The twilight will the night forerun,
And night itself be soon begun.
Upon thy knees devoutly bow,
And pray the Lord of glory now,
To fill thy breast, or deadly sin
May cause a blinder night within.
And whether pleasing vapours rise,
Which gently dim the closing eyes;
Which make the weary members bless'd,
With sweet refreshment in their rest;
Or whether spirits in the brain
Dispel their soft embrace again;
And on my watchful bed I stay,
Forsook by sleep, and waiting day;
Be God for ever in my view,
And never he forsake me too;
But still as day concludes in night,
To break again with new-born light;
His wondrous bounty let me find,
With still a more enlighten'd mind;
When grace and love in one agree,
Grace from God, and love from me;
Grace that will from Heaven inspire,
Love that seals it in desire;
Grace and love that mingle beams,
And fill me with increasing flames.

Thou that hast thy palace far
Above the Moon and every star,
Thou that sittest on a throne

To which the night was never known,
Regard my voice and make me bless'd,
By kindly granting its request.
If thoughts on thee my soul employ,
My darkness will afford me joy,
Till thou shalt call, and I shall soar,
And part with darkness evermore.

THE SOUL IN SORROW.
WITH kind compassion hear me cry,
O, Jesu, Lord of Life, on high!

As when the summer's seasons beat,
With scorching flame and parching heat:
The trees are burnt, the flowers fade,
And thirsty gaps in earth are made:
My thoughts of comfort languish so,
And so my soul is broke by woe.
Then on thy servant's drooping head
Thy dews of blessing sweetly shed;
Let those a quick refreshment give,
And raise my mind, and bid me live,
My fears of danger, while I breathe,
My dread of endless Hell beneath:
My sense of sorrow for my sin,
To springing comfort, change within;
Change all my sad complaints for ease,
To cheerful notes of endless praise;
Nor let a tear mine eyes employ,
But such as owe their birth to joy:
Joy transporting, sweet, and strong,
Fit to fill and raise my song;
Joy that shall resounded be,
While days and nights succeed for me:
Be not as a judge severe,

For so thy presence who may bear?
On all my words and actions look,
(I know they're written in thy book;)
But then regard my mournful cry,
And look with Mercy's gracious eye;

What needs my blood, since thine will do, To pay the debt to Justice due?

O, tender Mercy's art divine!

Thy sorrow proves the cure of mine!
Thy dropping wounds, thy woeful smart,
Allay the bleedings of my heart:

Thy death, in death's extreme of pain,
Restores my soul to life again.
Guide me then, for here I burn,
To make my Saviour some return.
I'll rise (if that will please him, still,
And sure I've heard him own it will);
I'll trace his steps, and bear my cross,
Despising every grief and loss;
Since he, despising pain and shame,
First took up his, and did the same.

THE HAPPY MAN.
How bless'd the man, how fully so,

As far as man is bless'd below,
Who, taking up his cross, essays
To follow Jesus all his days;
With resolution to obey,

And steps enlarging in his way.
The Father of the saints above
Adopts him with a father's love,
And makes his bosom throughly shine
With wondrous stores of grace divine;
Sweet grace divine, the pledge of joy,
That will his soul above employ;
Full joy, that, when his time is done,
Becomes his portion as a son.
Ah me! the sweet infus'd desires,
The fervid wishes, holy fires,
Which thus a melted heart refine,
Such are his, and such be mine.
From hence despising all besides
That Earth reveals, or Ocean hides;
All that men in either prize,
On God alone he sets his eyes.
From hence his hope is on the wings,
His health renews, his safety springs,
His glory blazes up below,
And all the streams of comfort flow.
He calls his Saviour-King above,
Lord of Mercy, Lord of Love;
And finds a kingly care defend,
And mercy smile, and love descend,
To cheer, to guide him in the ways
Of this vain world's deceitful maze:
And though the wicked Earth display
Its terrours in their fierce array ;]
Or gape so wide that horrour shows
Its hell replete with endless woes;
Such succour keeps him clear of ill,
Still firm to good, and dauntless still.
So, fix'd by Providence's hands,
A rock amidst an ocean stands;
So bears, without a trembling dread,
The tempest beating round its head;
And with its side repels the wave,
Whose hollow seems a coming grave:
The skies, the deeps, are heard to roar;
The rock stands settled as before.

