VERSES

TO THE

AUTHOR.

N

OW let the Atheist tremble; Thou alone

Canft bid his confcious heart the Godhead own. Whom shalt thou not reform? O thou hast seen, How God defcends to judge the fouls of men. Thou heard'ft the fentence how the guilty mourn, Driv'n out from God, and never to return.

Yet more, behold ten thousand thunders fall,
And fudden vengeance wrap the flaming ball:
When nature funk, when every bolt was hurl'd,
Thou faw'ft the boundless ruins of the world.

When guilty Sodom felt the burning rain,
And fulphur fell on the devoted plain;
The patriarch thus, the fiery tempest past,
With pious horror view'd the defart waste;
The restless smoke ftill wav'd its curls around,
For-ever rifing from the glowing ground.

But tell me, oh! what heav'nly pleasure tell,
To think fo greatly, and defcribe fo well!

How waft thou pleas'd the wond'rous theme to try,

And find the thought of man could rife fo high?
Beyond this world the labour to pursue,
And open all ETERNITY to view?

But thou art best delighted to rehearse
Heaven's holy dictates in exalted verse:

;

O thou haft power the harden'd heart to warm,,
To grieve, to raise, to terrify, to charm
To fix the foul on God; to teach the mind
To know the dignity of human-kind;
By ftricter rules well-govern'd life to scan,
And practise o'er the angel in the man.

Magd. Col.
Oxon.

吳獅

T. WARTON.

Το

To a LADY, with the LAST DAY.

MADAM,

ER E, facred truths, in lofty numbers told,
TheEpffered of a future fty

The realms of night to mortal view display,
And the glad regions of eternal day.
This daring author fcorns, by vulgar ways
Of guilty wit, to merit worthlefs.praise.
Full of her glorious theme, his tow'ring muse,
With gen'rous zeal, a nobler fame pursues:
Religion's cause her ravish'd heart infpires,
And with a thousand bright ideas fires;
Transports her quick, impatient, piercing eye,
O'er the strait limits of mortality,

To boundless orbs, and bids her fearless foar,
Where only MILTON gain'd renown before;
Where various fcenes alternately excite
Amazement, pity, terror, and delight.

Thus did the mufes fing in early times,
'Ere skill'd to flatter vice, and varnish crimes :
Their lyres were tun'd to virtuous fongs alone,
And the chafte poet, and the priest, were one.
But now, forgetful of their infant state,
They footh the wanton pleasures of the great:
And from the prefs, and the licentious stage,
With luscious poifon taint the thoughtless age;

6. To a LADY, with the LAST DAY.

Deceitful charms atract our wond'ring eyes,
And fpecious ruin unfufpected lies.

So the rich foil of India's blooming fhores,

Adorn'd with lavish nature's choiceft ftores,
Where ferpents lurk, by flow'rs conceal'd from fight,
Hides fatal danger under gay delight.

These purer thoughts from grofs alloys refin'd,
With heav'nly raptures elevate the mind:
Not fram'd to raise a giddy fhort-liv'd joy,
Whofe falfe allurements, while they please, destroy;
But bliss resembling that of faints above,
Sprung from the vision of th' Almighty Love:
Firm, folid blifs, for-ever great and new,
The more 'tis known, the more admir'd, like you;
Like you, fair nymph, in whom united meet
Endearing fweetnefs, unaffected wit,

And all the glories of your sparkling race,
While inward virtues heighten ev'ry grace.
By these fecur'd, you will with pleasure read
Of future judgment, and the rifing dead;

Of time's grand period, heav'n and earth o'erthrown ;
And gafping nature's laft tremendous groan.
Thefe, when the ftars and fun fhall be no more,
Shall beauty to your ravag'd form restore:
Then fhall you shine with an immortal ray,
Improv'd by death, and brighten'd by decay.

Pemb. Col.

Oxon.

T. TRISTRAM.

ΤΟ

To the AUTHOR, On his Laft Day and Univerfal Paffion.

A

ND muft it be as thou haft fung,
Celestial bard, feraphic YOUNG?
Will there no trace, no point be found
Of all this spacious glorious round?
Yon lamps of light, muft they decay?
On nature's felf, deftruction prey?
Then fame, the most immortal thing
Ev'n thou can'ft hope, is on the wing.
Shall NEWTON's fyftem be admir'd,
When time and motion are expir'd?
Shall fouls be curious to explore
Who rul'd an orb that is no more?
Or fhall they quote the pictur'd age,
From POPE's and Thy corrective page,
When vice and virtue lose their name
In deathless joy, or endless shame ?
While wears away the grand machine,
The works of genius shall be seen :
Beyond, what laurels can there be,

For HOMER, HORACE, POPE, or THEE?
Thro' life we chafe, with fond pursuit,
What mocks our hope, like Sodom's fruit: