Hear this, Voltaire! but this, from me,
Runs hazard of your frown;
However, spare it ; ere you die
Such thoughts will be your own.

In mercy to yourself forbear
My notions to chastise,
Lest unawares the gay Voltaire

Should blame Voltaire the wise:

Fame's trumpet rattling in your ear,
Now, makes us disagree,
When a far louder trumpet sounds,
Voltaire will close with me:

How shocking is that modesty,
Which keeps some honest men
From urging what their hearts suggest,
When brav'd by folly's pen.

Assaulting truths, of which in all
Is sown the sacred seed!

Our constitution's orthodox,

And closes with our creed:

What then are they, whose proud conceits
Superior wisdom boast?
Wretches, who fight their own belief,

And labour to be lost!

Though vice by no superior joys

Her heroes keeps in pay; Through pure disinterested love Of ruin they obey!

Strict their devotion to the wrong,
Though tempted by no prize;

Hard their commandments, and their creed
A magazine of lies

From fancy's forge: gay fancy smiles

At reason plain, and cool; Fancy, whose curious trade it is

To make the finest fool.

Voltaire! long life's the greatest curse
That mortals can receive,
When they imagine the chief end
Of living is to live;

Quite thoughtless of their day of death,

That birthday of their sorrow!

Knowing, it may be distant far,

Nor crush them till-to-morrow.

These are cold, northern thoughts, conceiv'd

Beneath an humble cot;

Not mine, your genius, or your state,

No castle is my lot:1

But soon, quite level shall we lie;

And, what pride most bemoans,

Our parts, in rank so distant now,
As level as our bones;

Hear you that sound? Alarming sound!
Prepare to meet your fate!
One, who writes finis to our works,

Is knocking at the gate;

1 Letter to Lord Lyttelton.

Far other works will soon be weigh'd;

Far other judges sit;

Far other crowns be lost or won,

Than fire ambitious wit:

Their wit far brightest will be prov'd,
Who sunk it in good sense;
And veneration most profound
Of dread omnipotence.

'Tis that alone unlocks the gate
Of blest eternity;

O! mayst thou never, never lose
That more than golden key!1

Whate'er may seem too rough excuse,
Your good I have at heart:
Since from my soul I wish you well;
As yet we must not part :

Shall you, and I, in love with life,

Life's future schemes contrive, The world in wonder not unjust, That we are still alive?

What have we left? How mean in man A shadow's shade to crave!

When life, so vain! is vainer still, 'Tis time to take your leave :

Happier, than happiest life, is death,

Who falling in the field

Of conflict with his rebel will,

Writes vici, on his shield;

Alluding to Prussia.

So falling man, immortal heir
Of an eternal prize;

Undaunted at the gloomy grave,
Descends into the skies.

O how disorder'd our machine,
When contradictions mix!

When nature strikes no less than twelve,
And folly points at six!

To mend the moments of your heart,
How great is my delight

Gently to wind your morals up,

And set your hand aright!

That hand, which spread your wisdom wide
To poison distant lands:
Repent, recant; the tainted age
Your antidote demands;

To satan dreadfully resign'd,

Whole herds rush down the steep
Of folly, by lewd wits possess'd,
And perish in the deep.

Men's praise your vanity pursues;
'Tis well, pursue it still;
But let it be of men deceas'd,
And you'll resign the will;

And how superior they to those
At whose applause you aim;

How very far superior they
In number, and in name !

POSTSCRIPT.

THUS have I written, when to write
No mortal should presume;

Or only write, what none can blame,
Hic jacet-for his tomb:

The public frowns, and censures loud
My puerile employ;

Though just the censure,
The scandal I enjoy ;

if

you smile,

But sing no more-no more I sing

Or reassume the lyre,

Unless vouchsaf'd an humble part
Where Raphael leads the choir:

What myriads swell the concert loud!
Their golden harps resound
High, as the footstool of the throne,
And deep, as hell profound:

Hell (horrid contrast!) chord and song
Of raptur'd angels drowns

In self-will's peal of blasphemies,

And hideous burst of groans;

But drowns them not to me; I hear
Harmonious thunders roll

(In language low of men to speak)
From echoing pole to pole!