En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Satyr VI. The Spleen

Hail to the sacred silence of this Grove
Hail to the greens below the greens above
Oft have I found beneath these shady trees
A reall in imaginary bliss
for they my fancy sooth she's a cheat
Which can agreably adorn deceit
some state of life she draws with pleasing art
brings Enchanted reason to her part
Reason awhile is captive by consent
acts from all its rigid rules unbent
from our own selves conceales our reall case
Nor shows us what may be but what may please
When I by these am from my self with drawn
I straight become what ere I think upon

Now do I turn a statesman of the rate
that furnishes the world beside with chat
I many use I make a friend of none
if I flatter tis my prince alone
Mankind well versd in various villany
Misrepresent each study'd Case to me
in long petitions a present fee
sayes one your Lordship has ye royall ear
I some articles against me fear
for sinking publick funds in such a year
Then on my chair he layes a bag of coin
Nor dares to offer what he woud have mine
Another cryes I want a place at Court
Your Lships word woud make ye buisness short
I present two hundred guinnys for't
This as I take it is a life of state
when I think of this I think Ime great
But now a leaf is noisy by my head
My chain is broke all my greatness fled
In vain I woud recall the vanishd thought
Something I know did please I cant tell what
as I hunt the traces of my mind
In a new whim a new delight I find

Now among books my chief diversion lyes
I affect to be thought wondrous wise
in strange experiment discovery's
On All ye sorts shapes of flyes I read
Or print a book of shells as Lister did
when I meet a thing unknown till yn
I write for Holland to ye Learned men
the subtiltys of schooles with ease I cutt
Where learnings nothing but a meer dispute
With Ipse Dixit's fixd for arguments
quibbles formd by rules hid with pains
Waging a warr of words in spight of sense
My skill in many languages is shown
Altho' I gracefully can speak in none
No Cares no business do my brain molest
the world admires the treasures of my breast
I in barren satisfaction rest

Here do I change Insensibly again
my gay fancy paints another scene
Heark or a pleasing madness charms my sense
Or I hear songs well tund instruments
Yes tis a ball where I with airs cloths
Engage the Ladys outshine the beaus
I chuse a creature beautious as the light
Of her I beg she denys a night
Scorn with the fair does still attendant go
they're proud because their outward charms they know
fondly think them reasons to be so
But passion hearts of any temper moves
Anon shes complaisant anon she loves
When sated with the bliss their arms I quitt
I boast my triumph to each friend I meet
for men are now so scandalously vain
They think it less of pleasure to obtain
their Joys then tell 'em or'e to other men
more of grief to hide the ripe amour
then twas to smother infant love before
I drink I dance I swear I shake ye dice
try each path of pleasurable vice
till at ye last my wild unsettled life
like Comedys is finishd in a wife

by Just degrees the breezes louder grow
the same breast they sooth they roughen too
Methinks Ime strangely alterd in a trice
All soft unmanly pleasures I despise
Warr is my buisness honour is my prize
I grasp it in my thoughts push along
Nor mind the toiles by which it must be won
With such bewitching powr the walking light
leads men thro' all the dangers of the night
Ore hills vales they hunt the dazzling game
Nor feel the trouble while they see the flame
Strange force of Glory what a world are slain
to please the pride of two or three great men
how towns have fed on ratts yt scornd to yield
how dear ye hardy soldier buys ye field
Warm without anger to their arms they crowd
for anothers quarrell wast their blood
some fight curse while others run pray
In Camps they rook each other at their play
then the loosers mutiny for pay
are my brave followers slain why lett ym dy
false musterd companys my purse supply
Thus summers fraud feeds winters luxury
When in warm quarters nature craves a punk
for the Queen I loyally get drunk

Give ore my wanton fancy now give ore
the clouds are gath'ring anon they'le powr
the pleasures of my groves are fled away
the sacred silence ye shiny day
what have you then to lull you in your play

poem by Thomas Parnell
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Satyr IX. The State Of Love Imitated Fm An Elegy Of Mons:r Desportes

In the st season of the infant earth
When all from Chaos took their orderd birth
When mankind from the hand of heaven came
All pure & white ere vice had gott a name
But evry act with innocence indu'd
Was more by nature then from knowledge good
Love mighty powr did graciously descend
grew fond of man & here wth man remaind
In their unsullyd hearts he chose to stay
their bliss anights their buisness all the day
Nor wonder if in such he made abode
No temples better can befitt a god
His gentle influence did their soules inspire
Each found a mate nor wanted amorous fire
Evn when injoyment had allayd desire
Secure of sweet content they daily livd
Content unmixd with fears to be deceivd
their tongues their reall sentiments disclosd
Nor studyd language on the ears imposd
their eyes an undissembling flame expresst
& they who felt it most coud speak it least
desert & softness love or beauty were
their onely arts to make a yielding fair
Plain undesigning love that never knew
to practise crueltys as Empire grew
to fashion smiles with managd airs to court
& wound a tender breast in barb'rous sport
twas more then riches riches coud not move
the meanest thought them not a price for love

But when the vices to a head increast
& all this age of downy pleasure ceast
when gold by glistring showd its dark abode
& fickleness began to be the mode
When feigning was by way of breeding taught
& onely worth his wealth the lover thought
When first to speak the mind was reckond shame
& masqd hypocrisy took honours name
the fatall change with anger Cupid saw
& thus bespoke ym ready to withdraw

Hence lett us hence with Just abhorrence go
for ill their happyness these mortalls know
Who slight the mighty favours I bestow

then darting upwards soon ye clouds he gaind
& hung in air his purpose thus explaind

You shall repent ungratefull race you shall
& know too late the Joyes from whence you fall
the loss regretting by your selves undon
who true contentments heavnly blisses shun
& after false appearing pleasures run
Since all in common do my Godhead slight
On all in common shall my fury light

& first on men who wont their hours employ
In my soft paths of simple artless Joy
Who woud be free tho for the worse you change
My powr shall thus my slighted gifts revenge
Henceforth your charmers shall be versd in arts
Not loving faithless & designing hearts
the tend'rest shall their pitty least obtain
they'le feel a pride ore many slaves to reign
to make believing fooles then give ym pain
their look their smile their action their intent
Shall all against your peace of Soul be bent
Now hope restraining when it forward bears
Now quickning hope when you're restraind by fears
Oft seeming kind then scrupulously nice
& mixing as it were their flames with Ice
to keep confusd irresolute & rackt
those bosoms they by various wayes distract
What pains you then shall feel wt rage express
How many purposes to love ym less
How many oaths to shun their sight you'le swear
Which never shall be kept against the fair
A tear a word thats feignd shall soon restore
their empire & enslave their rebells more
No matter what you saw you must believe
for strange enchantments may the sight deceive

Nay more Ile change my quiver bow & darts
to make mad work within your alterd hearts
Nor ever give the pleasing wounds I usd
Ere you my empire scornd my laws refusd
Here one a nymph that is deformd shall fire
another one to honour lost admire
& while all night by others she's embracd
The wretch shall doat because she acts the chast
Some shall be prodigall their end to gain
Nor know that who gives most shall least obtain
their hopes will still be fed but never don
to keep them still in play & loving on
In short Ile make them feel & own it pain
to live beneath inconstant womans chain
& know their folly when they scornd my reign

& You ye women shall confess it too
repenting that you ere from me withdrew
You who have given wealth its powr to move
& triumph ore the sacred rites of love
Who vice to virtue ignorance to parts
& mony can prefer to faithfull hearts
Who think to sell your selves is nothing mean
& from the prostituted bed reap gain
You never never shall again perceive
the wondrous sweets that mutuall passions have
but for their mighty riches love the great
While even they shall win you by deceit
their purpose in inveagling flattrys hide
& the lost creatures whom they gain deride
then leaving those that can be new no more
the self same arts to others practise ore
by such poor victorys to boast adress
& the faint glorys of their fame increase

As Huntsmen when they have a hare in view
Fird & impatient eagerly pursue
Now ore the mountains now across the plains
& for a little take a world of pains
Unweari'd still they follow with delight
fond of the hunting tho the game they slight
Just so the great their amorous chace shall run
Nor ought to gain you shall be left undon
With oaths & sighs & tears they will assail
but love no more when ever these prevail
Unmindfull then of what had causd their cares
for other beautys they display their snares

While you who soon perceive their broken faith
their oaths no more esteemd then common breath
tho never by my flame divine inspird
Shall inly with a rage of soul be fird
All spight to find your flatterd charms contemnd
& mad to see another more esteemd
for Justly thus my anger does ordain
that you shoud each create ye others pain

When Cupid thus had spoke his wings he spread
& with redoubled springs to heaven fled
Nor were in Idle air his curses lost
Succeeding ages found them to their cost

Ah Madam you alas have found them true
The prophesy is made too good on you
You've had the great become your beautys slave
& by experience know the great deceive
& tho' those starrs of love your charming eyes
Outshine the brightness of the midday skys
tho' your complexion with the morning vies
tho all the Graces which around you wait
Dwell on each part & fill up beautys state
Tho the bright virtues which within remain
Might promise you an everlasting reign
You see the heart was givn to you before
at a new shrine anothers charms adore
But cease my lovely weeper cease to mourn
The fair that triumphs now will have her turn
No charm against inconstancy secures
You know the lovers fire but short endures
& she'le forsaken meet a fate like yours

poem by Thomas Parnell
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Satyr IV. The Pretty Gentleman