1, all with whom he has to do,
Admire the life which blesses you,
That feeds a foe, that aids a friend,
Without a bye designing end;

Its knowing real interest lies

On the bright side of yonder skies,
Where, having made a title fair,

It mounts, and leaves the world to care.
While he that seeks for pleasing days,
In earthly joys and evil ways,
Is but the fool of toil or fame,
(Though happy be the spacious name)

And made by wealth, which makes him great,
A more conspicuous wretch of state.

THE WAY TO HAPPINESS.

How long, ye miserable blind,
Shall idle dreams engage your mind;
How long the passions make their flight
At empty shadows of delight.
No more in paths of errour stray,
The Lord thy Jesus is the way,
The spring of happiness, and where
Should men seek happiness but there!
Then run to meet him at your need,
Run with boldness, run with speed,
For he forsook his own abode

To meet thee more than half the road.
He laid aside his radiant crown,

And love for mankind brought him down
To thirst and hunger, pain and woe,
To wounds, to death itself below;
And he, that suffer'd these alone
For all the world, despises none.
To bid the soul, that's sick, be clean,
To bring the lost to life again;
To comfort those that grieve for ill,
Is his peculiar goodness still.
And, as the thoughts of parents run
Upon a dear and only son,
So kind a love his mercies show,
So kind and more extremely so.

Thrice happy men! (or find a phrase
That speaks your bliss with greater praise)
Who most obedient to thy call,
Leaving pleasures, leaving all,

With heart, with soul, with strength incline,
O sweetest Jesu! to be thine.
Who know thy will, observe thy ways,
And in thy service spend their days:
Ev'n death, that seems to set them free,
But brings them closer still to thee.

THE CONVERT'S LOVE.

BLESSED light of saints on high,
Who fill the mansions of the sky;
Sure defence, whose mercy still
Preserves thy subjects here from ill;
Oh, my Jesus! make me know
How to pay the thanks I owe.

As the fond sheep that idly strays,
With wanton play, through winding ways,
Which never bits the road of home,
O'er wilds of danger learns to roam,
Till, wearied out with idle fear,
And passing there, and turning here,
He will, for rest, to covert run,
And meet the wolf he wish'd to shun.

Thus wretched 1, through wanton will,
Run blind and headlong on in ill:

'T was thus from sin to sin I flew,
And thus I might have perish'd too;
But Mercy dropt the likeness here,
And show'd, and sav'd me from my fear.
While o'er the darkness of my mind
The sacred Spirit purely shin'd,
And mark'd and brighten'd all the way
Which leads to everlasting day;

And broke the thickening clouds of sin,
And fix'd the light of love within.

From hence my ravish'd soul aspires,
And dates the rise of its desires.
From hence to thee, my God! I turn,
And fervent wishes say I burn;

I burn, thy glorious face to see,
And live in endless joy with thee.

There's no such ardent kind of flame
Between the lover and the dame;
Nor such affection parents bear
To their young and only heir,
Though, join'd together, both conspire,
And boast a doubled force of fire,
My tender heart, within its seat,
Dissolves before the scorching heat,
As softening wax is taught to run
Before the warmness of the Sun.

Oh, my flame, my pleasing pain,
Burn and purify my stain,
Warm me, burn me, day by day,
Till you purge my earth away;
Till at the last I throughly shine,
And turn a torch of love divine.

