the flowery pomp of June!
Then grieve not, friend, like you, fince all mankind
A certain change of joy and forrow find.
Supprefs your figh, your down-caft eyelids raife,
Whom prefent you revere, him abfent praise.
To the COUNTESS of EXETER,
playing on the Lute.
HAT charms you have, from what high race
you fprung,
Have been the pleasing subjects of my song:
Unfkill'd and young, yet fomething still I writ,
Of Ca'ndifh' beauty join'd to Cecil's wit
But when you please to fhew the labouring Mufe,
What greater theme your Mufick can produce; ›
My babbling praises I repeat no more,
But hear, rejoice, ftand filent, and adore.
The Perfians thus, firft gazing on the fun,
Admir'd how high 'twas plac'd, how bright it fhone: But, as his power was known, their thoughts were
And foon they worship'd, what at firft they prais'd.
Eliza's glory lives in Spenser's song ;
And Cowley's verfe keeps fair Orinda young.
That as in birth, in beauty you excell, ‹
The Mufe might dictate, and the Poet tell ::
Your art no other art can fpeak; and you,
To fhew how well you play, must play anew:
Your mufick's power your musick must disclose ;-
For what light is, 'tis only light that shows.
Strange force of harmony, that thus controuls
Our thoughts, and.turns and fanctifies our fouls:
While with its utmost art your fex could move
Our wonder only, or at best our love :
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