Where Creditors their bankrupt debtors stow
Where men for want of coin to durance go
& are for being wretched made more so
Where poor W---G---could months abide
When all his creditt would not him provide
with one nights lodging any where beside
there on a bed by moths half eat away
Damon ye witt ye generous ye gay
the heir of Eighteen hundred sterling lay
Sullen with grief impatient to endure
& yet oppressd with what he could not cure
Long did his thoughts upon his Sorrows dwell
then they on generall reflections fell
for still the mind by private ills aggrievd
Is by the thought of common ills relieved
this soths ye spleen while that creates dispair
One you ingross in 'tother others share

Alass he crys how many have I known
by giddy pleasures & ymselves undon
We hunt for happiness on eager speed
& have a chance that we may all succeed
reason & passion draw ye diffrent views
& we're all blessd according as we chuse
but to our reason seldom we attend
tho' all our hopes upon that choice depend
see ye degrees thou heedless creature man
by which the passions on ye mind obtain
as in ye pretty Gentleman suppose
for instance how in him yr empire grows
up from his swadling to his beauish clothes

Scarce can his tongue in tripping accents rove
but the nurse lulls him wth wild tales of love
Where a kings son as many such have been
dyes for ye youngest daughter of a queen
these mold his temper till he learns to read
& then romantick authors fill his head
Where honour in enamelld armour bleeds
for love thats errant on ye milk white steed
how his eyes dance when magick Castles fly
When beautyes freed how pants his heart for Joy
how much what ere he reads he longs to try
When he can Nature more distinctly see
he finds such things as these coud never be
Yet still the prejudice is on his Soul
& love & honour must his actions rule
then that he may their due proportions trace
playes following nature he will follow playes
at these he dresses talkes fightes loves from these
he railes at buisness wch he does not know
because ye poett who had none did so
In wine & whores & games his guinnys run
because the like in such a part is don
thats drawn with art to please ye lookers on
to repeat verse & with a grace be leud
is gay is Dorimant & must be good
But when his fullgrown witt a figure makes
Without a guide agreably he rakes
Nor the stage longer for a pattern takes
himself a mode a man of airs a beau
Nay poet too—as far as songs will go
thus with a world of pains the work is past
& he's an entertaining fool at last
he does the men of buisness pitty move
the men of Moralls soberly reprove
the tradesmen cheat him—but the Ladies love.

As on this head he woud have spoken more
the Jailour happend to unlock the door
to lett him know his creditors did wait
to make him sell if he woud freedom gett
At least three quarters of his whole estate

poem by Thomas Parnell
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A Dream

Just when ye dead of night began to fail
& boding visions senceless dreams expell
Methought a matron stood beside my bed
Upon her face a wondrous sweetness playd
& pointed Glorys dressd the modest visions head
my tongue grew speechless & my eyes were fixt
by silent fear with admiration mixt
She to my lips a living coal apply's
perhaps from some well pleasing sacrifice
then thus she said while I more courage found
to bear her sight & hear ye heav'nly sound
from the bright realms my vot'ries have I came
saints are my vot'ries Piety my name
Oft do I come but often am dispisd
happy were all if all my favour prizd
now my best offers to yr soul I give
Accept these offers O be mine & live
Ile teach you how to pray for wt you want
& when I teach you God yr prayr will grant
Ile teach you your redeemer to rehearse
& glide in flames of love along yr verse
Lett other men describe wth flowing lines
How Damon courts or Amarillis shines
But for your subject chuse a theme divine
fames their reward while heaven it self is thine
& then since Angells sing of nought below
they'le sing like men but like an angell you
Be thou my bard (& as these words she said
She powrd a sacred unction on my head
then thus proceeded) Be thy muse thy Zeal
dare to be good & all my Joys reveal
if Drunkards to their Deity apply
A short contentment & a fleeting Joy
Apply to me true peace & lasting bliss
I should not dress in weaker charms yn his
New-paint ye love yt hov'ring over beds
from purple wings his guilty pleasures sheds
his bow be sable sable be the darts
but tingd with endless flame to scorch our hearts
his bones without the sanguin stream or vital parts
But above all employ thy utmost powr
on love Divine twill need it all & more
Oh boundless Goodness to poor mankind shown
tell but the fact, lett rhetorick alone,
no colours can become it like its own.
Draw a Descending Jesus from ye sky
Make the great being in a manger ly
Of men despisd of men he came to save
pursu'd afflicted to ye very grave
Make ye great being cheerfully submitt
& me like Mary weeping at his feet
Much have I said & more woud tell you yet
but raptures smother what I woud repeat
My thoughts grow giddy while I strive to sound
the height & depth of love wthout a bound
My God I cannot comprehend thy wayes
but what I cannot comprehend Ile prayse

& then With raptures in her mouth she fled
the Cloud (for on a cloud she seemd to tread)
its curles unfolded & around her spread
My downy rest the warmth of fancy broke
& when my thoughts grew settled thus I spoke

Ah Gracious Lord make all my dreams like this
& make mine innocence compose my bliss
When reason lyes Asleep & leaves to reign
May my good Angell my passions restrain
Or I must wake to find upon my breast
the gaudy forms more deep yn ere imprest
they'le make my reason's victorys in vain
& make my former habits mine again
Thus if the snake wch hardly moves the tail
to shun the conqu'ring season takes a cell
if nature in a sleep a skin prepare
give him more strength & make him look more fair
He finds his robe is changd fm what he wore
He proudly shoots along ye sunny shore
& hunts the man fm whom he fled before.

poem by Thomas Parnell
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Elegy XIV: To Delia

What Scenes of Bliss my raptur'd Fancy fram'd,
In some lone Spot with Peace and thee retir'd,
Tho' Reason then my sanguine Fondness blam'd,
I still believ'd what flatt'ring Love inspir'd:

But now my Wrongs have taught my humbled Mind,
To dangerous Bliss no longer to pretend,
In Books, a calm but fixt Content to find,
Safe Joys, that on our selves alone depend:

With them the gentle Moments I beguile,
In learned Ease, and elegant Delight,
Compare the Beauties of each different Stile,
Each various Ray of Wit's diffusive Light:

Now mark the Strength of Milton's sacred Lines,
Sense rais'd by Genius, Fancy rul'd by Art,
Where all the Glory of the God-head shines,
And earliest Innocence inchants the Heart.

Now fir'd by Pope and Virtue leave the Age
In low Pursuit of self-undoing Wrong,
And trace the Author thro' his moral Page,
Whose blameless Life still answers to his Song.

If Time and Books my lingring Pain can heal,
And Reason fix it's Empire o'er my Heart,
My Patriot Breast a nobler Warmth shall feel,
And glow with Love where Weakness has no part.

Thy Heart, O Lyttleton, shall be my Guide,
It's Fire shall warm me, and it's Worth improve,
Thy Heart, above all Envy, and all Pride,
Firm as Man's Sense, and soft as Woman's Love.

And you, O West, with her your Partner dear,
Whom social Mirth and useful Sense commend,
With Learning's Feast my drooping Mind shall chear,
Glad to escape from Love to such a Friend.

But why, so long my weaker Heart deceive?
Ah still I love in Pride and Reason's Spite,
No Books, alas my painful Thoughts relieve,
And while I threat, this Elegy I write.

poem by James Hammond
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Satyr V. Verse

Thou soft Engager of my tender years
Divertive verse now come & ease my cares
The Rake has wine the aged knave ye view
Of what his death bed Charity will do
to lay his cares & mine are layd by you
You give my mind when I unbend relief
Raise ev'ry Joy & lessen ev'ry grief
Nor do I onely these thy comforts find
thy comforts are diffusive to mankind
The men of sense of buisness or of whims
half witts or lovers ev'ry one sometimes
Will toy away a vacant hour in rimes

& they give all but lovers troubles ease
the Muses fires the flames of love encrease
Yet the fond fooles write more yn all ye rest
as if they studyd to be more unblest
of Moving things they speak in moving strains
& moan & beg a cure of all their pains
till at the last theyre workd to a belief
that what they said has been their reall grief
As strong as fate they call the chains they wear
To starrs & Angells ev'ry nymph compare
Then think their chains as strong, their nymphs as fair
thus our loves more & more the womens pride
so the wounds deeper & the cure denyd
Long may you gentle souls your fetters wear
if still you write upon ye pangs you bear
Yet know that writing makes them more severe
If Celia or Aminta scornfull grow
On the great praises which your lines bestow
Long may you feel them since you make ym so

Verse is on other subjects less unkind
& with its transports brightens up ye mind
the Drunkards catch is half the rogues delight
Where noise & briskness do their charms unite
The drawers calld & ink & paper brought
& so extempore the work is wrought
While wine inspires they never stay for thought
the Jolly words are roard in tunefull sound
While the full bottles run the tables round
& Ecchoes from the Empty ones rebound
Raisd to the Joyes above the cares of kings
their singing makes ym drink their drinking sing
O happy men if twere not for the curse
of qualms repentance & an empty purse
but happy men at least for some few hours
Who force the Muse to nothing else but rime
& when your sense is drownd sing off yr time

Verse has another powr on other men
When the vexd thoughts by writing grow serene
full of the spleen & rage & scorn to see
the tide of vice & folly run so high
some from the world retire to poetry
& when their pens what grieves their bosoms speak
how honesty's a cully witt a rake
fair Virtue beggerd beauty grown a baud
Religion made a masque & gold a God
their breasts find ease by laying down their load
so Prophetts usd inspird of old to swell
& when they spoke their Oracles grew well

For me who never have a drinker been
Nor provd the witty forces of the spleen
for me who be it chance or carelessness
(forgive me half the world when I confess)
have never been in love in all my dayes
On other principles my pen I take
for meer disintrested diversions sake
I onely write as many lovers woo
but just when I have nothing else to do
& then to please my self as well as you
I seek no praise & keep me safe from shame
Not known to many & unknown to fame
I woud not blunty rail a folly down
Nor with undecent rage on vices run
Our master Horace wisely sung of old
that satyrs better if it Jear then scold
the Gall too much prevailing spoils the ink
Nor woul I frett mankind but make ym think
tis farr more human thus to show ye place
Where you ly open then throw in ye pass

poem by Thomas Parnell
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Satyr III. Virtue

Is virtue something reall here below
Or but an Idle name & empty show
While on this head I take my thoughts to task
Methinks young Freedom answers wt I ask
In his own moralls thus the Spark goes on
Or thus if he were here he might have don

In what wild hill or unfrequented plain
hast thou been bred so ignorant of men
Such doubts in such a world to entertain
Or has thy father had an hopefull son
by Colledge education quite undon
& therefore wisely gave his others none
Believe me Sr that what you faign woud know
is but a word to signify a show
Often it is 'tis often not designd
& still it makes a riddle of the mind.
Now see how evidently this appears
in the clear language of particulars.