A DESIRE TO PRAISE.
PROPITIOUS Son of God, to thee,
With all my soul, I bend my knee;
Wy wish I send, my want impart,
And dedicate my mind and heart:
For, as an abseut parent's son,
Whose second year is only run,
When no protecting friend is near,
Void of wit, and void of fear,

With things that hurt him fondly plays,
Or here he falls, or there he strays;
So should my soul's eternal guide,
The sacred Spirit be deny'd,

Thy servant soon the loss would know,
And sink in sin, or run to woe.

O, Spirit bountifully kind,
Warm, possess, and fill my mind;
Disperse my sins with light divine,
And raise the flames of love with thine;
Before thy pleasures rightly priz'd,
Let wealth and honour be despis'd;
And let the Father's glory be
More dear than life itself to me.

Sing of Jesus! virgins, sing
Him, your everlasting King!
Sing of Jesus! cheerful youth,
Him, the God of love and truth!
Write, and raise a song divine,
Or come and hear, and borrow mine.
Son eternal, Word supreme,
Who made the universal frame,
Heaven, and all its shining show,
Earth, and all it holds below:

Bow with mercy, bow thine ear,
While we sing thy praises here;
Son Eternal, ever-bless'd,
Resting on the Father's breast,
Whose tender love for all provides,
Whose power over all presides;
Bow with pity, bow thine ear;
While we sing thy praises, hear!
Thou, by pity's soft extreme,
Mov'd, and won, and set on flame,
Assum'd the form of man, and fell
In pains, to rescue man from Hell;
How bright thine humble glories rise,
And match the lustre of the skies,
From Death and Hell's dejected state
Arising, thou resum'd thy seat,
And golden thrones of bliss prepar'd
Above, to be thy saints' reward.

How bright thy glorious honours rise, And with new lustre grace the skies! For thee, the sweet seraphic choir Raise the voice, and tune the lyre, And praises with harmonious sound Through all the highest Heaven rebound. O make our notes with theirs agree, And bless the souls that sing of thee! To thee the churches here rejoice, The solemn organs aid the voice: To sacred roofs the sound we raise, The sacred roofs resound thy praise: And while our notes in one agree, O! bless the church that sings to thee!

ON HAPPINESS IN THIS life.

THE morning opens, very freshly gay,
And life itself is in the month of May.
With green my fancy paints an arbour o'er,
And flowerets with a thousand colours more;
Then falls to weaving that, and spreading these,
And softly shakes them with an easy breeze.
With golden fruit adorns the bending shade,
Or trails a silver water o'er its bed.
Glide, gentle water, still more gently by,
While in this summer-bower of bliss I lye,
And sweetly sing of sense-delighting flames,
And nymphs and shepherds, soft invented names;
Or view the branches which around me twine,
And praise their fruit, diffusing sprightly wine;
Or find new pleasures in the world to praise,
And still with this return adorn my lays;
"Range round your gardens of eternal spring,
Go, range my senses, while I sweetly sing:"
In vain, in vain, alas! seduc'd by ill,
And acted wildly by the force of will!
I tell my soul, it will be constant May,
And charm a season never made to stay;
My beauteous arbour will not stand a storm,
The world but promises, and can't perform:
Then fade, ye leaves; and wither, all ye flowers;
I'll doat no longer in enchanted bowers;
But sadly mourn, in melancholy song,
The vain conceits that held my soul so long.
The lusts that tempt us with delusive show,
And sin brought forth for everlasting woe.
Thus shall the notes to sorrow's object rise,
While frequent rests procure a place for sighs;

And, as I moan upon the naked plain,
Be this the burthen closing every strain:
"Return, my senses; range no more abroad;
He'll only find his bliss who seeks for God."

EXTACY.

THE fleeting joys, which all affords below,
Work the fond heart with unperforming show;
The wish that makes our happier life complete,
Nor grasps the wealth nor honours of the great;
Nor loosely sails on Pleasure's easy stream,
Nor gathers wreaths from all the groves of Fame;
Weak man, whose charms to these alone confine,
Attend my prayer, and learn to make it thine.

