Means most infallible to make The world an infidel; And, with instructions most divine, To pave a path to hell;
O! for a clean and ardent heart, O! for a soul on fire, Thy praise, begun on earth, to sound Where angels string the lyre;
How cold is man! to him how hard (Hard, what most easy seems) "To set a just esteem on that, Which yet he—most esteems!"
What shall we say, 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 Depress’d the daring thought.
ON THE LATE QUEEN’S DEATH, AND HIS MAJESTY’S ACCESSION TO THE THRONE
Inscribed to Joseph Addison, Esq. Secretary to Their Excellencies the Lords Justices.
Sir, I have long, and with impatience, sought To ease the fulness of my grateful thought, My fame at once, and duty to pursue, And please the public, by respect to you. Though you, long since beyond Britannia known, Have spread your country’s glory with your own; To me you never did more lovely shine, Than when so 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 lustre brightens: virtue cuts the gloom With purer rays, and sparkles near a tomb. Know, sir, the great esteem and honour due, I chose that moment to profess to you, When sadness reign’d, when fortune, so severe, Had warm’d our bosoms to be most sincere. And when no motives could have force to raise A serious value, and provoke my praise, But such as rise above, and far transcend, Whatever glories with this world shall end, Then shining forth, when deepest shades shall blot The sun’s bright orb, and Cato be forgot. I sing—but ah! my theme I need not tell, See every eye with conscious sorrow swell: Who now to verse would raise his humble voice, Can only show his duty, not his choice. How great the weight of grief our hearts sustain! We languish, and to speak is to complain. Let us look back, (for who too oft can view That most illustrious scene, for ever new!) See all the seasons shine on Anna’s throne, And pay a constant tribute, not their own. Her summer’s heats nor fruits alone bestow, They reap the harvest, and subdue the foe; And when black storms confess the distant sun, Her winters wear the wreaths her summers won. Revolving pleasures in their turns appear, And triumphs are the product of the year. To crown the whole, great joys in greater cease, And glorious victory is lost in peace. Whence this profusion on our favour’d isle? Did partial fortune on our virtue smile? Or did the sceptre, in great Anna’s hand, Stretch forth this rich indulgence o’er our land? Ungrateful Britain! quit thy groundless claim, Thy queen and thy good fortune are the same. Hear, with alarms our trumpets fill the sky; ’Tis Anna reigns! the Gallic squadrons fly. We spread our canvass to the southern shore; ’Tis Anna reigns! the south resigns her store. Her virtue smooths the tumult of the main, And swells the field with mountains of the slain Argyll and Churchill but the glory share, While millions lie subdu’d by Anna’s prayer. How great her zeal! how fervent her desire! How did her soul in holy warmth expire! Constant devotion did her time divide, Not set returns of pleasure or of pride. Not want of rest, or the sun’s parting ray, But finish’d duty, limited the day. How sweet succeeding sleep! what lovely themes Smil’d in her thoughts, and soften’d all her dreams! Her royal couch descending angels spread, And join’d their wings a shelter o’er her head. Though Europe’s wealth and glory claim’d a part, Religion’s cause reign’d mistress of her heart: She saw, and griev’d to see, the mean estate Of those who round the hallow’d altar wait; She shed her bounty, piously profuse, And thought it more her own in sacred use. Thus on his furrow see the tiller stand, And fill with genial seed his lavish hand; He trusts the kindness of the fruitful plain, And providently scatters all his grain. What strikes my sight? does proud Augusta rise New to behold, and awfully surprise! Her lofty brow more numerous turrets crown, And sacred domes on palaces look down: A noble pride of piety is shown, And temples cast a lustre on the throne. How would this work another’s glory raise! But Anna’s greatness robs her of the praise. Drown’d in a brighter blaze it disappears, Who dried the widow’s and the orphan’s tears? Who stoop’d from high to succour the distrest And reconcile the wounded heart to rest? Great in her goodness, well could we perceive, Whoever sought, it was a queen that gave.