All men do Sporus very chast esteem
But does he rule his will or nature him
What he might be himself he little knows
Who never had a passion to oppose
he must be chast with out a world of pains
for all his virtue is his impotence.

Damon the hottest rakell of the town
has his cast misses on the common thrown
No signs of great repentance does he show
But the mans bound his wife's his virtue now

Nor friends nor glorious wine nor sparkling witt
Makes Codrus ere beyond a bottle sitt
this is his temperance his acquaintance say
& att the barr they give him leave to pay
But they forgett that Codrus is so poor
& all his virtue may be want of more

A sexton scarcely can resolve to ring
But Cotta flyes as on devotions wing
tows his old aunt in black to every prayer
Whines as he goes & prayes aloud when there
thus to be Guardian when she dies he'le gett
his virtue is the hopes of pow'r to cheat

thus various mankind cou'd I quickly trace
& show how fondly we mistake their wayes
how something which they are not oft they seem
& how that something brings them in esteem
but to be short with in my self I feel
too deepely rooted all the seeds of ill
Mad passions reason not invincible
& chance to be misguided in my will
Why shoud I think another has not these
is he more perfect man or am I less.

To such a loose harangue on t'other side
My honest Trueman woud have thus replyd
While by yr own you blame anothers soul
You must go wrong & ye illbiassd bowl
bear on a falser ground at every roul
tis granted where the moralls run awry
there your reflections very justly ly
but think you there are none to good inclind
from the meer sway of reason on their mind
think you that every one woud rather be
Slave to his passions then from passion free
for such they are who have no powr to stay
When every weak temptation calls away
Curio is summond to Corinna's house
Cross is his father cruell is her spouse
the dangers great but Curio must be gon
a pleasure tempts a passion hurry's on
Nor are the troubles which pursue it all
for you may feel the very fetters gall
Dispair & hope with lingring pangs remain
Sorrow & Joy give much a quicker pain
& love & hate in wild convulsions reign.
When with their proper objects these attack
tis to be virtuous then to drive 'em back
entrenchd with in ye rules wch prudence makes
tis virtue still an æquall mind to bear
Nor swoln wth hope nor too depressed wth fear
to lett the Man secure from passion move
in reasons orb serenely plac'd above
tis Virtue to maintain your country's cause
Support your king while he supports her laws
nor in th' oppressing of a kingdom share
for fifteen hundred English pounds a year
paid down by order of ye Commons here
tis virtue & the highest mentiond yet
to think religion not a trick of state

Nature has fooles who know not of this way
& fooles alone have priviledge to stray
But if a Competence of Sense she give
& the receivers do not upright live
their different failures do such words create
as Atheist traytor villain rakehell cheat
defamer pander whore knight of ye post
& hypocrites a Common name for most
Most strive to varnish their prevailing vice
& grant with ease when they succeed in this
the Case the same where the appearance is
but goodness ever has the same appeard
While no design is still upon its guard
the best is onely but ye best begun
Sooner or later by its self undon

Ore peaceful citts the hectring bullys reign
But while they hector so they know their men
Shoud they vex one at last to Cudgells bred
the masque of valour wont protect ye head
While the tough cane insults the shining blade

I scorn in verity old Gripus cry's
this swearing this unprofitable vice
but mony mollifys the wretches scorn
& he who hates to swear will be forsworn

thus ill men never fail of being known
how sly so e're a vizard they put on
but still the good both seem & are ye same
unmovd by passion, int'rest, humour, fame
tis thus that they deserve ye name of men
by ruling of themselves they empires gain
& laugh at fortune raisd above her reign.

poem by Thomas Parnell
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The Ecstasy

The fleeting Joy that all things have beneath
Goes off like snow while Zephirs warmly breath
The happy wish that makes our bliss compleat
it is not wealth it is not to be great
To glide along on pleasures easy floud
Or in fames wreaths to shine above the croud
Weak man who charms in these alone can see
Hear what I ask & learn to ask of me.

Send to my breast Allmighty King send down
A beam of brightness from thy starry throne
Break on my mind drive errors cloud away
& make a calm in passions troubled sea
that the poor banishd Soul serene & free
May rise from earth to visit heav'n & thee.
Come peace Divine shed gently from above
Inspire my willing bosome wondrous love
& lend thy wings & teach me how to move

But Whither whither now? what wondrous fire
With this blest influence equalls my desire?
I rise or love the kind deluder reigns
& acts in fancy such inchanted scenes
The earth retires, the parting skyes give way
& now I view the native realms of day
I mount above the starrs above the sun
& still methinks the spirit bears me on.
O strange enjoyment of a bliss unseen!
O ravishment! o sacred rage within!
Tumultuous pleasure raisd on peace of mind
Which he thats good & onely he can find!
I hear (it must be so) Ime sure I hear
Seraphick musick strike my rapturd ear
I see the light that veiles the throne on high
A light too glorious for the dazzled eye
look how around this great mysterious place
The Angells fly & as they fly they praise
Look how Apostles prophets martyrs Joyn
& all their tongues & all their harps combine
to celebrate the Majesty divine
to please heav'ns King their heav'nly lays are sung
No voice is silent not a harp unstrung

Pure & immortall quire allow me now
Since faign my heart woud pay its tribute too
Allow my Zeal to bear a part wth you
Assist my words and as they move along
With Halelujah's crown the burthend song

Father Eternall, God of truth & light
Great above all beyond expression bright
No bounds thy knowledge none thy powr confine
For powr & knowledge in their source are thine
Around thee Glory spreads her golden wing
Sing Glittering Angells Halelujah sing.

Son of the Father, blest, begotten Son
Ere the short measuring line of time begun
In thee his perfect Essence makes abode
the world has seen thy workes & owns thee God
The world must own thee loves unfathomd spring.
Sing Glittering Angells Halelujah Sing.

Proceeding Spirit, Equally divine
In whom the Godheads true perfections shine
You fill our bosomes with celestiall fire
& tis a bliss to burn when you inspire
O Lord Of Grace for Grace on earth you bring.
sing glittering Angells Halelujah sing

But Ah whats this? & where is all my heat
What interruption makes my Joy retreat
the worlds gott in my meditation crost
& the gay pictures in my fancy lost
How willingly Alas our soules woud rise
& be fixd starrs inserted in the skyes
But our attempts these chains of earth restrain
Deride our toiles & dragg us down again
Thus meteors mounting with the planets vie
But their own bodys sink them in the Sky
When the warmths gon that taught ym how to fly.

poem by Thomas Parnell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Concerning Resolution

Happy the man whose firm resolves obtain
Assisting Grace to burst his sinfull chain
For him the Days with golden minutes glow
Tis his the Land where milk & hony flow
Justice & mercy piety & peace
Attend his workes & crown them with success
He hopes the best that is for heavn prepard
& wants no bliss while virtue can reward
That purpled hour which ushers in the light
& that which shuts its beautys up in night
Still hears him pray still sees his actions right
For him they still on easy minutes speed
& as they move for him the rest succeed

But most Alas by vain opinion lead
Ore the wild maze of erring passions tread
& now to this & now to that we go
& each desire & neither rightly know
& act irresolute in all we do
& seldom stay to search our objects through
Desire is vain & wanton free to range
Fond of a Chace & fond the Chace to Change
By turns a thousand inclinations rise
& each by turns as impotently dies
Now thought grows wild if loose Aminta's kind
Shee spreads her Charms & captivates the mind
Anon Aminta leaves the thought at ease
No more her aires & soft Allurements please
We love reclining in ye shady bowers
by running waters near sweet banks of flowrs
To surfeit nature with full bowles of wine
& with forcd appetites on bliss refine
Then buisy then fantastically wise
Then to be some thing else we streight devise
For Fancy still undreind affors supplys
tis thus if reason from the throne be gon
The madd affections bear their master on
His life proves restless & his labour vain
By hurrying after Phantomes of the brain
So the brave Falcon when its glorys fade
When its strong wings their generous forces shed
The vacant holds ignobler birds supply
With Ravens feathers impd she mounts on high
& weak or giddy strayes along the sky