From thy rich throne, where circling trains of light

Make day that's endless, infinitely bright;
Thence, heavenly Father! thence with mercy dart
One beam of brightness to my longing heart.
Dawn through the mind, drive Errour's clouds away,
And still the rage in Passion's troubled sea;
That the poor banish'd soul, serene and free,
May rise from Earth, to visit Heaven and thee:
Come, Peace diviné! shed gently from above,
Inspire my willing bosom, wondrous Love;
Thy purpled pinions to my shoulders tye,
And point the passage where I want to fly.

But whither, whither now! what powerful fire
With this bless'd influence equals my desire?
I rise (or Love, the kind deluder, reigns,
And acts in fancy such enchanted scenes);
Earth lessening flies, the parting skies retreat,
The fleecy clouds my waving feathers beat;
And now the Sun and now the stars are gone,
Yet still methinks the Spirit bears me on,
Where tracts of ether purer blue display,
And edge the golden realm of native day.

Oh, strange enjoyment of a bliss unseen!
Oh, ravishment! Oh, sacred rage within!
Tumultuous pleasure, rais'd on peace of mind,
Sincere, excessive, from the world refin'd!
I see the light that veils the throne on high,
A light unpierc'd by man's impurer eye;

I hear the words, that issuing thence proclaim,
"Let God's attendants praise his awful name!"
Then heads unnumber'd bend before the shrine,
Mysterious seat of Majesty divine!
And hands unnumber'd strike the silver string,
And tongues unnumber'd Hallelujah sing.
See, where the shining scraphims appear,
And sink their decent eyes with holy fear.
See flights of angels all their feathers raise,
And range the orbs, and, as they range, they praise;
Behold the great apostles! sweetly met,
And high on pearls of azure ether set.
Behold the prophets, full of heavenly fire,
With wandering finger wake the trembling lyre;
And hear the martyrs' tune, and all around
The church triumphant makes the region sound.
With harps of gold, with boughs of ever-green,
With robes of white, the pious throngs are seen;
Exalted anthems all their hours employ,
And all is music, and excess of joy.

Charm'd with the sight, I long to bear a part;
The pleasure flutters at my ravish'd heart.
Sweet saints and angels of the heavenly choir,
If love has warm'd you with celestial fire,

Assist my words, and, as they move along,
With Hallelujahs crown the burthen'd song.
Father of all above, and all below,
O great, and far beyond expression so;
No bounds thy knowledge, none thy power confine,
For power and knowledge in their source are thine;
Around thee Glory spreads her golden wing:
Sing, glittering angels, Hallelujah sing.

Son of the Father, first-begotten Son,
Ere the short measuring line of time begun,
The world has seen thy works, and joy'd to see
The bright effulgence manifest in thee.

The world must own thee Love's unfathom'd spring;
Sing, glittering angels, Hallelujah sing.
Proceeding Spirit, equally divine,

In whom the Godhead's full perfections shine,
With various graces, comforts unexpress'd,
With holy transports you refine the breast;
And Earth is heavenly where your gifts you bring,
Sing, glittering angels, Hallelujah sing.

But where's my rapture, where my wondrous
heat,

What interruption makes my bliss retreat?
This world's got in, the thoughts of t'other's
crost,

And the gay picture's in my fancy lost.
With what an eager zeal the conscious soul
Would claim its seat, and, soaring, pass the pole!
But our attempts these chains of Earth restrain,
Deride our toil, and drag us down again.
So from the ground aspiring meteors go,
And, rank'd with planets, light the world below;
But their own bodies sink them in the sky,
When the warmth's gone that taught them how
to fly.

ON DIVINE LOVE;

ON QUEEN ANNE'S PEACE.

(WRITTEN IN DECEMBER 1712.)
MOTHER of Plenty, daughter of the skies,
Sweet Peace, the troubled world's desire, arise;
Around thy poet weave thy summer shades,
Within my fancy spread thy flowery meads;
Amongst thy train soft Ease and Pleasure bring,
And thus indulgent sooth me whilst I sing.

