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Such honour how shall we repay ?

How treat our guest divine ?
The facrifice supreme be Main !

Let felf-will die: Resign.
Thus far, at large, on our disease ;

Now let the cause be shown,
Whence rises, and will ever rise,

The dismal human groan :
What our fole fountain of distress

Strong passion for this scene;
That trifles makes important, things

Of mighty moment mean :
When earth's dark maxims poison shed

On our polluted souls,
Our hearts and interests fly as far

Asunder, as the poles ;
Like princes in a cottage nurs’d,

Unknown their royal race,
With abject aims, and sordid joys,

Our grandeur we difgrace;
O! for an Archimedes new,

Of moral powers possess’d,
The world to move, and quite expel

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 :

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From far above the gloriouş sun

To this dim scene we came;
And may, if wise, for ever balk,

In great Jehovah's beam :
Let that bright beam on Reason rouz’d

In awful lustre rise,
Earth's giant-ills are dwarf'd at once,

And all disquiet dies :
Earth's glories too their fplendour lose,

Those phantoms charm no more ;
Empire 's a feather for a fool,

And Indian mines are poor :
Then level'd quite, whilft yet alive,

The monarch and his flave ;
Nor wait enlighten’d minds to learn
That lesson from the

grave :
A George the Third would then be low

As Lewis in renown,
Could he not boast of glory more

Than sparkles from a crown.
When human glory rises high

As human glory can ;
When, though the King is truly great,

Still greater is the Man;
The man is dead, where virtue fails;

And though the Monarch proud
In grandeur shines, his gorgeous robe
Is but a gaudy throud.


Wisdom! where art thou? None on earth,

Though grasping wealth, fame, power, But what, o death! through thy approach,

Is wiser every hour ;
Approach how swift, how unconfin'd!

Worms feast on viands rare,
"hose little epicures have kings

their bill of fare: From kings what resignation due

To that almighty will,
Which thrones bestows, and, when they faily.

Can throne them higher still ?
Who truly great ? The good and brave,

The masters of a mind
The will divine to do resolv'd,

To suffer it refign'd.
Madam ! if that may give it weight;

The trifle you receive
Is dated from a folemn scene,

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 mex

Runs hazard of your frown;
However, spare it; ere you die,

Such thoughts will be your own.

In mercy to yourself forbear

My notions to chastise, Left unawares the gay

Should blame Voltaire the wise :
Fame's trumpet rattling in your ear,

Now, makes us disagree;
When a far louder trumpet sounds,

Voltaire will close with me :
How shocking is that modesty,

Which keeps some honest men
From urging what their hearts suggest,

When bray'd by folly’s pen
Assaulting truths, of which in all

Is sown the sacred feed !
Our constitution 's orthodox,

And closes with our creed :
What then are they, whose proud conceits

Superior wisdorn boast?
Wretches, who fight their own belief,

And labour to be loft!
Though Vice, by no fuperior joys

Her heroes keeps in pay ;
Through pure disinterested love

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 fancy's forge: gay fancy smiles

At reason plain, and cool;
Fancy, whose curious trade it is

To make the finest fool.
Voltaire ! long life 's the greatest curse

That mortals can receive,
When they imagine the chief end

Of living is to live;
Quite thoughtless of their day of death,

That birth-day of their sorrow;
Knowing, it may be distant far,

Nor crush them till-to-morrow.
These are cold, northern thoughts, conceiv'd

Beneath an humble cot;
Not mine, your genius, or your state,

No * castle is my lot :
But soon, quite level shall we lie ;

And, what pride most bemoans,
Our parts, in rank so distant now,

As level as our bones ; Hear

you that sound ? Alarming sound !
Prepare to meet your fate !
One, who 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 :

* Letter to Lord Lyttelton.

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