In Every Change indeed resolves we make
But those resolves to settle newer break
By contradictions thus we seem to live
Nor want the colour of a cause to give
Kind heav'n forgive us when for what we do
We woud debauch our knack of reasning too
When int'rest does on thought its force dispence
When pleasure beats upon the dazzled sence
Our resolutions oft in vain are made
Kind heavn forgive the fault & lend thine aid.
If by thy law we must temptations find
If these must try the temper of the mind
We begg thee not to change thy good decree
We begg for pardon or support from thee
Our wisdome never shoud thy ways confine
but thus confess & humbly rest in thine
Tis well theres tryalls since the mans so proud
& since he's weak tis well theres Grace allowd.

poem by Thomas Parnell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Inscriptions: IX: Me Tho' In Life's Sequester'd Vale

Me tho' in life's sequester'd vale
The Almighty sire ordain'd to dwell,
Remote from glory's toilsome ways,
And the great scenes of public praise;
Yet let me still with grateful pride
Remember how my infant frame
He temper'd with prophetic flame,
And early music to my tongue supply'd.
'Twas then my future fate he weigh'd,
And, This be thy concern, he said,
At once with Passion's keen alarms,
And Beauty's pleasurable charms,
And sacred Truth's eternal light,
To move the various mind of Man;
Till under one unblemish'd plan,
His Reason, Fancy, and his Heart unite.

poem by Mark Akenside
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Ode XI: On Love, To A Friend

I.
No, foolish youth—To virtuous fame
If now thy early hopes be vow'd,
If true ambition's nobler flame
Command thy footsteps from the croud,
Lean not to love's inchanting snare;
His songs, his words, his looks beware,
Nor join his votaries, the young and fair.

II.
By thought, by dangers, and by toils,
The wreath of just renown is worn;
Nor will ambition's awful spoils
The flowery pomp of ease adorn:
But love unbends the force of thought;
By love unmanly fears are taught;
And love's reward with gaudy sloth is bought.

III.
Yet thou hast read in tuneful lays,
And heard from many a zealous breast,
The pleasing tale of beauty's praise
In wisdom's lofty language dress'd;
Of beauty powerful to impart
Each finer sense, each comelier art,
And sooth and polish man's ungentle heart.

IV.
If then, from love's deceit secure,
Thus far alone thy wishes tend,
Go; see the white-wing'd evening hour
On Delia's vernal walk descend:
Go, while the golden light serene,
The grove, the lawn, the soften'd scene
Becomes the presence of the rural queen.

V.
Attend, while that harmonious tongue
Each bosom, each desire commands:
Apollo's lute by Hermes strung
And touch'd by chaste Minerva's hands,
Attend. I feel a force divine,
O Delia, win my thoughts to thine;
That half the color of thy life is mine.

VI.
Yet conscious of the dangerous charm,
Soon would i turn my steps away;
Nor oft provoke the lovely harm,
Nor lull my reason's watchful sway.
But thou, my friend—i hear thy sighs:
Alass, i read thy downcast eyes;
And thy tongue falters; and thy color flies.

VII.
So soon again to meet the fair?
So pensive all this absent hour?
—O yet, unlucky youth, beware,
While yet to think is in thy power.
In vain with friendship's flattering name
Thy passion veils its inward shame;
Friendship, the treacherous fuel of thy flame!

VIII.
Once, I remember, new to love,
And dreading his tyrannic chain,
I sought a gentle maid to prove
What peaceful joys in friendship reign:
Whence we forsooth might safely stand,
And pitying view the lovesick band,
And mock the winged boy's malicious hand.

IX.
Thus frequent pass'd the cloudless day,
To smiles and sweet discourse resign'd;
While i exulted to survey
One generous woman's real mind:
Till friendship soon my languid breast
Each night with unknown cares possess'd,
Dash'd my coy slumbers, or my dreams distress'd.

X.
Fool that i was—And now, even now
While thus i preach the Stoic strain,
Unless i shun Olympia's view,
An hour unsays it all again.
O friend!—when love directs her eyes
To pierce where every passion lies,
Where is the firm, the cautious, or the wise?

poem by Mark Akenside
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Piety: Or, The Vision

'Twas when the night in silent sable fled,
When chearful morning sprung with rising red,
When dreams and vapours leave to crowd the brain,
And best the Vision draws its heav'nly scene;
'Twas then, as slumb'ring on my couch I lay,
A sudden splendor seem'd to kindle day,
A breeze came breathing in a sweet perfume,
Blown from eternal gardens, fill'd the room;
And in a void of blue, that clouds invest,
Appear'd a daughter of the realms of rest;
Her head a ring of golden glory wore,
Her honour'd hand the sacred volume bore,
Her rayment glitt'ring seem'd a silver white,
And all her sweet companions sons of light.

Strait as I gaz'd my fear and wonder grew,
Fear barr'd my voice, and wonder fix'd my view,
When lo! a cherub of the shining crowd
That sail'd as guardians in her azure cloud,
Fann'd the soft air and downward seem'd to glide,
And to my lips a living coal applied;
Then while the warmth on all my pulses ran,
Diffusing comfort, thus the maid began.

‘Where glorious mansions are prepar'd above,
‘The seats of Music, and the seats of Love,
‘Thence I descend, and piety my name,
‘To warm thy bosom with celestial flame,
‘To teach thee praises mix'd with humble pray'rs,
‘And tune thy soul to sing seraphic airs;
‘Be thou my bard.’ A vial here she caught,
(An angel's hand the chrystal vial brought)
And as with awful sound the word was said,
She pour'd a sacred unction on my head,
Then thus proceeded. ‘Be thy muse thy zeal,
‘Dare to be good, and all my joys reveal;
‘While other pencils flatt'ring forms create,
‘And paint the gawdy plumes that deck the great;
‘While other pens exalt the vain delight,
‘Whose wasteful revel wakes the depth of night;
‘Or others softly sing in idle lines,
‘How Damon courts, or Amaryllis shines;
‘More wisely thou select a theme divine;
‘'Tis Fame's their recompence, 'tis Heav'n is thine.

‘Despise the fervours of unhallow'd fire,
‘Where wine, or passion, or applause inspire,
‘Low restless life, and ravings born of earth,
‘Whose meaner subjects speak their humble birth;
‘Like working seas, that when loud Winters blow,
‘Not made for rising, only rage below:
‘Mine is a great, and yet a lasting heat,
‘More lasting still, as more intensely great,
‘Produc'd where pray'r, and praise, and pleasure breathe,
‘And ever mounting whence it shot beneath.

‘Unpaint the Love that hov'ring over beds,
‘From glitt'ring pinions guilty pleasure sheds,
‘Restore the colour to the golden mines
‘With which behind the feather'd idol shines;
‘To flow'ring greens give back their native care,
‘The rose and lily never his to wear;
‘To sweet Arabia send the balmy breath,
‘Strip the fair flesh, and call the phantom Death;
‘His bow be sabled o'er, his shafts the same,
‘And fork and point them with eternal flame.

‘But urge thy pow'rs, thine utmost voice advance,
‘Make the loud strings against thy fingers dance,
‘'Tis Love that angels praise, and men adore,
‘'Tis Love Divine that asks it all and more:
‘Fling back the gates of ever-blazing day,
‘Pour floods of liquid light to gild the way,
‘And all in glory wrapt, thro' paths untrod,
‘Pursue the great unseen descent of GOD!
‘Hail the meek virgin, bid the child appear,
‘The child is GOD! and call him Jesus here;
‘He comes; but where to rest? a manger's nigh,
‘Make the great being in a manger lye;
‘Fill the wide skies with angels on the wing,
‘Make thousands gaze, and make ten thousand sing:
‘Let men afflict him, men he came to save,
‘And still afflict him, 'till he reach the grave;
‘Make him resign'd, his loads of sorrow meet,
‘And me, like Mary, weep beneath his feet;
‘I'll bathe my tresses there, my pray'rs rehearse,
‘And glide in flames of love along thy verse.

‘Hah! while I speak, I feel my bosom swell,
‘My raptures smother what I long to tell!
‘'Tis GOD! a present GOD! thro' cleaving air
‘I see the throne! I see the Jesus there!
‘Plac'd on the right; he shows the wounds he bore!
‘(My fervours oft have won him thus before)
‘How pleas'd he looks! my words have reach'd his ear,
‘He bids the gates unbar, and calls me near.’

She ceas'd. The cloud on which she seem'd to tread,
Its curls unfolded, and around her spread;
Bright angels waft their wings to raise the cloud,
And sweep their iv'ry lutes, and sing aloud;
The scene moves off, while all its ambient sky
Is tun'd to wond'rous music, as they fly;
And soft the swelling sounds of music grow,
And faint their softness, till they fail below.

My downy sleep the warmth of Phoebus broke,
And while my thoughts were settling, thus I spoke;
Thou beauteous Vision on the soul imprest,
When most my reason wou'd appear to rest!
'Twas sure with pencils dipt in various lights
Some curious angel limn'd thy sacred sights;
From blazing suns his radiant gold he drew,
White moons the silver gave, and air the blue.
I'll mount the roving wind's expanded wing,
And seek the sacred hill, and light to sing;
('Tis known in Jewry well) I'll make my lays,
Obedient to thy summons, sound with praise.

But still I fear, unwarm'd with holy flame,
I take for truth the flatt'ries of a dream;
And barely wish the wond'rous gift I boast,
And faintly practise what deserves it most.