Great Anna claims the song; no brighter name
Adorns the list of never-dying Pame;
No fairer soul was ever form'd above;
None e'er was more the grateful nation's love,
Nor lov'd the nation more. I fly with speed
To sing such lines as Bolingbroke may read,
On war dispers'd, on faction trampled down,
On all the peaceful glories of the crown.
And, if I fail in too confin'd a flight,
May the kind world upon my labours write,
"So fell the lines which strove for endless fame,
Yet fell, attempting on the noblest theme."

Now twelve revolving years has Britain stood, With loss of wealth, and vast expense of blood, Europa's guardian; still her gallant arms Secur'd Europa from impending harms. Fair honour, full success, and just applause, Pursued her marches, and adorn'd her cause; Whilst Gaul, aspiring to erect a throne O'er other empires, trembled for her own; Bemoan'd her cities won, her armies slain, And sunk the thought of universal reign.

When thus reduc'd the world's invaders lie, The fears which rack'd the nations justly die: Power finds its balance, giddy motions cease In both the scales, and each inclines to peace. This fair occasion Providence prepares, To answer pious Anna's hourly prayers, Which still on warm Devotion's wings arose, And, reaching Heaven, obtain'd the world's repose. Within the vast expansion of the sky, Where orbs of gold in fields of azure lie, A glorious palace shines, whose silver ray, Serenely flowing, lights the milky way; The road of angels. Here, with speedy care, The summon'd guardians of the world repair. When Britain's angel, on the message sent, Speaks Anna's prayers, and Heaven's supreme in

tent;

That War's destructive arm should humble Gaul,
Spain's parted realms to different monarchs fall;
The grand alliance crown'd with glory cease,
And joyful Europe find the sweets of peace.
He spoke: the smiling hopes of man's repose,
The joy that springs from certain hopes arose,

Diffusive o'er the place; complacent airs,
Sedately sweet, were heard within the spheres;
And, bowing, all adore the sovereign mind,
And fly to execute the work design'd.
This done, the guardian on the wing repairs,
Where Anna sate, revolving public cares
With deep concern of thought. Unseen he stood,
Presenting peaceful images of good;
On Fancy's airy stage, returning trade,
A sunk exchequer fill'd, an army paid:
The fields with men, the men with plenty bless'd,
The towns with riches, and the world with rest.
Such pleasing objects on her bosom play,
And give the dawn of glory's golden day;
When all her labours at their harvest shown
Shall, in her subjects' joy, complete her own.
Then breaking silence; ""T is enough," she cries,
"That War has rag'd to make the nations wise.
Heaven prospers armies whilst they fight to save,
And thirst of further fame destroys the brave;
The vanquish'd Gauls are humbly pleas'd to live,
And but escap'd the chains they meant to give.
Now let the powers be still'd, and each possess'd
Of what secures the common safety best."

So spake the queen; then, fill'd with warmth di-
vine,

She call'd her Oxford to the grand design;
Her Oxford, prudent in affairs of state,
Profoundly thoughtful, manifestly great
In every turn, whose steady temper steers
Above the reach of gold, or shock of fears;
Whom no blind chance, but merit understood,
By frequent trials, power of doing good,
And will to execute, advanc'd on high:

Oh, soul created to deserve the sky!
And make the nation, crown'd with glory, see
How much it rais'd itself by raising thee!
Now let the schemes which labour in thy breast,
The long alliance, crown'd with lasting rest,
Weigh all pretences with impartial laws,
And fix the separate interests of the cause!

These toils the graceful Bolingbroke attends, A genius fashion'd for the greatest ends; Whose strong perception takes the swiftest flight, And yet its swiftness ne'er obscures its sight: When schemes are fix'd, and each assign'd a part, None serves his country with a nobler heart; Just thoughts of honour all his mind control, And expedition wings his lively soul. On such a patriot to confer the trust, The monarch knows it safe, as well as just.

