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To all befide as much an empty fhade
An Eugene living, as a Cafar dead;

Alike or when, or where, they fhone, or fhine,
Or on the Rubicon, or on the Rhine.

A wit's a feather, and a chief a rod;
An honeft man's the nobleft work of GOD.
Fame but from death a villain's name can save,
As juftice tears his body from the grave;
When what t'oblivion better were refign'd,
Is hung on high, to poifon half mankind.
All fame is foreign, but of true desert;

Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart:
One felf- approving hour whole years out weighs
Of stupid ftarers, and of loud huzzas;
And more true joy Marcelius exil'd feels,
Than Cefar with a fenate at his heels.

IN Parts fuperior what advantage lies?
Tell (for You can ) what is it to be wife?
'Tis but to know how little can be known:
To fee all others faults and feel our own:
Condemn'd in bus'ness or in arts to drudge,
Without a fecond, or without a judge:
Truths would you teach, or save a linking land?
All fear, none aid you, and few understand.
Painful Breheminence! yourself to view
Above life's weakness, and its comforts too.

BRING then these bleffings to a strict account;
Make fair deductions; fee to what they mount:
How much of other each is sure to cost;
How each for other oft is wholly loft;
How inconfiftent greater goods with thefe;
How fometimes life is rifqu'd, and always ease.
Think, and if ftill the things thy envy call,

Say, would't thou be the Man to whom they fall?
To figh for ribbands if thou art so filly,
Mark how they grace Lord Umbra, or Sir Billy.
Is yellow dirt the paflion of thy life?
Look but on Gripus, or on Gripus' wife.
If Parts allure thee, think how Bacon 1hin'd,
The wifeft, brightest, meaneft of mankind:

Or ravifh'd with the whistling of a Nante,
See Cromwell, damn'd to everlasting fame!
If all, united, thy ambition call

Fron ancient ftory learn to fcorn them all,
There, in the rich, the honour'd, fam'd and great,
See the falle scale of Happiness complete!
In hearts of Kings, or arms of Queens who lay,
How happy thofe to ruin, thefe betray.
Mark by what wretched steps their glory grows,
From dirt and fea-weed as proud Venice rofe.

In each how guilt and greatnefs equal rane

And all that rais'd the Hero, funk the Man:
Now Europe's laurels on their brows behold,
But ftain'd with blood, or ill-exchang'd for gold:
Then fee them broke with toils, or funk in cafe,
Or infamous for plunder'd provinces.
Oh wealth ill-fated! which no act of fame
E'er taught to fhine, or fanctify'd from shame!
What greater blifs attends their close of life?
Some greedy minion, or imperious wife,
The trophy'd arches, ftory'd halls invade,
And haunt their flumbers in the pompous
Alas! not dazzled with their noon- tide ray,
Compute the morn and ev'ning to the day:
The whole amount of that enormous fame,
A Tale, that blends their glory with their shame!
KNOW then this truth (enough for Man to know)
“Virtue alone is happiness below,"

fhade.

The only point where human blifs stands ftill,
And taftes the good without the fall to ill;
Where only Merit conftant pay receives,
Is bleft in what it takes, and what it gives;
The joy unequal'd, if its end it gain,
And if it lofe, attended with no pain:
Without fatiety, tho' e'er fo bless'd,
And but more relifh'd as the more diftrefs'd:
The broadeft mirth unfeeling folly wears,
Lefs pleafing far than Virtue's very tears:
Cood, from each object, from each place acquir'd,
For ever exercis'd, yet never tir'd;

Never elated, while one man's opprefs'd;
Never dejected while another's bless'd;
And where no wants, no wifhes can remain,
Since but to with more Virtue, is to gain.

Remember your CREATOR, &c. Ecclef. xii.
CHILDREN, to your Creator, GOD,

Your early honours pay,
While vanity and youthful blood
Would tempt your thoughts astray.
THE memory of his mighty name,
Demands your firit regard;
Nor dare indulge a meaner flame,

Till you have lov'd the LORD.

BE wife, and make his favour fure,
Before the mournful days,

When youth and mirth are known no more,
And life and ftrength decays.

No more the bleffings of a feast,
Shall relifh on the tongue,
The heavy ear forgets the tafte
And pleasure of a fong.

OLD age, with all her dismal train,

Invades your golden years

With fighs and groans, and raging pain,
And death, that never fpares.

WHAT will you do when light departs
And leaves your withering eyes,
Without one beam to chear your hearts,
From the fuperior skies;

How will you meet God's frowning brow,
Or ftand before his feat,

While nature's old fupporters bow,

Nor bear their tott'ring weight?

CAN

CAN you expect your feeble arms
Shall make a ftrong defence,
When death with terrible alarms
Summons the pris'ner hence?
THE filver bands of nature burst,
And let the building fall;

The flesh goes down to mix with duft,
Its vile original.

LADEN with guilt, (a heavy load)
Uncleans'd and unforgiv'n,

The foul returns t'an angry Gon,
To be fhut out from heav'n.

A Song to Creating Wisdom.

PART I.

I.

ETERNAL WISDOM, thee we praise,

Thee the creation fings:

With thy loud name, rocks, hills, and feas,
And heav'ns high palace rings.

II.

PLACE me on the bright wings of day
To travel with the fun;

With what amaze fhall I furvey

The wonders thou hatt done?

THY hand how wide it fpread the fky
How glorious to behold?

Ting'd with a blue of heavenly dye,
And ftarr'd with sparkling gold.

IV.

THERE thou haft bid the globes of light

Their endless circles run;

There the pale planet rules the night,

And day obeys the fun.

A a 2

PART

PART. II.

V.

DOWNWARD I turn my wond'ring eyes
On clouds and storms below,
Those under-regions of the fkies
Thy num'rous glories fhow.

VI.

THE noify winds ftand ready there
Thy orders to obey,

With founding wings they fweep the air,
To make thy chariot way.

VII.

THERE, like a trumpet, loud and strong,
Thy thunder fhakes our coaft:
While the red lightnings wave along,
The banners of thine hoft.

On the thin air, without a prop,
Hang fruitful show'rs around:
At thy command they fink, and drop
Their fatness on the ground.

PART III.

IX.

Now to the earth I bend my fong,
And caft my eyes abroad,
Glancing the British ifles along;
Blett ifles, confess your God.
X.

How did his wondrous fkill array
Your fields in charming green;
A thoufand herbs his art difplay,
A thousand flowers between!

XI.

TALL oaks for future navies grow,
Fair Albion's best defence,

While corn and vines rejoice below

Those luxuries of sense.

XII. THE