In midst of dangers, fears, and death,
Thy goodness I'll adore;
And praise thee for thy mercies past,
And humbly hope for more.
My life, if thou preserv'st my life,
Thy sacrifice shall be ;
And death, if death must be my doom,
Shall join my soul to thee.
WHEN rising from the bed of death,
O'erwhelm'd with guilt and fear,
I see my Maker face to face,
O how shall I appear?
If yet, while pardon may be found,
And mercy may be sought,
My heart with inward horror shrinks,
And trembles at the thought:
When thou, O Lord! shalt stand disclosed
In majesty severe,
And sit in judgment on my soul,
O how shall I appear?
But thou hast told the troubled soul,
Who does her sins lament,
The timely tribute of her tears
Shall endless woe prevent.
Ere yet it be too late;
And add my Saviour's dying groans,
To give those sorrows weight.
Her pardon to procure,
Who knows thy only Son has died
To make that pardon sure.
PARAPHRASE ON PSALM XXIII.
THE Lord my pasture shall prepare
And feed me with a shepherd's care:
His presence shall my wants supply,
And guard me with a watchful eye;
My noon-day walks he shall attend,
And all my midnight hours defend.
When in the sultry glebe I faint,
Or on the thirsty mountain pant,
To fertile vales and dewy meads
My weary wandering steps he leads;
Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,
Amid the verdant landscape flow.
Though in the paths of death I tread,
With gloomy horrors overspread,
My stedfast heart shall fear no ill,
For thou, O Lord! art with me still;
Thy friendly crook shall give me aid,
And guide me through the dreadful shade.
Though, in a bare and rugged way,
Through devious lonely wilds I stray,
Thy bounty shall my wants beguile;
The barren wilderness shall smile,
With sudden greens and herbage crown'd,
And streams shall murmur all around.
TO PHÆDRA AND HIPPOLITUS. 1707. LONG has a race of heroes fill'd the stage, That rant by note, and through the gamut rage; In songs and airs express their martial fire, Combat in trills, and in a fugue expire;
While lull'd by sound, and undisturb'd by wit,
Calm and serene you indolently sit,
And from the dull fatigue of thinking free,
Hear the facetious fiddles' repartee:
Our homespun authors must forsake the field,
And Shakspeare to the soft Scarlatti yield.
To your new taste the poet of this day
Was by a friend advised to form his play.
Had Valentini, musically coy,
Shunn'd Phædra's arms, and scorn'd the proffer'd
It had not moved your wonder to have seen
An eunuch fly from an enamour'd queen:
How would it please should she in English speak,
And could Hippolitus reply in Greek?
But he, a stranger to your
By your old rules must stand or fall to-day,
And hopes you will your foreign taste command
To bear, for once, with what you understand.
TO THE TENDER HUSBAND. 1705.
IN the first rise and infancy of farce,
When fools were many, and when plays were
The raw unpractised authors could, with ease,
A young and unexperienced audience please:
No single character had e'er been shown,
But the whole herd of fops was all their own:
Rich in originals, they set to view,
In every piece, a coxcomb that was new.
But now our British theatre can boast Drolls of all kinds, a vast unthinking host! Fruitful of folly and of vice, it shows [beaux ; Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, and Rough country knights are found of ev'ry shire, Of every fashion gentle fops appear; And punks of different characters we meet As frequent on the stage as in the pit.
Our modern wits are forced to pick and cull,
And here and there by chance glean up a fool:
Long ere they find the necessary spark,
They search the Town, and beat about the Park,
To all his most frequented haunts resort,
Oft dog him to the ring, and oft to court,
As love of pleasure or of place invites,
And sometimes catch him taking snuff at White's.
Howe'er, to do you right, the present age
Breeds very hopeful monsters for the stage,
That scorn the paths their dull forefathers trod,
And won't be blockheads in the common road.
Do but survey this crowded house to-night;
- Here's still encouragement for those that write.
Our author, to divert his friends to-day,
Stocks with variety of fools his play,
And that there may be something gay and
Two ladies-errant has exposed to view;
The first a damsel travell'd in romance,
The other more refined, she comes from France; Rescue, like courteous knights, the nymph from danger,
And kindly treat, like well-bred men, the stranger.
TO THE BRITISH ENCHANTERS.
WHEN Orpheus tuned his lyre with pleasing woe,
Rivers forgot to run, and winds to blow,
While listening forests cover'd, as he play'd,
The soft musician in a moving shade.
That this night's strains the same success may find,
The force of music is to music join'd;
Where sounding strings and artful voices fail,
The charming rod and mutter'd spells prevail.
Let sage Urganda wave the circling wand
On barren mountains or a waste of sand,
The desert smiles, the woods begin to grow,
The birds to warble, and the springs to flow.
The same dull sights in the same landscape mix'd,
Scenes of still life, and points for ever fix'd,
A tedious pleasure on the mind bestow,
And pall the sense with one continued show:
But as our two magicians try their skill,
The vision varies, though the place stands still,
While the same spot its gaudy form renews,
Shifting the prospect to a thousand views.
Thus (without unity of place transgress'd)
The' Enchanter turns the critic to a jest.
But howsoe'er, to please your wandering eyes, Bright objects disappear and brighter rise, There's none can make amends for lost delight, While from that circle we divert your sight.
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