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With heads declin'd, ye cedars, homage pay;
To leafless shrubs the flowering palms succeed,
And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed.
The 1ambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead,
And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead;
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet,
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet;
The smiling infant in his hand shall take
The crested basilisk and speckled snake,
Pleas'd, the green lustre of the scales survey,
And with their forky tongue shall innocently play.
Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise!
Exalt thy towery head,.and lift thy eyes!
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn;
See future sons and daughters, yet unborn,
In crowding ranks on every side arise,
Demanding life, impatient for the skies!
See barbarous nations at thy gates attend,
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple tend;
See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings,
And heap'd with products of Sabaean springs!
For thee Idume's spicy forests blow,
And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow.
See Heav'n its sparkling portals wide display,
And break upon thee in a flood of day.
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn,
Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn;
Bat lost, dissolv'd in thy superior rays,
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze
O'erflow thy courts : the light himself shall shine
Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine!
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay,
Rocks fell to dust, and mountains melt away;
But fix'd his word, his saving pow'r remains;—
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns 1
EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT.
P. 'CHUT, shut the door, good John!' fatigued,
° I said; 'Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.' The dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, They rave, recite, and madden round the laud.
What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide, By land, by water, they renew the charge, They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred, not the church is free, Ev'n Sunday shines no sabbath-day to me: Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me just at dinner-time.
Is there a parson much be-mus'd in beer, A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, Who pens a stanza when he should engross? Is there who, lock'd from ink and paper, scrawls With desperate charcoal round his darken'd walls? All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain Apply to me to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws, Imputes to me and my damu'd works the cause: Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope, And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.
Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong, The world had wanted many an idle song) What drop or nostrum can this plague remove? Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love? A dire dilemma ! either way I'm sped; If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead. Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I! Who can't be silent, and who will not lie. To laugh were want of goodness and of grace, And to be grave exceeds all pow'r of face.
I sit with sad civility, I read
•Nine years!' cries he, who, high in Drury-Iane,
Three things another's modest wishes bound,— 'My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.'
Pitholeon sends to me: * You know his grace, I want a patron; ask him for a place.' Pitholeon libell'd me—'But here's a letter Informs you, Sir, 'twas when he knew no better. Dare you refuse him ? Curll invites to dine, Hell write a journal, or he'll turn divine.' Bless me! a packet.—' Tis a stranger sues, A virgin tragedy, an orphan Muse.' If I dislike it, * Furies, death, and rage!' If I approve, 'Commend it to the stage.* There fthank my stars) my whole commission ends, The players and I are, luckily, no friends, fir'd tiiat the house rejects him, "Sdeath, I'll print it, And shame the fools—your interest, Sir, with Lintot.' Lintot, dull rogue, will think your price too much: * Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch.' All my demurs but double his attacks; At last he whispers,' Do, and we go snacks.' Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door; '£r, let me see your works and you no more.'
Tis sung, when Midas' ears began to spring, (Midas, a sacred person and a king) His very minister who spied them first (Some say his queen) was forc'd to speak or burst. And is not mine, my friend, a sorer case, When every coxcomb perks them in my face?
A. Good friend, forbear! you deal in dangerous
One dedicates in high heroic prose,