'Indulgent lord! whose gracious love displays
Joys in the light, and fills the dark with ease;
Be this, to bless my days, no dream of bliss,
Or be, to bless my nights, my dreams like this.

poem by Thomas Parnell
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Epistle from Arthur Grey, the Footman, to Mrs. Murray, after His Condemnation for Attempting to Comm

Read, lovely nymph, and tremble not to read,
I have no more to wish, nor you to dread;
I ask not life, for life to me were vain,
And death a refuge from severer pain.
My only hope in these last lines I try --
I would be pitied, and I then would die.
Long had I liv'd as sordid as my fate,
Nor curs'd the destiny that made me wait
A servile slave: content with homely food,
The gross instinct of happiness pursued:
Youth gave me sleep at night and warmth of blood.
Ambition yet had never touch'd my breast;
My lordly master knew no sounder rest;
With labour healthy, in obedience blest.
But when I saw -- oh! had I never seen
That wounding softness, that engaging mien!
The mist of wretched education flies,
Shame, fear, desire, despair, and love arise,
The new creation of those beauteous eyes.
But yet that love pursu'd no guilty aim;
Deep in my heart I hid the secret flame:
I never hop'd my fond desire to tell,
And all my wishes were to serve you well.
Heav'ns! how I flew when wing'd by your command,
And kiss'd the letters giv'n me by your hand.
How pleas'd, how proud, how fond I was to wait,
Present the sparkling wine, or change the plate!
How, when you sung, my soul devour'd the sound,
And ev'ry sense was in the rapture drown'd!
Though bid to go, I quite forgot to move;
-- You knew not that stupidity was love!
But oh! the torment not to be express'd,
The grief, the rage, the hell, that fir'd this breast,
When my great rivals, in embroidery gay,
Sate by your side, or led you from the play!

I still contriv'd near as I could to stand
(the flambeau trembling in my shaking hand);
I saw, or thought I saw, those fingers press'd,
For thus their passion by my own I guess'd,
And jealous fury all my soul possess'd.
Like torrents, love and indignation meet,
And madness would have thrown me at your feet.
Turn, lovely nymph (for so I would have said),
Turn from those triflers who make love a trade;
This is true passion in my eyes you see;
They cannot, no -- they cannot love like me;
Frequent debauch has pall'd their sickly taste,
Faint their desire, and in a moment past;
They sigh not from the heart, but from the brain;
Vapours of vanity and strong champagne.
Too dull to feel what forms like yours inspire,
After long talking of their painted fire,
To some lewd brothel they at night retire;
There, pleas'd with fancy'd quality and charms,
Enjoy your beauties in a strumpet's arms.
Such are the joys those toasters have in view,
And such the wit and pleasure they pursue;
-- And is this love that ought to merit you?
Each opera night a new address begun,
They swear to thousands what they swear to one.
Not thus I sigh -- but all my sighs are vain --
Die, wretched Arthur, and conceal thy pain:
'Tis impudence to wish, and madness to complain.
Fix'd on this view, my only hope of ease,
I waited not the aid of slow disease;
The keenest instruments of death I sought,
And death alone employ'd my lab'ring thought.
This all the night -- when I remember well
The charming tinkle of your morning bell!
Fir'd by the sound, I hasten'd with your tea,
With one last look to smooth the darksome way --
But oh! how dear that fatal look has cost!
In that fond moment my resolves were lost.
Hence all my guilt, and all your sorrows rise --
I saw the languid softness of your eyes;

I saw the dear disorder of your bed;
Your cheeks all glowing with a tempting red;
Your night-clothes tumbled with resistless grace,
Your flowing hair play'd careless down your face
Your night-gown fasten'd with a single pin;
-- Fancy improv'd the wondrous charms within!
I fix'd my eyes upon that heaving breast,
And hardly, hardly, I forbore the rest:
Eager to gaze, unsatisfied with sight,
My head grew giddy with the near delight!
-- Too well you know the fatal following night!
Th'extremest proof of my desire I give,
And since you will not love, I will not live.
Condemn'd by you, I wait the righteous doom.
Careless and fearless of the woes to come.
But when you see me waver in the wind,
My guilty flame extinct, my soul resign'd,
Sure you may pity what you can't approve,
The cruel consequence of furious love.
Think the bold wretch, that could so greatly dare,
Was tender, faithful, ardent, and sincere;
Think when I held the pistol to your breast, --
Had I been of the world's large rule possess'd, --
That world had then been yours, and I been blest;
Think that my life was quite below my care,
Nor fear'd I any hell beyond despair. --
If these reflections, though they seize you late,
Give some compassion for your Arthur's fate:
Enough you give, nor ought I to complain:
You pay my pangs, nor have I died in vain.

poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Epistle from Arthur Grey, the Footman, to Mrs. Murray, after His Condemnation for Attempting to Commit Violence.

Read, lovely nymph, and tremble not to read,
I have no more to wish, nor you to dread;
I ask not life, for life to me were vain,
And death a refuge from severer pain.
My only hope in these last lines I try --
I would be pitied, and I then would die.
Long had I liv'd as sordid as my fate,
Nor curs'd the destiny that made me wait
A servile slave: content with homely food,
The gross instinct of happiness pursued:
Youth gave me sleep at night and warmth of blood.
Ambition yet had never touch'd my breast;
My lordly master knew no sounder rest;
With labour healthy, in obedience blest.
But when I saw -- oh! had I never seen
That wounding softness, that engaging mien!
The mist of wretched education flies,
Shame, fear, desire, despair, and love arise,
The new creation of those beauteous eyes.
But yet that love pursu'd no guilty aim;
Deep in my heart I hid the secret flame:
I never hop'd my fond desire to tell,
And all my wishes were to serve you well.
Heav'ns! how I flew when wing'd by your command,
And kiss'd the letters giv'n me by your hand.
How pleas'd, how proud, how fond I was to wait,
Present the sparkling wine, or change the plate!
How, when you sung, my soul devour'd the sound,
And ev'ry sense was in the rapture drown'd!
Though bid to go, I quite forgot to move;
-- You knew not that stupidity was love!
But oh! the torment not to be express'd,
The grief, the rage, the hell, that fir'd this breast,
When my great rivals, in embroidery gay,
Sate by your side, or led you from the play!

I still contriv'd near as I could to stand
(the flambeau trembling in my shaking hand);
I saw, or thought I saw, those fingers press'd,
For thus their passion by my own I guess'd,
And jealous fury all my soul possess'd.
Like torrents, love and indignation meet,
And madness would have thrown me at your feet.
Turn, lovely nymph (for so I would have said),
Turn from those triflers who make love a trade;
This is true passion in my eyes you see;
They cannot, no -- they cannot love like me;
Frequent debauch has pall'd their sickly taste,
Faint their desire, and in a moment past;
They sigh not from the heart, but from the brain;
Vapours of vanity and strong champagne.
Too dull to feel what forms like yours inspire,
After long talking of their painted fire,
To some lewd brothel they at night retire;
There, pleas'd with fancy'd quality and charms,
Enjoy your beauties in a strumpet's arms.
Such are the joys those toasters have in view,
And such the wit and pleasure they pursue;
-- And is this love that ought to merit you?
Each opera night a new address begun,
They swear to thousands what they swear to one.
Not thus I sigh -- but all my sighs are vain --
Die, wretched Arthur, and conceal thy pain:
'Tis impudence to wish, and madness to complain.
Fix'd on this view, my only hope of ease,
I waited not the aid of slow disease;
The keenest instruments of death I sought,
And death alone employ'd my lab'ring thought.
This all the night -- when I remember well
The charming tinkle of your morning bell!
Fir'd by the sound, I hasten'd with your tea,
With one last look to smooth the darksome way --
But oh! how dear that fatal look has cost!
In that fond moment my resolves were lost.
Hence all my guilt, and all your sorrows rise --
I saw the languid softness of your eyes;

I saw the dear disorder of your bed;
Your cheeks all glowing with a tempting red;
Your night-clothes tumbled with resistless grace,
Your flowing hair play'd careless down your face
Your night-gown fasten'd with a single pin;
-- Fancy improv'd the wondrous charms within!
I fix'd my eyes upon that heaving breast,
And hardly, hardly, I forbore the rest:
Eager to gaze, unsatisfied with sight,
My head grew giddy with the near delight!
-- Too well you know the fatal following night!
Th'extremest proof of my desire I give,
And since you will not love, I will not live.
Condemn'd by you, I wait the righteous doom.
Careless and fearless of the woes to come.
But when you see me waver in the wind,
My guilty flame extinct, my soul resign'd,
Sure you may pity what you can't approve,
The cruel consequence of furious love.
Think the bold wretch, that could so greatly dare,
Was tender, faithful, ardent, and sincere;
Think when I held the pistol to your breast, --
Had I been of the world's large rule possess'd, --
That world had then been yours, and I been blest;
Think that my life was quite below my care,
Nor fear'd I any hell beyond despair. --
If these reflections, though they seize you late,
Give some compassion for your Arthur's fate:
Enough you give, nor ought I to complain:
You pay my pangs, nor have I died in vain.

poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Poem: To The Memory of Mrs. Oldfield

Oldfield's no more!-And can the Muse forbear,
O'er Oldfield's Grave to shed a grateful Tear?
Shall she, the Glory of the British Stage,
Pride of her Sex, and Wonder of the Age;
Shall she, who living charm'd th'admiring Throng,
Die undistinguish'd, and not claim a Song?
No. Feeble as it is, I'll boldly raise
My willing Voice to celebrate her Praise,
And with her Name immortalize my Lays.

