Then while the gardens take my fight,
With all the colours of delight;
While filver waters glide along,
To please my ear, and court my fong;
I'll lift my voice, and tune my string,
And thee, great Source of nature, fing.
The fun that walks his airy way,
To light the world, and give the day;
The moon that shines with borrow'd light ;
The stars that gild the gloomy night;
The feas that roll unnumber'd waves;
The wood that spreads its fhady leaves;
The field whose ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain;
All of these, and all I see,
Shou'd be fung, and fung by me:
They speak their Maker as they can,
But want and ask the tongue of man.
Go, fearch among your idle dreams,.
Your busy or your vain extremes ;
And find a life of equal blifs,
Or own the next begun in this..

A DIALOGUE between the Refolved Soul and Created Pleasure. By Mr. Marvel.

Soul.

YOURAGE, my foul, now learn to weild

The weight of thine immortal shield.

Clofe on thy head thy helmet bright;
Balance thy fword against the fight..
See where an army, strong as fair,
With filken banners fpreads the air.
Now, if thou be'ft that thing divine,
In this day's combat let it shine;
And fhew that nature wants an art
To conquer one refolved heart.

Plaafure.
Welcome the creation's guest,
Lord of earth, and heav'n's heir;

Had I but any time to lose,
On this I would it all difpose.

Ceafe Tempter. None can chain a mind,
Whom this fweet cordage cannot bind.

Chorus.

Chorus.

Earth cannot show fo brave a fight,
As when a fingle foul does fence
The batt'ry of alluring fenfe,

And heaven views it with delight.

Then perfevere; for ftill new charges found;
And if thou overcom'ft, thou shalt be crown'd.

If things of fight fuch heav'ns be,

What heav'ns are those we cannot fee!
Pleafure.

Wherefoe'er thy foot fhall go
The minted gold fhall lye;
Till thou purchase all below,
And want new worlds to buy.

Soul.

Wer't not for price who'd value gold?
And that's worth nought that can be fold.
Pleasure.

Wilt thou all the glory have

That war or peace commend? Half the world shall be thy flave, The other half thy friend.

Soul.

Chorus.

Triumph, triumph, victorious foul':
The world has not one pleasure more.
The reft does lye beyond the pole,
And is thine everlasting store.

To a FRIEND under AFFLICTION. By
Mr. Pomfret.

N

ONE lives in this tumultous state of things,

Where ev'ry morning some new trouble brings;
But bold inquietudes will break his rest,

And gloomy thoughts difturb his anxious breast.
Angelic forms, and happy fpirits are
Above the malice of perplexing care:
But that's a bleffing too fublime, too high
For those who bend beneath mortality.
If in the body there was but one part
Subject to pain, and fenfible of fmart,
And but one paffion could torment the mind;
That part, that paffion bufy fate would find:
But fince infirmities in both abound,

Since forrow both so many ways can wound,.
'Tis not fo great a wonder that we grieve
Sometimes, as 'tis a miracle we live.

The happiest man that ever breath'd on earth,
With all the glories of estate and birth,
Had yet fome anxious care to make him know
No grandeur was above the reach of woe.
To be from all things that difquiet, free,
Is not confiftent with humanity.

Youth, wit, and beauty, are such charming things,,
O'er which, if affluence fpreads her gaudy wings,,
We think the perfon, who enjoys fo much,
No care can move, and no affliction touch.
Yet could we but fome fecret method find,
To view the dark receffes of the mind,
We there might fee the hidden feeds of strife,
And woes in embryo rip'ning into life;
How fome fierce luft, or boift'rous paffion, fills
The lab'ring fpirit with prolific ills;

Pride, envy, or revenge, diftract his foul,
And all right-reafon's god-like pow'rs controul.
But if she must not be allow'd to fway,
Tho' all without appears ferene and gay,
A cank'rous venom on the vitals preys,
And poifons all the comforts of his days.
External pomp, and visible success,
Sometimes contribute to our happiness;
But that, which makes it genuine, refin'd,
Is a good confcience, and a foul refign'd:
Then, to whatever end affliction's fent,
To try our virtues, or for punishment,
We bear it calmly, tho' a pond'rous woe,
And still adore the hand that gives the blow.
For in misfortunes this advantage lyes,
They make us humble, and they make us wife.
And he that can acquire fuch virtues, gains
An ample recompenfe for all his pains.
Too foft carreffes of a profp'rous fate,
The pious fervours of the foul abate;
Tempt to luxurious ease our careless days,
And gloomy vapours round the fpirits raise.
Thus lull'd into a fleep, we dofing lye,
And find our ruin in fecurity;

Unless some forrow comes to our relief,
And breaks th' inchantment by a timely grief.
But as we are allow'd, to chear our fight,
In blackest days, fome glimmerings of light;
So, in the most dejected hours, we may
The fecret pleasure have, to weep and pray.
And thofe requests the speedieft paffage find
To heav'n, which flow from an afflicted mind:
And while to him we open our distress,
Our pains grow lighter, and our forrows lefs.
The finest music of the grove, we owe
To mourning Philomel's harmonious woe;
And while her grief's in charming notes exprest,
A thorny bramble pricks her tender breaft:
In warbling melody fhe fpends the night,
And moves at once compaffion and delight.

No choice had e'er fo happy an event,
But he that made it, did that choice repent.

So