Soon I fhall lie in death's deep ocean drown'd:
Is mercy there, or fweet forgivenefs found?
O fave me yet, whilst on the brink I ftand;
Rebuke the ftorm, and waft my foul to land.
O let her reft beneath thy wing fecure,
Thou that art the God of Power.
Behold the prodigal! to thee I come,
To hail my father, and to seek my home.
Nor refuge could I find, nor friend abroad,
Straying in vice, and deftitute of God.
O let thy terrors, and my anguish end!
Be thou my refuge and be thou my friend:
Receive the fon thou didst so long reprove,
Thou that art the God of Love.
REV. DR. F. TURNER, BISHOP OF ELY,
WHO HAD ADVISED A TRANSLATION OF PRUDENTIUS.
F poets, ere they cloth'd their infant thought,
And the rude work to just perfection brought, Did ftill fome god, or godlike man invoke, Whofe mighty name their facred filence broke: Your goodness, Sir, will eafily excufe
The bold requests of an aspiring Muse ;
Who, with your bleffing, would your aid implore,
And in her weakness justify your power.➡
From your fair pattern she would strive to write,
And with unequal ftrength purfue your flight;
Yet hopes the ne'er can err that follows you,
Led by your bleft commands, and great example too.
Then smiling and aspiring influence give,
And make the Mufe and her endeavours live;
Claim all her future labours as your due,
Let every song begin and end with you:
So to the bleft retreat fhe'll gladly go,
Where the Saints' palm and Muses' laurel grow;
Where kindly both in glad embrace shall join,
And round your brow their mingled honours twine;
Both to the virtue due, which could excel,
As much in writing, as in living well.—
So fhall fhe proudly prefs the tuneful string,
And mighty things in mighty numbers fing;
Nor doubt to strike Prudentius' daring lyre,
And humbly bring the verfe which you inspire.
TO THE BISHOP OF ELY, ON HIS DEPARTURE FROM
TELL, dear Alexis, tell thy Damon, why
Doft thou in mournful fhades obfcurely lie?
Why doft thou figh, why ftrike thy panting breast ?
And steal from life the needful hours of rest ?
Are thy kids starv'd by winter's early froft?
Are any of thy bleating ftragglers loft?
Have strangers' cattle trod thy new-plough'd ground?
Has great Joanna, or her greater fhepherd, frown'd?
See my kids browze, my lambs fecurely play :
(Ah! were their master unconcern'd as they !)
No beasts (at noon I look'd) had trod my ground;
Nor has Joanna, or her fhepherd, frown'd.
Then ftop the lavish fountain of your eyes,
Nor let those fighs from your fwoln bosom rise;
Chase sadness, friend, and folitude away;
And once again rejoice, and once again look
Say what can more our tortur'd souls annoy,
Than to behold, admire, and lose our joy?
Whose fate more hard than those who sadly run,
For the last glimpse of the departing fun?
Or what feverer fentence can be given,
Than, having feen, to be excluded heaven?
And rather pity than restrain my tears;
Those tears, my Damon, which I justly shed,
To think how great my joys; how foon they fled.
I told thee, friend (now bless the shepherd's name,
From whofe dear care the kind occafion came),
That I, even I, might happily receive
The facred wealth, which Heaven and Daphnis give :
That I might fee the lovely awful fwain,
Whofe holy crofier guides our willing plain;
Whose pleasing power and ruling goodness keep
Our fouls with equal care as we our sheep;
Whofe praise excites each lyre, employs each tongue:
Whilft only he who caus'd, diflikes the fong.
To this great, humble, parting man I gain'd
Accefs, and happy for an hour I reign'd;
Happy as new-form'd man in paradise,
Ere fin debauch'd his inoffenfive bliss;
Happy as heroes after battles won,
Prophets entranc'd, or monarchs on the throne;
But (oh, my friend!) those joys with Daphnis flew : To them these tributary tears are due.
Was he fo humble then? thofe joys so vast?
Cease to admire that both fo quickly past.
Too happy fhould we be, would smiling fate
Render one bleffing durable and great ;
But (oh the fad viciffitude!) how foon
Unwelcome night fucceeds the cheerful noon;
And rigid winter nips the flowery pomp of June!
Then grieve not, friend, like you, fince all mankind
A certain change of joy and forrow find.
Suppress your figh, your down-cast eyelids raise,
Whom prefent you revere, him abfent praise.
PLAYING ON THE LUTE.
WHAT charms you have, from what high race
Have been the pleasing subjects of my song :
Unfkill'd and young, yet fomething ftill I writ,
Of Ca'ndish' beauty join'd to Cecil's wit.
But when you please to fhew the labouring Muse,
What greater theme your musick can produce;
My babbling praises I repeat no more,
But hear, rejoice, ftand filent, and adore.
The Perfians thus, first gazing on the fun,
Admir'd how high 'twas plac'd, how bright it fhone: But, as his power was known, their thoughts were
And foon they worship'd, what at first they prais'd.
Eliza's glory lives in Spenfer's fong;
And Cowley's verse keeps fair Orinda young. ́
That as in birth, in beauty you excel,
The Muse might dictate, and the Poet tell :
Your art no other art can speak; and you,
To fhew how well you play, must play anew:
Your mufick's power your musick must disclose ;'
For what light is, 'tis only light that shows.
Strange force of harmony, that thus controls
Our thoughts, and turns and fanctifies Our fouls:
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