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Soothe the rude north-wind, and the rugged bear,
ern sphere. Note. This poem was written in the year 1705, in that honourable part of the reign of Queen Anne, when she had broke the French power at Blenheim, asserted the right of Charles, the present Emperor, to the crown of Spain; exerted her zeal for the protestant succession; and promised, inviolably, to maintain the toleration to the protestant dissenters. Thus she appeared the chief support of the reformation, and the patroness of the liberties of Europe.
The latter part of her reign was of a different colour, and was by no means attended with the accomplishment of those glorious hopes which we had conceived. Now the Muse cannot satisfy her. self to publish this new edition without acknowledging the mistake of her former presages : and while she does the world this justice, she does herself the honour of a voluntary retraction.
J. W. August 1, 1721.
Britons, forgive the forward Muse,
George is the name, that glorious star;
His influence soothes the Russian bear,
TO JOHN LOCKE, ESQ.
RETIRED FROM BUSINESS.
ANGELs are made of heavenly things, And light and love our souls compose, Their bliss within their bosom springs,
Within their bosom flows. But narrow minds still make pretence To search the coasts of flesh and sense, And fetch diviner pleasures thence. Men are akin to'ethereal forms, But they belie their nobler birth, Debase their honour down to earth,
And claim a share with worms.
He that has treasures of his own
Within his spacious mind.
Nor feel a thought confin’d.
TO JOHN SHUTE, ESQ.
AFTERWARDS VISCOUNT BARRINGTON.
On Mr. Locke's dangerous Sickness, some time after he had retired to
study the Scriptures.
And must the man of wondrous mind
Forsake our longing eyes ?
Her prophet to the skies.
Go, friend, and wait the prophet's flight,
And seize it for thy own;
Are copied in his son.
Thus when our follies, or our faults,
Thy pen shall make us wise :
And open half our eyes.
TO MR. WILLIAM NOKES.
FRIENDSHIP, thou charmer of the mind,
Thou sweet deluding ill,
And sharpest hour we feel.
Fate has divided all our shares
Of pleasure and of pain;
Are mix'd and join'd again.
But whilst in floods our sorrow rolls,
And drops of joy are few,
Serves but to swell our woe.
Oh! why should bliss depart in haste,
And friendship stay to moan? Why the fond passion cling so fast,
When every joy is gone?-
Yet never let our hearts divide,
Nor death dissolve the chain: For love and joy were once allied,
And must be join'd again.
TO NATHANIEL GOULD, ESQ.
"Tis not by splendor, or by state,
A more majestic thing.
A larger heap of shining dust,
Let the vain world salute me loud,
The flatteries of the crowd.
And bears the western mines away,
While the glad tenants of the shore
Yet still the man's the same :
Nor swells with airy fame.'
* Member of Parliament for a port in Sussex,