Or lies she now before the eternal throne Prostrate in humble form, with deep devotion Overwhelm'd, and self-abasement, at the sight. Of the uncover'd Godhead, face to face? Seraphic crowns pay homage at his feet, And hers amongst them not of dimmer ore, Nor set with meaner gems: But vain ambition, And emulation vain, and fond conceit, And pride, for ever banish'd, flies the place, Curst pride, the dress of hell. Tell me Urania, How her joys heighten, and her golden hours Circle in love. O stamp upon my soul Some blissful image of the fair deceas'd

To call my passions and my eyes aside

From the dear breathless clay. Distressing sight
I look, and mourn, and gaze with greedy view
Of melancholy fondness: Tears bedewing
That form so late desir'd, so late belov'd,

Now loathsome and unlovely. Base disease,
That leagu'd with nature's sharpest pains and

spoil'd

So sweet a structure! The impoisoning taint O'erspreads the building wrought with skill divine, And ruins the rich temple to the dust.

Was this the countenance, where the world ad

mir'd

Features of wit and virtue? This the face

Where love triumph'd? and beauty on these cheeks,

As on a throne beneath her radiant eyes

Was seated to advantage; mild, serene,
Reflecting rosy light? So sits the sun
(Fair eye of heaven!) upon a crimson cloud
Near the horizon, and with gentle ray

Smiles lovely round the sky, till rising fogs,
Portending night, with foul and heavy wing,
Involve the golden star, and sink him down
Oppress'd with darkness..

.....

ON THE DEATH

OF AN AGED AND HONOURED RELATIVE.

I KNOW the kindred mind. 'Tis she, 'tis she;
Among the heavenly forms I see

The kindred-mind from fleshy bondage free;
O how unlike the thing was lately seen
Groaning and panting on the bed,

With ghastly air, and languish'd head ;
Life on this side, there the dead,
While the delaying flesh lay shivering between.

Long did the earthy house restrain In toilsome slavery that ethereal guest; Prison'd her round in walls of pain,

And twisted cramps and aches with her chain;
Till, by the weight of numerous days opprest,
The earthy house began to reel,

The pillars trembled, and the building fell;
The captive soul became her own again :
Tir'd with the sorrows and the cares,
A tedious train of fourscore years,
The prisoner smil'd to be releas'd,

She felt her fetters loose, and mounted to her rest.

Gaze on, my soul, and let a perfect view
Paint her idea all anew;

Rase out those melancholy shapes of woe

That hang around thy memory, and becloud it so.
Come, fancy, come, with essences refin'd,
With youthful green, and spotless white;
Deep be the tincture, and the colors bright
To express the beauties of a naked mind.
Provide no glooms to form a shade;
All things above of varied light are made,
Nor can the heavenly piece require a mortal aid.
But if the features, too divine,

Beyond the power of fancy shine,

Conceal the inimitable strokes behind a graceful shrine.

Describe the saint from head to feet,

Make all the lines in just proportion meet:

But let her posture be

Filling a chair of high degree;

Observe how near it stands to the almighty seat.

Paint the new graces of her eyes;

Fresh in her looks let sprightly youth arise,
And joys unknown below the skies.
Virtue that lives conceal'd below,
And to the breast confin'd,

Sits here triumphant on the brow,
And breaks with radiant glories through
The features of the mind.
Express her passion still the same,
But more divinely sweet;
Love has an everlasting flame,

And makes the work complete.
The painter muse, with glancing eye,
Observ'd a manly spirit nigh,1

That death had long disjoin'd:

"In the fair tablet they shall stand

"United by a happier band:

She said, and fix'd her sight, and drew the manly mind.

Recount the years, my song (a mournful round!)

Since he was seen on earth no more:

He fought in lower seas and drown'd;

But victory and peace he found

On the superior shore.

There now his tuneful breath in sacred songs

1 My grandfather, Mr. Thomas Watts, had such acquaintance with the mathematics, painting, music, poesy, &c. as gave him considerable esteem among his contemporaries. He was commander of a ship of war, 1656, and by blowing up of the ship in the Dutch war he was drowned in his youth.

Employs the European and the Eastern tongues.
Let the awful truncheon and the flute,

The pencil and the well-known lute,
Powerful numbers, charming wit,
And every art and science meet,

And bring their laurels to his hand, or lay them at his feet.

'Tis done! What beams of glory fall (Rich varnish of immortal art)

To gild the bright original!

"Tis done. The muse has now perform'd her part. Bring down the piece, Urania, from above,

And let my honour and my love,

Dress it with chains of gold to hang upon my heart.

A FUNERAL POEM

ON THE DEATH OF THOMAS GUNSTON, ESQ.

PRESENTED TO THE RIGHT HON. LADY ABNEY, LADY

MAYORESS OF LONDON.

MADAM,

Had I been a common mourner at the funeral of the dear gentleman deceased, I should have laboured after more of art in the following composition, to supply the defect of nature, and to feign a sorrow; but the uncommon condescension of his friendship to me, the inward esteem I pay his memory,