Had but my Muse her Art to touch the Soul,
Charm ev'ry Sense, and ev'ry Pow'r controul.
I'd paint her as she was-the Form divine,
Where ev'ry lovely Grace united shine;
A Mein, majestick as the Wife of Jove,
An Air, as winning as the Queen of Love;
In every Feature rival Charms should rise,
And Cupid hold his Empire in her Eyes.

O! she was more than Numbers can express,
Creation's Darling in her fairest Dress.
A Form so charming, with such Beauties fraught,
As might have nigh excus'd the Want of Thought;
And yet a Mind with such Perfections stock'd,
As made the Beauties of her Form o'er look'd.
A Soul with ev'ry Elegance refin'd,
By Nature, and the Converse of Mankind,
Wit, which could strike assuming Folly dead;
And Sense-which temper'd every thing she said;
Judgment, which ev'ry little Fault could spy;
But Candor, which would pass a Thousand by.
That native Force-that Energy of Mind,
Which left the toiling Pedant far behind.
Such finish'd Breeding, so polite a Taste,
Her Fancy always for the Fashion past:
So sweetly serious, so discreetly gay,
None went unpleas'd, or unimprov'd away.
And yet so negligent she seem'd of Fame,
As if she thought Applause beneath her Aim.
Disdaining Flattery, she was still sincere;
Warm to approve, and modestly severe.
Whilst every social Virtue fir'd her Breast,
To help the Needy, succour the Distrest,
A Friend to all in Misery she stood.
And her chief Pride was plac'd in doing Good.

But say, ye Few, ye happy Few, who e'er
Enjoy'd the private Friendship of the Fair;
Who saw the Charmer in a nearer Light,
All open, free, and unreserv'dly bright;
Who felt the Raptures which her Smiles bestow'd,
And prov'd the Joys which from her Converse flow'd:
Oh speak her friendly, affable, and mild,
Brave, generous, firm, by no false Shows beguil'd.
With ev'ry Art and Talent form'd to please,
The Scholars Learning, and the Ladies Ease;
The Gay, the Grave, the Florid and Serene,
Mix'd in her Soul, and sparkling in her Mein.

Thrice happy Churchill! who her Love could gain,
For whom so many Thousands sigh'd in vain;
Whose wondrous Charms made every one her Slave
Dear to the Wise, the Witty, and the Brave.
And justly did she judge to place her Name
With thine, the greatest in the Books of Fame.
Thus join'd, Advantages to each accrue,
Renown to her, Beauty and Wit to you.
Renown should ever on the Fair One wait,
And Beauty be the Portion of the Great,
From such a Pair we well may hope to see
Another Malbro', Charles, appear in thee.

But now, my Muse, the arduous Task engage,
And show the Charming Figure on the Stage,
Describe her Look, her Action, Voice and Mein,
The gay Coquette, soft Maid, or haughty Queen,
So bright she shone in every different Part,
She gain'd despotick Empire o'er the Heart,
Knew how each various Motion to controul,
Sooth every Passion, and subdue the Soul:
As she, or gay, or sorrowful apears,
She claims our Mirth, or triumphs in our Tears:
Whilst from her Eyes delusive Sorrows flow,
Our Breasts are touch'd with undissembled Woe;
Or if Ambition calls her forth to Arms,
The Thirst of Glory every Bosom warms;
No Souls so senseless but what felt her Flame,
Nor Breast so savage but her Art could tame.
Ev'n the Pert Templer, and the City Prig,
Who come to Plays to show their Wit-or Wig.
The snarling Critick, and the sneering Beau,
Who neither Sense of Worth, or Manners know,
Aw'd by her Looks their Brutish Din forbear,
And for a while a little Human are,
So Orpheus charm'd the Savages of old,
And all Hell's Furies with his Harp controul'd.

Painters may sketch the Image of a Face,
And Sculptors Form and Attitude express;
Poets the Graces of the Mind relate,
And Hist'ry tells the Actions of the Great.
Still each wants something to compleat the Whole,
The Poet wants a Form, the Painter Soul.
But Oldfield all the Heroine display'd,
Show'd how she look'd, she mov'd, she wept, she pray'd
And was herself the Character she play'd,
When Cleopatra's Form she chose to wear,
We saw the Monarch's Mien, the Beauty's Air;
Charm'd with the Sight, her Cause we strait approve,
And like her Lover, gave up all for Love;
Antony's Fate, instead of Cæsar's, chuse,
And wish for her, we had a World-to lose.
But when a more familiar Part did please,
Letitia's Artifice, or Townley's Ease
Each Beauty in the finest Light she plac'd,
Improv'd each Charm, and every Action grac'd.
Nay, so enchanting was her lovely Frame,
She spoilt, against her Will, the Poet's Aim;
Making those Follies which we should despise,
When seen in her, seem Virtues in our Eyes.
So, when with Cytherea's Girdle bound,
The homeliest Hag, a shining Fair is found.

But now the gay delightful Scene is o'er,
And that sweet Form must glad the World no more;
Relentless Death has stop'd the tuneful Tongue,
And clos'd those Eyes, for all but Death too strong;
Blasted that Face where every Beauty bloom'd,
And to eternal Rest the graceful Mover doom'd.

Calm and serene she met the fatal Hour,
Smil'd at Death's Terrors, and contemn'd its Power.
Sustain'd unmov'd the cruel Scourge of Pain.
Whilst blund'ring Doctors try'd their Art in vain;
(Those lawful Executioners, whose Skill
Is shown not when they cure-but when they kill.)
She only griev'd to see her Churchill grieve,
And for his Sake alone desir'd to live?
Her long-imprison'd Soul rejoyc'd to see
The wish'd-for Moment come to set it free;
Then bravely strugling leapt its Bounds of Day,
And to the Place from whence it came, impetuous wing'd its Way.

Thus subterranean Fire in Ætna pent,
Which long in vain has labour'd for a Vent,
(When once some weaker Part begins to yield
Its long resisted Enemy the Field)
Grows more enrag'd, with double Fury plays,
And once got Air, it mounts into a Blaze.

O'ercharg'd with Sorrow at the Thought-the Muse
Drooping-no more her airy Flight pursues;
With Oldfield all her flattering Hopes are fled,
In her the Muses dearest Friend is dead:
For lo! the sinking Stage attends her Fall,
Whilst Opera, Farce, and Trick prevail o'er all,
Wilks, Nature's Master, soon, by Years opprest,
And tir'd with Bus'ness, must retire to Rest;
And Cibber, baulk'd by the ungrateful Town,
Will lay th'unprofitable Burthen down,
Mourn then ye Muses, all your Sorrows vent;
Your Shafts are useless, and your Bows unbent.
Now weep, ye Forrests; droop, ye shady Bowers;
Be dry, ye Fountains; sicken all ye Flowers;
The Night of universal Ign'rance comes,
In Darkness e'ry pleasing Scene entombs;
With Oldfield the last Glympse of Light is fled,
Wit, Nature, Sense, with her their Exits made:
The Goddess Dulness lifts her cloudy Head,
And smiles to see her dark Dominions spread,
Chaos o'er all his Leaden Scepter rears,
And not one Beam throughout the Gloom appears.

Finis

poem by Richard Savage
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Hymn to Contentment

Lovely, lasting peace of mind!
Sweet delight of human-kind!
Heavenly-born, and bred on high,
To crown the fav'rites of the sky
With more of happiness below,
Than victors in a triumph know!
Whither, O whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek, contented head;
What happy region dost thou please
To make the seat of calms and ease!

Ambition searches all its sphere
Of pomp and state, to meet thee there.
Increasing Avarice would find
Thy presence in its gold enshrin'd.
The bold advent'rer ploughs his way
Through rocks amidst the foaming sea,
To gain thy love; and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves.
The silent heart which grief assails,
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales,
Sees daisies open, rivers run,
And seeks (as I have vainly done)
Amusing thought; but learns to know
That solitude's the nurse of woe.
No real happiness is found
In trailing purple o'er the ground;
Or in a soul exalted high,
To range the circuit of the sky,
Converse with stars above, and know
All nature in its forms below;
The rest it seeks, in seeking dies,
And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise.

Lovely, lasting peace, appear!
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.

'Twas thus, as under shade I stood,
I sung my wishes to the wood,
And lost in thought, no more perceiv'd
The branches whisper as they wav'd:
It seem'd, as all the quiet place
Confess'd the presence of the Grace.
When thus she spoke-'Go rule thy will,
Bid thy wild passions all be still,
Know God-and bring thy heart to know
The joys which from religion flow:
Then ev'ry Grace shall prove its guest,
And I'll be there to crown the rest.'

Oh! by yonder mossy seat,
In my hours of sweet retreat,
Might I thus my soul employ,
With sense of gratitude and joy!
Rais'd as ancient prophets were,
In heavenly vision, praise, and pray'r;
Pleasing all men, hurting none,
Pleas'd and bless'd with God alone:
Then while the gardens take my sight,
With all the colours of delight;
While silver waters glide along,
To please my ear, and court my song;
I'll lift my voice, and tune my string,
And thee, great source of nature, sing.

The sun that walks his airy way,
To light the world, and give the day;
The moon that shines with borrow'd light;
The stars that gild the gloomy night;
The seas that roll unnumber'd waves;
The wood that spreads its shady leaves;
The field whose ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain;
All of these, and all I see,
Should be sung, and sung by me:
They speak their maker as they can,
But want and ask the tongue of man.

