Swift wings for all the flying hours
The God of time prepares;

The rest lie still yet in their nest,
And grow for future years.
July, 1700.

HAPPY SOLITUDE.

TO THOMAS GUNSTON, ESQ.

CASIMIRE, BOOK IV., ODE 12, IMITATED.

"Quid me latentem," &c.

THE noisy world complains of me,
That I should shun their sight, and flee
Visits, and crowds, and company :

Gunston, the lark dwells in her nest

Till she ascend the skies;

And in my closet I could rest

Till to the heavens I rise.

Yet they will urge, "This private life
"Can never make you blest;

"And twenty doors are still at strife

"To engage you for a guest."

Friend, should the towers of Windsor or Whitehall
Spread open their inviting gates

To make my entertainment gay,

I would obey the royal call,

But short should be my stay;

Since a diviner service waits

To employ my hours at home, and better fill the day.

When I within myself retreat,

I shut my doors against the great;
My busy eyeballs inward roll,
And there, with large survey, I see

All the wide theatre of me,

And view the various scenes of my retiring soul.
There I walk o'er the mazes I have trod,
While hope and fear are in a doubtful strife,
Whether this opera of life

Be acted well, to gain the plaudit of my God.

There's a day hastening ('tis an awful day!) When the great Sovereign shall at large review All that we speak, and all we do,

The several parts we act on this wide stage of clay :

These he approves, and those he blames, And crowns perhaps a porter, and a prince he

damns.

Oh, if the Judge from his tremendous seat

Shall not condemn what I have done,

I shall be happy, though unknown,

Nor need the gazing rabble, nor the shouting

street.

I hate the glory, friend, that springs

From vulgar breath and empty sound; Fame mounts her upward with a flattering gale Upon her airy wings,

Till Envy shoot and Fame receives the wound: Then her flagging pinions fail,

Down Glory falls and strikes the ground, And breaks her batter'd limbs. Rather let me be quite conceal'd from fame: How happy I should lie

In sweet obscurity,

Nor the loud world pronounce my little name! Here I could live and die alone;

Or if society be due

To keep our taste of pleasure new,
Gunston, I'd live and die with you,
For both our souls are one.

Here we could sit and pass the hour,

And pity kingdoms and their kings, And smile at all their shining things, Their toys of state and images of power. Virtue should dwell within our seat, Virtue alone could make it sweet, Nor is herself secure, but in a close retreat. While she withdraws from public praise, Envy perhaps would cease to rail. Envy itself may innocently gaze At beauty in a veil :

But if she once advance to light,

Her charms are lost in Envy's sight,

And Virtue stands the mark of universal spite.

1700.

THE DISDAIN.

TO JOHN HARTOPP, ESQ.

NOW SIR JOHN HARTOPP, BART.

HARTOPP, I love the soul that dares
Tread the temptations of his years
Beneath his youthful feet:
Fleetwood and all thy heavenly line
Look through the stars, and smile divine
Upon an heir so great.

Young Hartopp knows this noble theme,
That the wild scenes of busy life,

The noise, the amusements, and the strife,
Are but the visions of the night,

Gay phantoms of delusive light,
Or a vexatious dream.

Flesh is the vilest and the least
Ingredient of our frame:

We're born to live above the beast,
Or quit the manly name.

Pleasures of sense we leave for boys,

Be shining dust the miser's food,
Let fancy feed on fame and noise;
Souls must pursue diviner joys,
And seize the immortal good.

1700.

TO MITIO, MY FRIEND.

AN EPISTLE.

FORGIVE me, Mitio, that there should be any mortifying lines in the following poems inscribed to you so soon after your entrance into that state which was designed for the completest happiness on earth; but you will quickly discover, that the Muse in the first poem only represents the shades and dark colors that melancholy throws upon love and the social life. In the second, perhaps she indulges her own bright ideas a little. Yet if the accounts are but well balanced at last, and things set in a due light, I hope there is no ground for censure. Here you will find an attempt made to talk of one of the most important concerns of human nature in verse, and that with a solemnity becoming the argument. I have banished grimace and ridicule, that persons of the most serious character may read without offence. What was written several years ago to yourself, is now permitted to entertain the world; but you may assume it to yourself as a private entertainment still, while you lie concealed behind a feigned name.

THE MOURNING-PIECE.

LIFE's a long tragedy; this globe the stage, Well fix'd and well adorn'd with strong machines,