Knowing it may be distant far,

Nor crush them till---to-morrow.

CLXXXV.

These are cold, northern thoughts, conceiv'd

Beneath an humble cot;

Not mine your genius, or your state,

No Castle is my lot:

CLXXXVI.

But soon, quite level shall we lie;
And what pride most bemoans,
Our parts, in rank so distant now,
As level as our bones.

CLXXXVII.

Hear you that sound? alarming sound!
Prepare to meet your fate!

One, writes finis to our works,
Is knocking at the gate.

Far other works will soon be weigh'd;

Far other judges sit;

Far other crowns be lost, or won,

Than fire ambitious wit:

CLXXXIX.

Their wit far brightest will be prov'd

Who sunk it in good sense,

And veneration most profound

Of dread Omnipotence.

* Letters to Lord Lyttleton.

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CXC.

'Tis that alone unlocks the gate Of bless'd eternity;

O mayst thou never, never lose

That more than golden key! *

CXCI.

Whate'er may seem too rough, excuse;

Your good I have at heart;

Since from my soul I wish you well,

As yet we must not part:

CXCII.

Shall you and I, in love with life,
Life's future schemes contrive,

The world in wonder not unjust
That we are still alive?

CXC111.

What have we left? how mean in man

A shadow's shade to crave ?

When life, so vain! is vainer still,

'Tis time to take our leave.

CXCIV.

Happier, than happiest life his death,
Who, falling in the field

Of conflict with his rebel will,

Writes Vici on his shield:

CXCV.

So falling man, immortal heir

Of an eternal prize,

Alluding to Prussia.

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Undaunted at the gloomy grave,

Descends into the skies.

CXCVI.

O how disorder'd our machine,

When contradictions mix!

When Nature strikes no less than twelve,

And Folly points at six !

CXCVII.

To mend the movement of your heart,

How great is my delight!

Gently to wind your morals up,

And set your hand aright!

CXCVIII.

That hand which spread your wisdom wide

To poison distant lands:

Repent, recant; the tainted age

Your antidote demands.

CXCIX.

To Satan dreadfully resign'd

Whole herds rush down the steep
Of folly, by lewd wits possess'd,
And perish in the deep.

CC.

Men's praise your vanity pursues

'Tis well, pursue it ́still; But let it be of men deceas'd,

And you'll resign the will:

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THUS have I written, when to wite
No mortal should presume;

Or only write, what none can blame,
Hic jacet---for his tomb,

The public frowns, and censures loud
My puerile employ :

Tho' just the censure, if you smile,
The scandal I enjoy.

But sing no more---no more I sing,

Or reassume the lyre,

Unless vouchsaf'd an humble part

Where Raphael leads the choir.

IV.

What myriads swell the concert loud!

Their golden harps resound

High as the footstool of the throne,

And deep as hell profound:

V.

Hell (horrid contrast!) chord and song

Of raptur'd angels drowns

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In self-will's peal of blasphemies,
And hideous burst of groans;

VI.

But drowns them not to me; I hear
Harmonious thunders roll

(In language low of men to speak)

From echoing pole to pole!

VII.

Whilst this grand chorus shakes the skies--"Above, beneath the sun,

"Thro' boundless age, by men, by gods, "Jehovah's will be done."

'Tis done in heav'n; whence headlong hurl'd Self-will, with Satan, fell;

And must from earth be banish'd too,

Or earth's another hell.

IX.

Madam! self-will inflicts your pains;

Self-will's the deadly foe

Which deepens all the dismal shades,

And points the shafts of Woe.

X.

Your debt to Nature fully paid,

Now Virtue claims her due;

But Virtue's cause I need not plead, 'Tis safe; I write to you.

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