LYRIC 3 Then cold, and winter, and your aged snow, Stick fast upon you ; not the rich array, Not the green garland, nor the rosy bough Shall cancel or conceal the melancholy gray. 4 The chase-of pleasure is not worth the pains ; While the bright sands of health run wasting down, And honour calls you from the softer scenes, To sëll the gaudy hour for ages of re- nown. 5 'Tis but one yohth, and short, that mortals have, [frame ; And one old age dissolves our feeble But there's a heav'nly art t' elude the grave, And with the hero-race immortal kin- dred claim. 6,The man that has his country's sacred tears Bedewing his cold hearse, has liv'd his Thusa Blackburn, we should leave our names our heirs; Old time and waning moons sweep all the rest away. True Monarchy. 1701. THE. risingy.earbeheld th'imperiousGaul Stretch his dominion, while a hundred towns [soul Cronch'd to the victor; but a steady Stands firmon its own base, and reigns as wide-, As absolute; and sways ten thousand slaves, Lusts and wild fancies, with a sov'reign hand. We are a little kingdom ; but the man That chains his rebel will to reason's throne, [mind Forms it a large one, whilst his royal Makes heav'n its council, from the rolls above Draws his own statues, and with joy obeys: 'Tis not a troop of well-appointed guards Create a monarch not a purple robe Dy'd in the people's blood, not all the crowns [head, Or dazzling tiars that bend about the -Tho' gilt with sun -beams and set round with stars. A monarch he that conquers all his fears, And treads upon them; when he stands alone Makes his own camp; four guardian virtues wait His nightly slumbers, and secure his dreams. POEMS. 267 Now dawns the. light; he ranges all his thoughts In square battalions, bold to meet th' attacks Of time and chance, himself a num'rous host, AB eye, all ear, all wakeful as the day, Firm as a rock, and moveless as the centre. In vain the harlot, pleasure, spreads her charms, To lull his thoughts in luxury's fair lap, To sensual ease, (the bane of little kings, Monarchs whose waxen images of souls Are moulded into softness) still his mind Wears its own shape, nor can the hea- venly form Stoop to be model'd by the wild decrees Of the marl vulgar, that unthinking herd. He lives above the crowd, nor hears the union Of wars and triumphs, nor regards the shouts Of popular applause, that empty sound ; Nor feels the flying arrows Of reproach, Or spite or envy. In himself secure, Wisdom his tower, and conscience is his shield, Hispeace all inward, end his joys his own. Now my ambition swells, my wishes ' [soar, Thisbe my kingdom: sit above the globe My rising soul, and dress thyself around And shine in virtue's armour; climb the height Of wisdom's lofty castle, there reside, Safe from the smiling and the frowning world. Yet once adaydrop down a gentle look On the great mole-hill. and with pitying eye - Survey the busy emmets round the heap, Crowding and bustling in a thousand [forms Of strife and toil, to purchase wealth and fame, A bubble or a dust, Then call thy thoughts Up to thyself to feed on joys unknown, Rich without gold, and great without renown. True Courage. HONOUR demands my song. Forget the ground, My generous muse, and sit amongst the stars! There sing the soul, that, conscious of her birth, Lives like a native of the vital world, Amongst these dying clods, and bears her state Just to herself, how noblyshe maintains Her character, superior to the flesh, She wields her passions like her limbs, and knows The brutal powers were onlyborn t'obey.
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