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Wisdom his tower, and conscience is his shield,
His peace all inward, and his joys his own.
Now my ambition swells, my wishes soar,
This be my kingdom: sit above the globe
My rising soul, and dress thyself around
And shine in virtue's armour, climb the height
Of wisdom's lofty castle, there reside

Safe from the smiling and the frowning world.
Yet once a day drop down a gentle look
On the great mole-hill, and with pitying eye
Survey the busy emmets round the heap,
Crowding and bustling in a thousand forms
Of strife and toil, to purchase wealth and fame,
A bubble or a dust: then call thy thoughts
Up to thyself to feed on joys unknown,
Rich without gold, and great without renown.

TRUE COURAGE.

HONOUR demands my song. Forget the ground,
My generous Muse, and sit amongst the stars!
There sing the soul, that, conscious of her birth,
Lives like a native of the vital world,

Amongst these dying clods, and bears her state
Just to herself: how nobly she maintains
Her character, superior to the flesh,

She wields her passions, like her limbs, and knows
The brutal powers were only born to' obey.

This is the man whom storms could never make Meanly complain; nor can a flattering gale Make him talk proudly; he hath no desire To read his secret fate; yet unconcern'd And calin, could meet his unborn destiny, In all its charming or its frightful shapes.

He that unshrinking, and without a groan,
Bears the first wound, may finish all the war
With mere courageous silence, and come off
Conqueror: for the man that wells conceals
The heavy strokes of fate, he bears them well.
He, though the' Atlantic and the Midland seas
With adverse surges meet, and rise on high
Suspended 'twixt the winds, then rush amain,
Mingled with flames, upon his single head,
And clouds, and stars, and thunder; firm he stands,
Secure of his best life; unhurt, unmov'd;
And drops his lower nature, born for death.
Then from the lofty castle of his mind
Sublime looks down, exulting, and surveys
The ruins of creation; (souls alone

Are heirs of dying worlds;) a piercing glance
Shoots upward from between his closing lids,
To reach his birth-place, and without a sigh
He bids his batter'd flesh lie gently down
Amongst his native rubbish; whilst the spirit
Breathes and flies upward, an undoubted guest
Of the third Heaven, the' unruinable sky.

Thither, when fate has brought our willing souls, No matter whether 'twas a sharp disease,

Or a sharp sword, that help'd the travellers on,
And push'd us to our home. Bear up, my friend,
Serenely, and break through the stormy brine
With steady prow; know, we shall once arrive
At the fair haven of eternal bliss.

To which we ever steer; whether as kings
Of wide command we've spread the spacious sea
With a broad painted fleet, or row'd along
In a thin cock-boat with a little oar.

There let my native plank shift me to land, And I'll be happy: Thus I'll leap ashore Joyful and fearless on the' immortal coast, Since all I leave is mortal, and it must be lost.

TO THE MUCH HONOURED

MR. THOMAS ROWE,

THE DIRECTOR OF MY YOUTHFUL STUDIES.

FREE PHILOSOPHY.

CUSTOM, that tyranness of fools,

That leads the learned round the schools,
In magic chains of forms and rules!

My genius storms her throne:

No more, ye slaves, with awe profound

Beat the dull track, nor dance the round: Loose hands, and quit the' enchanted ground: Knowledge invites us each alone.

I hate these shackles of the mind,
Forg'd by the haughty wise;
Souls were not born to be confin'd,
And led, like Sampson, blind and bound;
Though when his native strength he found
He well aveng'd his eyes.

I love thy gentle influence, Rowe;
Thy gentle influence, like the sun,
Only dissolves the frozen snow,

Then bids our thoughts like rivers flow,

And choose the channels where they run.

Thoughts should be free as fire or wind;
The pinions of a single mind

Will through all nature fly:
But who can drag up to the poles
Long fetter'd ranks of leaden souls?
A genius, which no chain controls,
Roves with delight; or deep, or high:
Swift I survey the globe around,
Dive to the centre through the solid ground,
Or travel o'er the sky.

TO THE

REV. MR. BENONI ROWE.

THE WAY OF THE MULTITUDE.

ROWE, if we make the crowd our guide
Through life's uncertain road,

Mean is the chase; and wandering wide
We miss the' immortal good;

Yet if my thoughts could be confin'd
To follow any leader-mind,

I'd mark thy steps, and tread the same :
Dress'd in thy notions I'd appear

Not like a soul of mortal frame,
Nor with a vulgar air.

Men live at random and by chance,
Bright Reason never leads the dance;
Whilst in the broad and beaten way
O'er dales and hills from Truth we stray.

To ruin we descend, to ruin we advance.
Wisdom retires; she hates the crowd,
And with a decent scorn

Aloof she climbs her steepy seat,
Where nor the grave nor giddy feet,
Of the learn'd vulgar or the rude,
Have e'er a passage worn.

Mere hazard first began the track,
Where custom leads her thousands blind
In willing chains and strong;

There's scarce one bold, one noble mind,
Dares tread the fatal error back;
But hand in hand ourselves we bind,
And drag the age along.

Mortals, a savage herd, and loud
As billows on a noisy flood,

In rapid order roll;

Example makes the mischief good:
With jocund heel we beat the road,
Unheedful of the goal.

Me let Ithuriel's* friendly wing

Snatch from the crowd, and bear sublime
To Wisdom's lofty tower,

Thence to survey that wretched thing,
Mankind; and in exalted rhyme

Bless the delivering power.

* The name of an angel in Milton's Paradise Lost.

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