POEMS TO THE AUTHOR OF HORÆ LYRICIE, 229 Forbidding death and sorrow, and bestow 'd [youth. Fresh heavenlybloom, and gay immortal Not so, alas! the vile apostate race, Who in mad joys their brutal hours employ'd [phemies Assaulting with their impious bias - The pow'r supreme that gave 'em life and breath; Incarnate fiends! outrageous they defy'd Th' eternal thunder, and almighty wrath Fearlessprovok'd,whichallthe otherdevils Would dread to meet; remember well the day [above, When driven from pure immortal seats A fi'rytempest hurl'd 'em down the skies, And hung upon the rear,urging their fall To the dark, deep, unfathomable gulph, Where bound on sulph'rous lakes to growing rocks [woes, With adamantine chains, they wail their And know Jehovah great as well as good; And flied for ever by eternal fate, With horror find his arm omnipotent. Prodigious madness! that the sacred muse, [tal heights, First taught in beav'n to mount immor- And tracethe boundless glories of thesky, Should now to every idol basely bow, And curse the deity she once ador'd, Erecting trophies to each sordid vice, And celebrating the infernal praise Ofhaughty Lucifer, the desp'rate foe Of God and man,and winning every hour New votaries to hell, while all the fiends. Hear theseaccursed lays, and thus out- done, [race, Raging they try to match the human Redoublingall their hellish blasphemies, And with 'loud curses rend the gloomy vault. Ungrateful mortals! ah! too late you'll find [hell What 'tis to banter heav'n and laugh at To dress up vice in false delusive charms, , And with gay colours paint her hideous face, [paths, Leading besotted souls thro' flow'ry In gaudy dreams, and vain fantastic joys Todismal scenes of everlasting woe: When the great Judge shall rear his awful throne, [ling globe, And raging flames surround the tremb- While the loud thunders roar from pole to pole, [¡dead ; And the last trump awakes the sleeping And guilty souls to ghastly bodies driven, Within those dire eternal prisons shut, Expect their sad inexorable doom. Say now, ye men of wit ! What turn of thought Will please you then ! Alas, bow dull and poor, Ev'n to yourselves will your lewd flights appear ! Howwill you envy then the happy fate Of idiots! and perhaps in vain you'llwish, You'd been as very fools as once you thought Others, for the sublimest wisdom scorn'd; When pointed lightnings from the wrath- ful Judge Shall singe your laurels, and the men Who thought they flew so high, shall fall solow. No more, my muse of that tremend- ous thought, Resume thy more delightful theme, and sing [verse Th' immortal man, that with immortal Rivals the hymns of angels, and like Despises moral critics idle rules : [them While the celestial flame that warms thy soul [moves Inspires us, and with holy transports Our laboúring minds, and nobler scenes presents Than all the Pagan poets ever sung. Homer orVirgil ; and far sweeter notes . Than Horace ever taught his sounding lyre; [seem And purer far, thro' Martial's self might A modest poet in our christian days. May those forgotten and neglected lie, No inure letman be fond of fab'lous gosh, Norheathenwitdebauchonechristianline; While with the courseand daubing paint we hide The shining beauties of eternal truth, That in her native dress appears most bright, [like thee And charms the eyes of angels, Oh! I.et every nobler genius tune his voice subjects worthy of their tow'ring thoughts. (ful art Let HEAVEN and ANNA then your tune - Improve, and consecrate your deathless lays To him who reigns above, and her who rules below. April, 17, 1701. JOSEPH STnt+nsx. TO DR. WATTS, On his Divine Poems. SAY, human seraphs whence that charming force, That flame ! that soul ! which animates each line ;, And how itruns with such a graceful ease, Loaded with pond'rous sense ! Say, did not he [breaÿt, The lovely Jesus, who commands thy Inspire thee with himself ? With Jesus dwells, Knit in mysterious bands, the paraclete, The breathof God, the everlasting source Of love: And what is love in souls like thine, But air, and incense to the poet's fire ; Should an expiring saint whose swimming eyes Mingle the images of things about him, But hear the least exalted of thy strains, How greedily he'd drink the music in, Thinking his heav'nly convoywait'd near! So great a stress of powerful harmony, Nature usable longer to sustain [rest. Would sink oppress'd with joy to endless
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