Go search among your idle dreams,
Your busy or your vain extremes;
And find a life of equal bliss,
Or own the next begun in this.

poem by Thomas Parnell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Hymn to Contentment

Lovely, lasting peace of mind!
Sweet delight of human-kind!
Heavenly-born, and bred on high,
To crown the fav'rites of the sky
With more of happiness below,
Than victors in a triumph know!
Whither, O whither art thou fled,
To lay thy meek, contented head;
What happy region dost thou please
To make the seat of calms and ease!

Ambition searches all its sphere
Of pomp and state, to meet thee there.
Increasing Avarice would find
Thy presence in its gold enshrin'd.
The bold advent'rer ploughs his way
Through rocks amidst the foaming sea,
To gain thy love; and then perceives
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves.
The silent heart which grief assails,
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales,
Sees daisies open, rivers run,
And seeks (as I have vainly done)
Amusing thought; but learns to know
That solitude's the nurse of woe.
No real happiness is found
In trailing purple o'er the ground;
Or in a soul exalted high,
To range the circuit of the sky,
Converse with stars above, and know
All nature in its forms below;
The rest it seeks, in seeking dies,
And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise.

Lovely, lasting peace, appear!
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,
And man contains it in his breast.

'Twas thus, as under shade I stood,
I sung my wishes to the wood,
And lost in thought, no more perceiv'd
The branches whisper as they wav'd:
It seem'd, as all the quiet place
Confess'd the presence of the Grace.
When thus she spoke--"Go rule thy will,
Bid thy wild passions all be still,
Know God--and bring thy heart to know
The joys which from religion flow:
Then ev'ry Grace shall prove its guest,
And I'll be there to crown the rest."

Oh! by yonder mossy seat,
In my hours of sweet retreat,
Might I thus my soul employ,
With sense of gratitude and joy!
Rais'd as ancient prophets were,
In heavenly vision, praise, and pray'r;
Pleasing all men, hurting none,
Pleas'd and bless'd with God alone:
Then while the gardens take my sight,
With all the colours of delight;
While silver waters glide along,
To please my ear, and court my song;
I'll lift my voice, and tune my string,
And thee, great source of nature, sing.

The sun that walks his airy way,
To light the world, and give the day;
The moon that shines with borrow'd light;
The stars that gild the gloomy night;
The seas that roll unnumber'd waves;
The wood that spreads its shady leaves;
The field whose ears conceal the grain,
The yellow treasure of the plain;
All of these, and all I see,
Should be sung, and sung by me:
They speak their maker as they can,
But want and ask the tongue of man.

Go search among your idle dreams,
Your busy or your vain extremes;
And find a life of equal bliss,
Or own the next begun in this.

poem by Thomas Parnell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Horse & Olive Or Warr & Peace

With Moral tale let Ancient wisdome move
Which thus I sing to make ye moderns wise
Strong Neptune once with sage Minerva strove
And rising Athens was the Victors prize
By Neptune Plutus guardian Powr of gain
By great Minerva Bright Apollo stood
But Jove superiour Bad ye side obtain
Which best contrivd to do ye nation good
Then Neptune striking from the parted ground
The Warlike horse came pawing on ye plain
And as it tossd its main & prancd around
By this he crys Ile make the people reign
The Goddess smiling gently bowd ye spear
And rather thus they shall be blessd she said
Then upwards shooting in ye Vernal air
With loaded boughs ye fruitfull Olive spread
Jove saw what gifts ye rival Powrs designd
Then took th' impartial scales resolvd to show
If greater bliss in warlike pomp we find
Or in ye calm which peacefull times bestow
On Neptunes part he placd victorious days
Gay trophys won & fame extending wide
But plenty safety science arts & ease
Minerva's scale with greater weight supplyd
Fierce warr devours whom gentle Peace woud save
Sweet peace restores wt angry warr destroys
Warr made for peace with that rewards ye brave
While Peace its pleasures from it self enjoys
Hence Vanquishd Neptune to ye Sea withdrew
Hence Wise Minerva ruld Athenian lands
Her Athens hence in arts & honour grew
And still her Olives deck pacifick hands
From fables thus disclosd a Monarchs mind
May form Just rules to chuse ye truly great
And subjects wearyd with distresses find
Whose kind endeavours most befriend a state
Evn Britain here may learn to place her love
If Citys won her kingdomes wealth have cost
If Anna's thoughts ye Patriot soules approve
Whose cares restore yt wealth ye wars had lost
But if we ask ye Moral to disclose
Whom best Europa's patroness it calls
Great Anna's title no exception knows
And unapplyd in this ye fable falls
With her no Neptune or Minerva vyes
When ere she pleasd her troops to conquest flew
When ere she pleases peaceful times arise
She gave the horse & gives ye Olive too.

poem by Thomas Parnell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Epilogue to Mary Queen of Scots

What could luxurious woman wish for more,
To fix her joys, or to extend her pow'r?
Their every wish was in this Mary seen,
Gay, witty, youthful, beauteous, and a queen.
Vain, useless blessings with ill-conduct join'd!
Light as the air, and fleeting as the wind.
Whatever poets write, and lovers vow,
Beauty, what poor omnipotence hast thou!
Queen Bess had wisdom, council, power, and laws;
How few espous'd a wretched beauty's cause!
Learn thence, ye fair, more solid charms to prize;
Contemn the idle flatt'rers of your eyes.
The brightest object shines but while 'tis new:
That influence lessens by familiar view.
Monarchs and beauties rule with equal sway,
All strive to serve, and glory to obey;
Alike unpitied when depos'd they grow --
Men mock the idol of their former vow.
Two great examples have been shown today,
To what sure ruin passion does betray;
What long repentance to short joys is due;
When reason rules, what glory must ensue.
If you will love, love like Eliza then;
Love for amusement, like those traitors, men.
Think that the pastime of a leisure hour
She favour'd oft -- but never shar'd her pow'r.
The traveller by desert wolves pursu'd,
If by his heart the savage foe's subdued,
The world will still the noble act applaud,
Though victory was gain'd by needful fraud.
Such is, my tender sex, our helpless case;
And such the barbarous heart, hid by the begging face;
By passion fir'd, and not withheld by shame,
They cruel hunters are, we trembling game.
Trust me, dear ladies (For I know 'em well),
They burn to triumph, and they sigh to tell:
Cruel to them that yield, cullies to them that sell.
Believe me, 'tis by far the wiser course,
Superior art should meet superior force:
Hear, but be faithful to your int'rest still:
Secure your hearts -- then fool with whom you will.

poem by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Music of the World and of the Soul

I

Why should I say I see the things I see not?
Why be and be not?
Show love for that I love not, and fear for what I fear not?
And dance about to music that I hear not?
Who standeth still i’ the street
Shall be hustled and justled about;
And he that stops i’ the dance shall be spurned by the dancers’ feet,
Shall be shoved and be twisted by all he shall meet,
And shall raise up an outcry and rout;
And the partner, too,
What ’s the partner to do?
While all the while ’tis but, perchance, an humming in mine ear,
That yet anon shall hear,
And I anon, the music in my soul,
In a moment read the whole;
The music in my heart,
Joyously take my part,
And hand in hand, and heart with heart, with these retreat, advance;
And borne on wings of wavy sound,
Whirl with these around, around,
Who here are living in the living dance
Why forfeit that fair chance?
Till that arrive, till thou awake,
Of these, my soul, thy music make,
And keep amid the throng,
And turn as they shall turn, and bound as they are bounding,
Alas! alas! alas! and what if all along
The music is not sounding?

II

Are there not, then, two musics unto men?
One loud and bold and coarse,
And overpowering still perforce
All tone and tune beside;
Yet in despite its pride
Only of fumes of foolish fancy bred,
And sounding solely in the sounding head
The other, soft and low,
Stealing whence we not know,
Painfully heard, and easily forgot,
With pauses oft and many a silence strange
(And silent oft it seems, when silent it is not),
Revivals too of unexpected change
Haply thou think’st ’twill never be begun,
Or that ’t has come, and been, and passed away
Yet turn to other none,
Turn not, oh, turn not thou!
But listen, listen, listen, if haply be heard it may;
Listen, listen, listen, is it not sounding now?

III

Yea, and as thought of some departed friend
By death or distance parted will descend,
Severing, in crowded rooms ablaze with light,
As by a magic screen, the seer from the sight
(Palsying the nerves that intervene
The eye and central sense between);
So may the ear,
Hearing not hear,
Though drums do roll, and pipes and cymbals ring;
So the bare conscience of the better thing
Unfelt, unseen, unimaged, all unknown,
May fix the entrancèd soul ’mid multitudes alone.

poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Hannah

Now Crowds more off, retiring trumpetts sound
On Eccho's dying in their last rebound,
The notes of fancy seem no longer strong,
But sweetning closes fitt a private song.
So when the storms forsake ye seas command
To break their forces in the winding land,
No more their blasts tumultuous rage proclaim,
But sweep in murmurs ore a murm'ring stream.

Then Seek ye Subject & its song be mine
Whose numbers next in Sacred story shine;
Go brightly-working thought, prepard to fly
Above ye page on hov'ring pinnions ly,
& beat with stronger force to make thee rise
Where beautious Hannah meets ye searching eyes.

There frame a town & fix a tent with cords,
The town be Shiloh calld, the tent ye Lords.
Carvd pillars filleted with silver rear
To close ye curtains in an outward square,
But those within it which ye porch uphold
Be finely wrought & overlaid with gold.

