Dwells in the fruit, nor serpent twines the boughs; Thro' this dark wild! 'Twas Wisdom's noblest work, PARADISE. TO MR. T. BRADBURY. YOUNG as I am, I quit the stage, Or agonies, or years; I leave my country all in tears: But heaven demands me upward, and I dare to go. Amongst ye, friends, divide and share If The remnant of my days, ye have patience, and can bear A long fatigue of life, and drudge thro' all the race. 1 The Gospel. Hark! my fair guardian chides my stay, And waves his golden rod : I sail aloft through azure seas, Now tread the milky road. Farewell, ye planets, in your spheres ; I stretch the pinions of a bolder thought: Deserts of trackless light, and all the ethereal waste, With pleasing reverence, I behold The pearly portals wide unfold; Enter, my soul, and view the amazing scenes: And let thy roving wonder loose Noon stands eternal here; here may thy sight Joy must beat high in every vein, And banish every care. See how the bubbling springs of love. The streams in crystal channels move, Here may thy greedy senses feast, While ecstasy and health attends on every taste. With the fair prospect charm'd I stood; Fearless I feed on the delicious fare, And drink profuse salvation from the silver flood, Nor can excess be there. In sacred order rang'd along, Join the bold seraphs' warbling breath, Each has a voice that tunes his strings To mighty sounds and mighty things, And, like the trumpet, strong. I was all ear; Through all my powers the heavenly accents roll I long'd and wish'd my Bradbury there: "Could he but hear these notes," I said, "His tuneful soul would never bear "The dull unwinding of life's tedious thread, "But burst the vital chords to reach the happy dead." And now my tongue prepares to join The harmony, and with a noble aim Attempts the unutterable Name, But faints, confounded by the notes divine. Thrice I essay'd, and fainted thrice; Rolling abroad my longing eyes, For all around them stood my curtains and the night. 1708. STRICT RELIGION VERY RARE. I'm borne aloft, and leave the crowd, Skirted with dawning gold: Mine eyes beneath the opening day "Are these the things," my passion cried, "That we call men? Are these allied 66 "To the fair worlds of light? They have ras'd out their Maker's name, "Graven on their minds with pointed flame, "In strokes divinely bright. "Wretches! they hate their native skies; “If an ethereal thought arise, "Or spark of virtue shine, "With cruel force, they damp its plumes, "Choke the young fire with sensual fumes, "With business, lust, or wine. "Lo! how they throng, with panting breath, "The broad descending road "That leads unerring down to death, "Nor miss the dark abode." Thus while I drop a tear or two |