Verse so design'd, on that high subject wrote, Is the perfection of an ardent thought; The smoke which we from burning incense raise, 19 When we complete the sacrifice of praise.

In boundless verse the fancy soars too high For any object but the Deity.

What mortal can with Heaven pretend to share In the superlatives of wise and fair?

A meaner subject when with these we grace, A giant's habit on a dwarf we place.

Sacred should be the product of our Muse, Like that sweet oil, above all private use, On pain of death forbidden to be made, But when it should be on the altar laid. 30 Verse shows a rich inestimable vein When, dropp'd from heaven, 'tis thither sent again.

Of bounty 'tis that He admits our praise, Which does not Him, but us that yield it, raise; For as that angel up to heaven did rise, Borne on the flame of Manoah's sacrifice, So, wing'd with praise, we penetrate the sky; Teach clouds and stars to praise Him as we fly; The whole creation, (by our fall made groan!) His praise to echo, and suspend their moan. 40 For that He reigns, all creatures should rejoice, And we with songs supply their want of voice.

The church triumphant, and the church below, In songs of praise their present union show; Their joys are full; our expectation long; In life we differ, but we join in song.

Angels and we, a.s.sisted by this art, May sing together, though we dwell apart.

Thus we reach heaven, while vainer poems must No higher rise than winds may lift the dust. 50 From that they spring; this from His breath that gave, To the first dust, th'immortal soul we have; His praise well sung (our great endeavour here), Shakes off the dust, and makes that breath appear.

CANTO II.

He that did first this way of writing grace,[1]

Conversed with the Almighty face to face; Wonders he did in sacred verse unfold, When he had more than eighty winters told.

The writer feels no dire effect of age, Nor verse, that flows from so divine a rage. 60 Eldest of Poets, he beheld the light, When first it triumph'd o'er eternal night; Chaos he saw, and could distinctly tell How that confusion into order fell.

As if consulted with, he has express'd The work of the Creator, and His rest; How the flood drown'd the first offending race, Which might the figure of our globe deface.

For new-made earth, so even and so fair, Less equal now, uncertain makes the air; 70 Surprised with heat, and unexpected cold, Early distempers make our youth look old; Our days so evil, and so few, may tell That on the ruins of that world we dwell.

Strong as the oaks that nourish'd them, and high, That long-lived race did on their force rely, Neglecting Heaven; but we, of shorter date!

Should be more mindful of impendent fate.

To worms, that crawl upon this rubbish here, This span of life may yet too long appear; 80 Enough to humble, and to make us great, If it prepare us for a n.o.bler seat.

Which well observing, he, in numerous lines, Taught wretched man how fast his life declines; In whom he dwelt before the world was made, And may again retire when that shall fade.

The lasting Iliads have not lived so long As his and Deborah's triumphant song.

Delphos unknown, no Muse could them inspire, But that which governs the celestial choir. 90 Heaven to the pious did this art reveal, And from their store succeeding poets steal.

Homer's Scamander for the Trojans fought, And swell'd so high, by her old Kishon taught.

His river scarce could fierce Achilles stay; Hers, more successful, swept her foes away.

The host of heaven, his Phoebus and his Mars, He arms, instructed by her fighting stars.

She led them all against the common foe; But he (misled by what he saw below!) 100 The powers above, like wretched men, divides, And breaks their union into different sides.

The n.o.blest parts which in his heroes shine, May be but copies of that heroine.

Homer himself, and Agamemnon, she The writer could, and the commander, be.

Truth she relates in a sublimer strain, Than all the tales the boldest Greeks could feign; For what she sung that Spirit did indite, Which gave her courage and success in fight. 110 A double garland crowns the matchless dame; From heaven her poem and her conquest came.

Though of the Jews she merit most esteem, Yet here the Christian has the greater theme; Her martial song describes how Sis'ra fell; This sings our triumph over death and h.e.l.l.

The rising light employ'd the sacred breath 117 Of the blest Virgin and Elizabeth.

In songs of joy the angels sung His birth; Here how He treated was upon the earth Trembling we read! th'affliction and the scorn, Which for our guilt so patiently was borne!

Conception, birth, and suff'ring, all belong (Though various parts) to one celestial song; And she, well using so divine an art, Has in this concert sung the tragic part.

As Hannah's seed was vow'd to sacred use, So here this lady consecrates her Muse.

With like reward may Heaven her bed adorn, With fruit as fair as by her Muse is born! 130

[1] 'Writing grace': Moses.

ON THE PARAPHRASE OF THE LORD'S PRAYER.

WRITTEN BY MRS WHARTON.

Silence, you winds! listen, ethereal lights!

While our Urania sings what Heaven indites; The numbers are the nymph's; but from above Descends the pledge of that eternal love.

Here wretched mortals have not leave alone, But are instructed to approach His throne; And how can He to miserable men Deny requests which His own hand did pen?

In the Evangelists we find the prose Which, paraphrased by her, a poem grows; A devout rapture! so divine a hymn, It may become the highest seraphim!

For they, like her, in that celestial choir, Sing only what the Spirit does inspire.

Taught by our Lord, and theirs, with us they may For all but pardon for offences pray.

SOME REFLECTIONS OF HIS UPON THE SEVERAL PEt.i.tIONS IN THE SAME PRAYER.

1 His sacred name with reverence profound Should mention'd be, and trembling at the sound!

It was Jehovah; 'tis Our Father now; So low to us does Heaven vouchsafe to bow![1]

He brought it down that taught us how to pray, And did so dearly for our ransom pay.

2 _His kingdom come._ For this we pray in vain Unless he does in our affections reign.

Absurd it were to wish for such a King, And not obedience to His sceptre bring, Whose yoke is easy, and His burthen light, His service freedom, and his judgments right.

3 _His will be done._ In fact 'tis always done; But, as in heaven, it must be made our own.

His will should all our inclinations sway, Whom Nature, and the universe, obey.

Happy the man! whose wishes are confined To what has been eternally designed; Referring all to His paternal care, To whom more dear than to ourselves we are.

4 It is not what our avarice h.o.a.rds up; 'Tis He that feeds us, and that fills our cup; Like new-born babes depending on the breast, From day to day we on His bounty feast; Nor should the soul expect above a day, To dwell in her frail tenement of clay; The setting sun should seem to bound our race, And the new day a gift of special grace.

5 _That he should all our trespa.s.ses forgive_, While we in hatred with our neighbours live; Though so to pray may seem an easy task, We curse ourselves when thus inclined we ask, This prayer to use, we ought with equal care Our souls, as to the sacrament, prepare.

The n.o.blest worship of the Power above, Is to extol, and imitate his love; Not to forgive our enemies alone, But use our bounty that they may be won.

6 _Guard us from all temptations of the foe_; And those we may in several stations know; The rich and poor in slipp'ry places stand.

Give us enough, but with a sparing hand!

Not ill-persuading want, nor wanton wealth, But what proportion'd is to life and health.

For not the dead, but living, sing thy praise, Exalt thy kingdom, and thy glory raise.

Favete linguis!...

Virginibus puerisque canto.--HOR.

[1] 'Vouchsafe to bow': Psalm xviii. 9.

ON THE FOREGOING DIVINE POEMS.

When we for age could neither read nor write, The subject made us able to indite; The soul, with n.o.bler resolutions deck'd, The body stooping, does herself erect.