1 grieve, this nobler work moft happily be

gun,

So quickly and fo wonderfully carry'd on,
May fall at laft to intereft, folly and abuse.
There is a noon-tide in our lives,
Which ftill the fooner it arrives,

Although we boaft our winter-fun looks bright
And foolishly are glad to fee it at its height,
Yet fo much fooner comes the long and gloomy
night.

No conqueft ever yet begun,

And by one mighty hero carried to its height,
E'er flourish'd under a fucceffor or a fon;
It loft fome mighty pieces through all hands it
paft,

And vanish'd to an empty title inthe last.
For when the animating mind is fled,
(Which nature never can retain,
Nor e'er call back again)

The body, though gigantic, lies all cold and dead.

XII.

And thus undoubtedly 'twill fare, With what unhappy men fhall dare To be fucceffors to thefe great unknown, On learning's high-establish'd throne. Cenfure, and pedantry, and pride, Numberless nations, ftretching far and wide,

Shall

Shall (I foresee it) foon with Gothic fwarms come

forth

From ignorance's universal north,

And with blind rage break all this peaceful go

vernment:

Yet fhall these traces of your wit remain,
Like a just map, to tell the vast extent
Of conqueft in your fhort and happy reign;
And to all future mankind fhew
How strange a paradox is true,

That men who liv'd and dy'd without a name, Åre the chief heroes in the facred lift of fame.

O DE

To the Hon. Sir. WILLIAM TEMPLE.

Written at Moor-park, June 1689.

IRTUE, the greateft of all monarchies,
Till its first emperor rebellious man
Depos'd from off his feat

VIR

It fell, and broke with its own weight
Into small states and principalities,
By many a petty lord poffefs'd,
But ne'er fince feated in one fingle breaft.
"Tis you who muft this land fubdue,
The mighty conqueft's left for
The conqueft and discovery too;
Search out this Utopian ground,
Virtue's Terra incognita,

you,

Where none ever led the way, Nor ever fince but in defcriptions found, Like the philofopher's ftone,

With rules to fearch it, yet obtain'd by none.

* When the author's pofthumous pieces were reprinted

in Ireland, this and the foregoing ode were omitted.

II.

We have too long been led astray, Too long have our misguided fouls been taught With rules from mufty morals brought, 'Tis you muft put in the way; Let us (for fhame) no more be fed With antique reliques of the dead, The gleanings of philofophy, Philofophy, the lumber of the schools, The roguery of alchymy;

And we the bubbled fools

Spend all our prefent life in hopes of golden rules.

III.

But what does our proud ign'rance learning call?

We odly Plato's paradox make good, Our knowledge is but mere remembrance all ; Remembrance is our treasure and our food; Nature's fair table-book, our tender fouls, We fcrawl all o'er with old and empty rules, Stale memorandums of the fchools: For learning's mighty treasures look In that deep grave a book,.

Think that she there does all her treasures hide, And that her troubled ghoft ftill haunts there fince fhe dy'd,

Y 3

Confine

Confine her walks to colleges and schools,

Her priests, her train and followers fhow
As if they all were spectres too,
They purchase knowledge at the expence
Of common breeding, common fense,
And at once grow scholars and fools;
Affect ill-manner'd pedantry,

Rudeness, ill-nature, incivility,

And fick with dregs of knowledge grown,
Which greedily they swallow down,
and naufeate

company.

Still caft it

up

IV.

Curft be the wretch, nay doubly curft,
(If it may lawful be

To curfe our great enemy)
Who learnt himself that herefy first

(Which fince has feiz'd on all the reft) That knowledge forfeits all humanity; Taught us, like Spaniards, to be proud and

poor,

And fling our scraps before our door.
Thrice happy you have 'scapt this genʼral pest;
Thofe mighty epithets, learn'd, good, and great,
Which we ne'er join'd before, but in romances

=

meet,