Here Eli comes to take ye resting Seat,
Slow-moving forward with a revrend gate,
Sacred in office, venerably sage
& venerably great in silverd age.

Here Hannah comes, a melancholly wife
Reproachd for barren in ye marriage life.
Like summer-mornings she to sight appears,
Bedewd & shining in the midst of tears.
Her heart in bitterness of grief she bowd,
& thus her wishes to the Lord she vowd.
If thou thine handmaid with compassion see,
If I my God am not forgott by thee,
If in mine offspring thou prolong my line,
The Child I wish for all his days be thine,
His life devoted in thy courts be led,
& not a rasour come upon his head.

So from recesses of her inmost soul
Through moving lips her still devotion stole:
As silent waters glide through parted trees
Whose branches tremble with a rising breeze.
The words were lost because her heart was low,
But free desire had taught ye mouth to go.
This Eli markd, & with a voice severe,
While yet she multiplyd her thoughts in prayr,
How long shall wine he crys distract thy breast,
Begon & lay ye drunken fitt by rest.
Ah says ye mourner count not this for sin,
It is not wine but grief that workes within,
The spirit of thy wretched handmaid know,
Her prayr's complaint, & her condition woe.
Then spake ye Sacred Priest, in peace depart,
& with thy comfort God fullfill thine heart.
His blessing thus pronouncd with awfull sound,
The Vot'ry bending leaves ye solemn ground,
She seems confirmd the Lord has heard her crys,
& Chearfull Hope the tears of trouble drys,
& makes her alterd eyes irradiate roll
With Joy that dawns in thought upon ye soul.

Now lett ye Town & Tent & court remain,
& leap the time till Hannah comes again.
As painted prospects skip along ye green
from hills to mountains eminently seen,
& leave their intervalls that sink below
In deep retirement unexpressd to show.

Behold she comes (but not as once she came
To grieve to sigh & teach her eyes to stream.)
Content adorns her with a lively face,
An open look, & smiling kind of grace.
Her little Samuel in her arms she bears
The wish of long desire & Child of prayrs,
& as ye sacrifice she brought begun,
To rev'rend Eli she presents her son.
Here, crys ye Mother, here my Lord may see
The woman come who prayd in grief by thee,
The Child I su'd for God with bounty gave,
& what he granted let him now receive.

But still ye Vot'ry feeles her temper move
With all ye tender violence of Love.
That still enjoys ye gift, & inly burns
To search for larger or for more returns.
Then filld with blessings which allure to praise,
& raisd by Joy to soul-enchanting lays,
Thus thankes ye Lord beneficently-kind
In sweet effusions of ye gratefull mind.

My lifting heart with more than common heat
Sends up its thankes to God on ev'ry beat.
My glory raisd above ye reach of scorn
In God exalts its highly-planted horn.
My mouth enlargd mine enemy defys,
& finds in Gods salvation full replys.
O Bright in holy beautys, Powr divine,
Theres none whose glory can compare wth thine,
None share thine honours, nay theres none beside,
No rock on which thy creatures can confide.

Ye proud in spirit who your gifts adore,
Unlearn the fault & speak with pride no more:
No more in words your arrogance be shown,
Nor call ye workes of Providence your own,
Since he that rules us infinitely knows,
& as he will his acts of Powr dispose.

The strong whose sinewy forces archd ye bow
Have seen it shatterd by ye conqu'ring foe.
The weak have felt their nerves more firmly brace,
& new-sprung vigour in the limbs encrease.
The full whom varyd tasts of plenty fed
Have lett their labour out to gain their bread.
The poor that languishd in a starving state
Content & full have ceased to beg their meat.
The barren womb, no longer barren now,
(O be my thankes accepted with my vow)
In pleasure wonders at a mothers pain,
& sees her offspring & conceives again,
While she that gloryd in her numerous heirs,
Now broke by feebleness no longer bears.

Such turns their rising from ye Lord derive,
The Lord that kills the Lord yt makes alive.
He brings by sickness down to gaping graves,
& by restoring health from sickness saves;
He makes ye poor by keeping back his store,
& makes ye rich by blessing men with more;
He sinking hearts with bitter grief annoys,
Or lifts them bounding with enlivend Joys.

He takes ye beggar from his humble clay
From off ye dunghill where despisd he lay
To mix with Princes in a rank supream,
Fill thrones of Honour & inherit fame.
For all the pillars of exalted state
So nobly firm so beautifully great,
Whose various orders bear ye rounded ball
Which woud without them to confusion fall,
All are ye Lords, at his disposure stand,
& prop ye governd world at his command.

His mercy still more wonderfully sweet
Shall guard ye righteous & uphold their feet.
While through ye darkness of ye wicked soul
Amazement Dread & Desperation roll,
While envy stops their tongues, & hopeless grief
that sees their fears but not their fears relief,
& they their strength as unavailing view,
Since none shall trust in that & safely too.

The foes of Israel for his Israels sake
God will to pieces in his anger break.
His bolts of thunder from an opend sky
Shall on their heads with force unerring fly.
His voice shall call, & all ye world shall hear,
& all for sentence at his Seat appear.

But mount to gentler praises, mount again
My thought prophetick of Messiahs reign,
Perceive the glorys which around him shine,
& thus thine hymn be crownd with grace divine.
'Strength to ye King for mans salvation born,
'& honours rising like ye lifted horn.

Tis here ye numbers find a bright repose,
The vows accepted & the Vot'ry goes.
But thou my soul upon her accents hung,
& sweetly pleasd with what she sweetly sung,
Prolong the pleasure with thine inward eyes,
Turn back thy thought, & see ye subject rise.

In her peculiar case ye song begun,
& for awhile through private blessings run,
As through their banks the curling waters play,
& soft in murmurs kiss ye flowry way.
With force encreasing then she leaps ye bounds,
& largely flows on more extended grounds,
Spreads wide & wider, till vast seas appear,
& boundless views of Providence are here.

How Swift these views along her Anthem glide,
As waves on waves pushd forward in ye tide!
How swift thy wonders ore my fancy sweep,
O Providence thou great unfathomd deep,
Where Resignation gently dips ye wing,
& learns to love & thank, admire & sing,
But bold presumptious Reasnings diving down
To reach ye bottom, in their diving drown.

Neglecting man forgetfull of thy ways
Nor owns thy care, nor thinkes of giving praise,
But from himself his happiness derives,
& thankes his wisdome when by thine he thrives.
His limbs at ease in soft repose he spreads,
Bewitchd with vain delights on flowry beds,
& while his sense ye fragrant breezes kiss,
He meditates a waking dream of bliss.
He thinks of Kingdomes & their crowns are near;
He thinkes of glorys & their rays appear;
He thinks of beautys & a lovely face
Serenely smiles in evry taking grace;
He thinks of riches & their heaps arise
Display their glittring forms & fix his eyes;
Thus drawn with pleasures in a charming view
Rising he reaches & woud faign pursue.
But still ye fleeting shadows mock his care,
& still his fingers grasp at yielding air,
What ere our tempers as their comforts want
It is not mans to take but Gods to grant.

If then persisting in the vain design
We seek true bliss unblessd with help divine,
Still may we search, still search without relief,
Nor onely want a bliss but find a grief.
That such conviction may to sight appear
Sitt down ye Sons of men spectatours here,
Behold a scene upon your folly wrought,
& lett this lively scene instruct ye thought.

Boy blow thy pipe untill ye bubble rise,
Then cast it off to float upon ye skys,
Still swell its sides with breath. O beautious frame!
It grows, it shines, be now the world thy name.
Methinks Creation forms itself within,
The men, the towns, ye birds, ye trees are seen,
The skys above present an Azure show,
& lovely Verdure paints an earth below.
Ile wind my self in this delightfull sphere,
& live a thousand years of pleasure there,
Rolld up in blisses which around me close,
& now regald with these & now with those.
False hope, but falser words of Joy farewell,
You've rent the lodging where I meant to dwell,
My bubble's burst, my prospects disappear,
& leave behind a moral & a tear.

If at the type our dreaming soules awake,
& Hannahs strains their Just impression make,
The boundless powr of Providence we know,
& fix our trust on nothing here below.
Then He grown pleasd that men his greatness own,
Lookes down Serenely from his starry throne,
& bids ye blessed days our prayrs have won
Put on their glorys & prepare to run.
For which our thanks be Justly sent above,
Enlargd by gladness, & inspird with Love:
For which his praises be for ever sung,
Oh Sweet employments of ye gratefull tongue!

Burst forth my temper in a godly flame,
For all his blessings laud his holy name:
That ere mine eyes saluted chearfull day
A gift devoted in ye womb I lay,
like Samuel vowd before my breath I drew,
O coud I prove in life like Samuel too!
That all my frame is exquisitely wrought,
The world enjoyd by sense, & God by thought;
That living streams through living Channels glide
To make this frame by natures course abide;
That for its good by Providences care
Fire Joyns with water, earth concurrs wth air;
That Mercys ever-inexhausted store
Is pleasd to proffer & to promise more,
& all ye proffers stream with grace divine,
& all ye promises with glory shine.
O praise the Lord my Soul, in one accord
Lett all that is within me praise ye Lord;
O praise ye Lord my soul, & ever strive
To keep the sweet remembrances alive:
Still raise ye kind affections of thine heart,
Raise evry gratefull word to bear a part,
With ev'ry word the strains of love devise,
Awake thine harp, & thou thy self arise,
Then if his Mercy be not half expresst,
Lett wondring silence magnify ye rest.

poem by Thomas Parnell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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