Such honour how fhall we repay? How treat our guest divine? The facrifice fupreme be flain! Thus far, at large, on our disease ; What our fole fountain of diftrefs? When earth's dark maxims poifon shed On our polluted fouls, Our hearts and interefts fly as far Afunder, as the poles; Like princes in a cottage nurs'd, Unknown their royal race, With abject aims, and fordid joys, O for an Archimedes new, That traitor from the breast. No small advantage may be reap'd From thought whence we descend; From weighing well, and prizing weigh'd Our origin, and end : From far above the glorious fun To this dim fcene we came; Let that bright beam on Reafon rouz'd Earth's giant-ills are dwarf'd at once, Earth's glories too their fplendour lofe, And Indian mines are poor : Then level'd quite, whilft yet alive, A George the Third would then be low As Lewis in renown, Could he not boaft of glory more Than fparkles from a crown. When human glory rifes high When, though the King is truly great, Still greater is the Man; The man is dead, where virtue fails; Wisdom! Wifdom! where art thou? None on earth, Approach how fwift, how unconfin'd!. Thofe little epicures have kings From kings what refignation due Which thrones bestows, and, when they fail,. Who truly great? The good and brave, The mafters of a mind The will divine to do refolv'd, To fuffer it refign'd. Madam! if that may give it weight, The trifle you receive Is dated from a folemn fcene, The border of the grave; Where strongly strikes the trembling foul Eternity's dread power, As bursting on it through the thin Partition of an hour; Hear this, Voltaire! but this from me, Runs hazard of your frown; However, fpare it; ere you die, Such thoughts will be your own. In In mercy to yourself forbear My notions to chastise, Left unawares the gay Voltaire Should blame Voltaire the wife : Fame's trumpet rattling in your ear, How fhocking is that modefty, Our conftitution 's orthodox, And clofes with our creed: What then are they, whofe proud conceits Superior wifdom boast? Wretches, who fight their own belief, And labour to be loft! Though Vice, by no fuperior joys Of ruin they obey! Strict their devotion to the wrong, Though tempted by no prize; Hard their commandments, and their creed A magazine of lyes From From fancy's forge: gay fancy smiles At reafon plain, and cool; Fancy, whofe curious trade it is To make the fineft fool. Voltaire! long life 's the greatest curse That mortals can receive, Quite thoughtless of their day of death, Knowing, it may be distant far, Nor crush them till-to-morrow.. Thefe are cold, northern thoughts, conceiv'd Beneath an humble cot; Not mine, your genius, or your state, No caftle is my lot: But foon, quite level fhall we lie; And, what pride most bemoans, Our parts, in rank so distant now, Hear you that found? Alarming found! Prepare to meet your fate! One, who writes Finis to our works, Is knocking at the gate; Far other works will foon be weigh'd; Far other crowns be loft or won, Than fire ambitious wit: * Letter to Lord Lyttelton. Their |