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And easy on a native throne

Of humble turf, sits gently down,

Yet should tumultuous storms arise,
And mingle earth, and seas, and skies,
Should the waves swell, and make her roll
Across the line, or near the pole,

Still she's at peace; for well she knows
To launch the stream that duty shows,
And makes her home where'er she goes.
Bear her, ye seas, upon your breast,
Or waft her, winds, from east to west
On the soft air: she cannot find
A couch so easy as her mind,

Nor breathe a climate half so kind.

TO JOHN HARTOPP, ESQ.

(AFTERWARDS SIR JOHN HARTOPP, BART.)
Casimir, B. I. Od. 4, imitated.

Vive joeundæ metuens juventæ, &c.

July, 1700.

LIVE, my dear Hartopp, live to-day,
Nor let the sun look down and say,
'Inglorious here he lies;'

Shake off your ease, and send your name

To immortality and fame,

By every hour that flies.

Youth's a soft scene, but trust her not:

Her airy minutes, swift as thought,

}

Slide off the slippery sphere;

Moons, with their months, make hasty rounds,

The sun has pass'd his vernal bounds,

And whirls about the year.

Let folly dress in green and red,
And gird her waste with flowing gold,
Knit blushing roses round her head,
Alas! the gaudy colours fade,
The garment waxes old:

Hartopp, mark the withering rose,
And the pale gold how dim it shows!

Bright and lasting bliss below

Is all romance and dream;

Only the joys celestial flow
In an eternal stream:

The pleasures that the smiling day
With large right hand bestows,
Falsely her left conveys away
And shuffles in our woes.
So have I seen a mother play,
And cheat her silly child;
She gave and took a toy away,
The infant cried and smil'd.

Airy chance, and iron fate,
Hurry and vex our mortal state,
And all the race of ills create:
Now fiery joy, now sullen grief,
Commands the reins of human life,
The wheels impetuous roll;

The harness'd hours and minutes strive,
And days with stretching pinions drive-
-down fiercely on the goal.

Not half so fast the galley flies

O'er the Venetian sea,

When sails, and oars, and labouring skies,

Contend to make her way.

Swift wings for all the flying hours

The God of time prepares;

The rest lie still yet in their nest,
And grow for future years.

TO THE SAME.

THE DISDAIN.

1700.

HARTOPP, I love the soul that dares
Tread the temptations of his years
Beneath his youthful feet :
Fleetwood, and all thy heavenly line,
Look through the stars, and smile divine,
Upon an heir so great,

Young Hartopp knows this noble theme,
That the wild scenes of busy life,

The noise, the' amusements, and the strife,
Are but the visions of the night,
Gay phantoms of delusive light,
Or a vexatious dream.

Flesh is the vilest and the least

Ingredient of our frame:

We're born to live above the beast,
Or quit the manly name.

Pleasures of sense we leave for boys:
Be shining dust the miser's food;
Let fancy feed on fame and noise,
Souls must pursue diviner joys,
And seize the' immortal good.

TO THOMAS GUNSTON, ESQ.

1703.

HAPPY SOLITUDE.

CASIMER, BOOK IV. ODE 12. IMITATED.

Quid me latentem, &c.

THE noisy world complains of me,
That I should shun their sight, and flee
Visits, and crowds, and company :

Gunston, the lark dwells in her nest
Till she ascends the skies,

And in my closet I could rest
Till to the heavens I rise.

Yet they will urge, 'This private life
Can never make you bless'd,
And twenty doors are still at strife

To' engage you for a guest.'

Friend, should the towers of Windsor or Whitehall
Spread open their inviting gates,

To make my entertainment gay;
I would obey the royal call,

But short should be my stay:

Since a diviner service waits

[day.

To' employ my hours at home, and better fill the

When I within myself retreat,

I shut my doors against the great;
My busy eye-balls inward roll,
And there with large survey I see
All the wide theatre of me,

And view the various scenes of my retiring soul;
There I walk o'er the mazes I have trod,

While hope and fear are in a doubtful strife,
Whether this opera of life

Be acted well to gain the plaudit of my God.

There's a day hastening, ('tis an awful day!) When the great Sovereign shall at large review All that we speak, and all we do,

The several parts we act on this wide stage of clay: These he approves, and those he blames,

And crowns perhaps a porter, and a prince he O! if the Judge from his tremendous seat [damns. Shall not condemn what I have done,

I shall be happy though unknown;

Nor heed the gazing rabble, nor the shouting street.

I hate the glory, friend, that springs
From vulgar breath, and empty sound!
Fame mounts her upward with a flattering gale
Upon her airy wings,

Till Envy shoots, and Fame receives the wound;
Then her flagging pinions fail,

Down glory falls, and strikes the ground,
And breaks her batter'd limbs.

Rather let me be quite conceal'd from fame;

How happy I should lie

In sweet obscurity,

Nor the loud world pronounce my little name!

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