Weigh this, ye pupils of Voltaire!

From joyless murmur free;
Or, let us know, which character
Shall crown you of the three.

Refign, refign: this leffon none
Too deeply can instill;

A crown has been refign'd by more,
Than have refign'd the will;

Though will refign'd the meaneft makes.
Superior in renown,

And richer in celestial eyes,

Than he who wears a crown;

Hence, in the bofom cold of age,
It kindled a strange aim
To fhine in fong; and bid me boast
The* grandeur of my theme;

But oh! how far prefumption falls
Its lofty theme below!

Our thoughts in life's December freeze,

And numbers ceafe to flow.

First! greatest! beft! grant what I wrote
For others, ne'er may rife

To brand the writer; thou alone

Canft make our wisdom wife;

And how unwife! how deep in guilt!
How infamous the fault!

"A teacher thron'd in pomp of words,

Means moft infallible to make

The world an infidel;

And, with inftructions most divine,
To pave a path to hell;

O for a clean and ardent heart,
O for a foul on fire,

Thy praife, begun on earth, to found
Where angels ftring the lyre;

How cold is man? to him how hard
(Hard, what most easy feems)
"To fet a juft efteem on that,
"Which yet he most esteems.”

What shall we fay, when boundless bliss
Is offer'd to mankind,

And, to that offer when a race

Of rationals is blind?

Of human nature ne'er too high
Are our ideas wrought;

Of human merit ne'er too low
Deprefs'd the daring thought.

ON

ON THE LATE QUEEN'S DEATH.

AND

HIS MAJESTY'S ACCESSION TO THE THRONE.

IR, I have long, and with impatience, fought,

SIR,

To ease the fullness of my grateful thought,

My fame at once, and duty to pursue,

And please the public, by respect to you.

Though you, long fince beyond Britannia known,
Have spread your country's glory with your own;
To me you never did more lovely shine,
Than when fo late the kindled wrath divine
Quench'd our ambition, in great Anna's fate,
And darken'd all the pomp of human state.
Though you are rich in fame, and fame decay,
Though rais'd in life, and greatness fade away,
Your luftre brightens : virtue cuts the gloom
With purer rays, and sparkles near a tomb.

Know, fir, the great efteem and honour due,
I chose that moment to profess to you,
When sadness reign'd, when fortune, so severe,
Had warm'd our bofoms to be moft fincere.
And when no motives could have force to raise
A serious value, and provoke my praife,
But fuch as rife above, and far transcend
Whatever glories with this world shall end,
L 3

Then