Then next proceeding in her agents' choice,
And ever pleas'd that worth obtains the voice,
She, from the voice of high-distinguish'd fr mes,
With pious Bristol, gallant Strafford names:
One form'd to stand a church's firm support,
The other fitted to adorn a court:
Both vers'd in business, both of fine address,
By which experience leads to great success:
And both to distant lands the monarch sends,
And, to their conduct, Europe's peace commends.
Now ships unmoor'd, to waft her agents o'er,
Spread all their sail, and quit the flying shore;
The foreign agents reach th' appointed place,
The congress opens, and it will be peace.
Methinks the war, like stormy winter, flies,
When fairer months unveil the bluish skies;

A flowery world the sweetest season spreads,
And doves, with branches, flutter round

heads.

their

Half-peopled Gaul, whom numerous ills destroy,
With wishful heart, attends the promis'd joy.
For this prepares the duke-ah, sadly slain,
'Tis grief to name him whom we mourn in vain:
No warmth of verse repairs the vital flame,
For verse can only grant a life in fame;
Yet could my praise, like spicy odours shed,
In everlasting song embalm the dead;

To realms that weeping heard the loss I'd tell,
What courage, sense, and faith, with Brandon fell!
But Britain more than one for glory breeds,
And polish'd Talbot to the charge succeeds;
Whose far-projecting thoughts, maturely clear,
Like glasses, draw their distant objects near.
Good parts, by gentle breeding much refin'd,
And stores of learning, grace his ample mind;
A cautious virtue regulates his ways,
And honour gilds them with a thousand rays.
To serve his nation, at his queen's command,
He parts, commission'd for the Gallic land:
With pleasure Gaul beholds him on her shore,
And learns to love a name she fear'd before.

Once more aloft, there meet for new debates,
The guardian angels of Europa's states:
And mutual concord shines in every face,
And every bosom glows with hopes of peace;
While Britain's steps, in one consent, they praise,
Then gravely mourn their other realms' delays;
Their doubtful claims, through seas of blood pur-
sued,

Their fears that Gallia fell but half subdued;
And all the reasonings which attempt to show
That war should ravage in the world below.
"Ah, fall'n estate of inan! can rage delight,
Wounds please the touch, or ruin charm the sight!
Ambition make unlovely Mischief fair!

Or ever Pride be Providence's care!
When stern oppressors range the bloody field,
'Tis just to conquer, and unsafe to yield:
There save the nations; but no more pursue,
Nor in thy turn become oppressor too."

Our rebel angels for ambition fell,
And, war in Heaven produc'd a fiend in Hell.
Thus, with a soft concern for man's repose,
The tender guardians join to moan our woes;
Then awful rise, combin'd with all their might,
To find what fury, 'scap'd the den of night,
The pleasing labours of their love withstands,
And spreads a wild distraction o'er the lands.
Their glittering pinions sound in yielding air,
And watchful Providence approves the care.
In Flandria's soil, where camps have mark'd the
plain,

The fiend, impetuous Discord, fix'd her reign;
A tent her royal seat. With full resort
Stern shapes of Horrour throng'd her busy court;
Blind Mischief, Ambush close concealing Ire,
Loud Threatenings, Ruin arm'd with sword and fire;
Assaulting Fierceness, Anger wanting breath,
High reddening Rage, and various forms of Death;
Dire imps of darkness, whom with gore she feeds,
When war beyond its point of good proceeds.
In Gallic armour, call'd with alter'd name
Great love of empire, to the field she came;
Now, still supporting feud, she strives to hide
Beneath that name, and only change the side:
But, as she whiri'd the rapid wheels around,
Where mangled limbs in heaps pollute the ground
(A sullen joyless sport); with searching eye,
The shining chiefs regard her as they fly;