"Tis not a troop of well-appointed guards Create a monarch, not a purple robe, Dy'd in the people's blood; not all the crowns Or dazzling tiars that bend about the head, Tho' gilt with sunbeams, and set round with stars. A monarch he that conquers all his fears, And treads upon them; when he stands alone, Makes his own camp; four guardian virtues wait His nightly slumbers, and secure his dreams. Now dawns the light; he ranges all his thoughts In square battalions, bold to meet the attacks Of time and chance, himself a numerous host, All eye, all ear, all wakeful as the day, Firm as a rock, and moveless as the centre.

In vain the harlot, pleasure, spreads her charms, To lull his thoughts in luxury's fair lap, To sensual ease (the bane of little kings, Monarchs, whose waxen images of souls Are moulded into softness) still his mind Wears its own shape, nor can the heavenly form Stoop to be modell'd by the wild decrees Of the mad vulgar, that unthinking herd.

He lives above the crowd, nor hears the noise Of wars and triumphs, nor regards the shouts Of popular applause, that empty sound; Nor feels the flying arrows of reproach, Or spite or envy. In himself secure,

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 molehill, 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 calm, 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 well 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 upwards from between his closing lids,
To reach his birthplace, 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 cockboat, 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.

FREE PHILOSOPHY.

TO THE MUCH HONOURED MR. THOMAS ROWE,

THE DIRECTOR OF MY YOUTHFUL STUDIES.

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 Samson, blind and bound;
But 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.