And, making heaven thy aim, hast had the grace
  To look the Sun of righteousness i’ the face. 
  What may we hope, if thou go’st on thus fast,
  Scriptures at first; enthusiasms at last! 
  Thou hast commenced, betimes, a saint; go on,
  Mingling diviner streams with Helicon; 20
  That they who view what epigrams here be,
  May learn to make like, in just praise of thee.

    Reader, I’ve done, nor longer will withhold
  Thy greedy eyes; looking on this pure gold
  Thou’lt know adulterate copper, which, like this,
  Will only serve to be a foil to his.

* * * * *

  EPISTLE XVI.

  TO MY FRIEND MR J. NORTHLEIGH, AUTHOR OF “THE
  PARALLEL,” ON HIS “TRIUMPH OF THE BRITISH
  MONARCHY.”

  So Joseph, yet a youth, expounded well
  The boding dream, and did the event foretell;
  Judged by the past, and drew the Parallel. 
  Thus early Solomon the truth explored,
  The right awarded, and the babe restored. 
  Thus Daniel, ere to prophecy he grew,
  The perjured Presbyters did first subdue,
  And freed Susanna from the canting crew. 
  Well may our monarchy triumphant stand,
  While warlike James protects both sea and land; 10
  And, under covert of his sevenfold shield,
  Thou send’st thy shafts to scour the distant field. 
  By law thy powerful pen has set us free;
  Thou studiest that, and that may study thee.

* * * * *

ELEGIES AND EPITAPHS.

I.

TO THE MEMORY OF MR OLDHAM.[33]

  Farewell, too little, and too lately known,
  Whom I began to think, and call my own: 
  For sure our souls were near allied, and thine
  Cast in the same poetic mould with mine! 
  One common note on either lyre did strike,
  And knaves and fools we both abhorr’d alike. 
  To the same goal did both our studies drive;
  The last set out, the soonest did arrive. 
  Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,
  Whilst his young friend performed, and won the race. 10
  O early ripe! to thy abundant store
  What could advancing age have added more? 
  It might (what nature never gives the young)
  Have taught the smoothness of thy native tongue. 
  But satire needs not those, and wit will shine
  Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line. 
  A noble error, and but seldom made,
  When poets are by too much force betray’d. 
  Thy generous fruits, though gather’d ere their prime,
  Still show’d a quickness; and maturing time 20
  But mellows what we write, to the dull sweets of rhyme. 
  Once more, hail! and farewell, farewell, thou young,
  But, ah! too short, Marcellus of our tongue! 
  Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound;
  But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.