On Mr. HOBBS

And his writings.

Uch is the mode of thefe cenforious days,
The art is loft of knowing how to praise;
Poets are envious now, and fools alone
Admire at wit, because themselves have none.
Yet, whatsoe'er is by vain Criticks thought,
Praising is harder much than finding fault; ..
In homely pieces ev'n the Dutch excell,
Italians only can draw beauty well.

As ftrings, alike wound up, fo equal prove
That one refounding makes the other move;
From fuch a cause our Satyrs pleafe fo much,
We fympathize with each ill-natur'd touch;
And as the fharp infection spreads about,
The Reader's malice helps the Writer out.
To blame, is eafy; to commend, is bold;
Yet, if the Mufe infpires it, who can hold?
To merit we are bound to give applause,
Content to fuffer in fojufta caufe.

While in dark ignorance we lay afraid
Offancies, ghofts, and every empty shade;
Great Hobbs appear'd, and by plain reafon's light
Put fuch fantastick forms to fhamefull flight.
Fond is their fear, who think men needs muit be
To vice enflav'd, if from vain terrors free;"
The wife and good, morality will guide;
And fuperftition all the world befide.

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In other Authors, tho' the thought be good 'Tis not fometimes fo eafily understood; That jewel oft unpolish'd has remain'd,

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Some words fhould be left out, and fome explain'd;
So that in fearch of fenfe we either ftray,
Or elfe grow weary in fo rough a way;
But here fweet eloquence does always fimile
In fuch a choice, yet unaffected ftyle,
As muft both knowledge and delight impart,
The force of reafon, with the flowers of art;
Clear as a beautifull tranfparent skin,
Which never hides the blood, yet holds it in:
Like a delicious stream it ever ran,
As fmooth as woman, but as ftrong as man.
BACON himself, whofe univerfal wit
Does admiration through the world beget,
Scarce more his Ages ornament is thought,
Or greater credit to his Country brought.

While fame is young, too weak to fly away
Malice purfues her, like fome bird of prey;
But once on wing, then all the quarrels cease;
Envy her felf is glad to be at peace,

Gives over, wearied with so high a flight,
Above her reach, and fcarce within her fight.
Hobbs to this happy pitch arriv'd at last,

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Might have look'd down with pride on dangers past,
But fuch the frailty is of human kind,
Men toil for fame, which no man lives to find;
Long ripening under ground this China lies;
Fame bears no fruit, till the vain planter dies.
Thus Nature, tir'd with his unusual length
Oflife which put her to her utmoft ftrength,

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Such

Such stock of wit unable to supply,
To fpare her felf, was glad to let him die.

Written over a Palace gate.

Ere lives a man, who by relation
Depends upon predestination;
For which the learned, and the wife
His understanding much defpife.
But I pronounce, with loyal tongue,
Him in the right, them in the wrong;
For how could fuch a wretch fucceed?
But that, alas, it was decreed!

M

The Miracle, in 1707.

Erit they hate, and wit they flight,
They neither act, nor reafon right,
And nothing mind, but pence:
Unskilful they victorious are,
Conduct a kingdom without care,

A Council without fenfe

So Mofes once, and Jofua,
And that virago Debora

Beftrid poor Ifrael:

Like rev'rence pay to thefe! for who
Could ride a Nation as they do,

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Without a Miracle?

ODE on the death of HENRY PURCELL.

G

fet to Mufick.

Ood Angels fnatch'd him eagerly on high; Joyfull they flew, finging, & foaring thro' the Teaching his new fledg'd foul to fly;

While we, alas, lamenting lie..

He went mufing all along,

Compofing new their heav'nly fong.

{sky,

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A while his skilful notes loud Hallelujah's drown'd ;

But foon they ceas'd their own, to catch his pleafing

David himself improv'd the harmony, [found
David in facred flory fo renown'd

No lefs for Mufick, than for Poetry!
Genius fublime in either art,

Crown'd with applaufe furpaffing all defert!
A man just after Gods own heart!

If human cares are lawfull to the bleft,

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Already fettled in eternal reft;

Needs muil he wish that Purcell only might

Have liv'd to fet, what he vouchfaf'd to write.

And in our fame below ftill bears a share:
Why is the future elfe fo much our care,
Even in our latest moment of despair?

And death defpis'd for fame by all the wife & brave? Oh, all ye bleft harmonious quire!

Who pow'r almighty only love, & only that admire! Look down with pity from your peacefull bow'r 31 On this fad ifle perplex'd,

And ever, ever vex'de

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With anxious care of trifles, wealth, & pow'r. In our rough minds due reverence infufe For fweet melodious founds, and each harmonious Mufick exalts man's nature, and infpires [Mufe. High elevated thoughts, or gentle, kind defires.

**

On the loss of an only Son, ROBERT MARQUIS of NORMANBY.

Ur mornings gay and shining,

The days our joys declare,

At evening no repining,
And nights all void of care.

A fond tranfported Mother
Was often heard to cry,
Oh, where is fuch another
So bleis'd by Heav'n as I?