THE 



AUTHOR TO THE POET. 



IT'S true, you do allow a man may fish 



In Trends calm streams, and complement his wish, 



What then ? were Trent all fish, without content 



Fd neither covet fish, nor value Trent. 



The glorious eye of speculation differs 



From airy things that's hung about with ciphers. 



It's not the man that's rich, it is the mind 



That makes him happy 'cause if s unconfinYl, 



Riches remonstrate horrid shades of night 



The day puts off, which Phoebus puts to flight. 



And fear our flight pursues, so that where e're 



We lodg our fears, death he brings up the rear. 



But solace and content, is such a thing, 



And so divine ; it's great Jehovah's ring, 



With which he weds the world, to make earth's portal 



The celebration of things more immortal. 



For heaven and earth in unity repose, 



From thence our contemplation sweetly flows. 



The great and lesser world's all harmony ; 

 The spheres are vocal pipes, man's but the key, 

 That when Jehovah's fingers touch to play, 

 The ravish'd soul shakes off this mould of clay ; 

 And hov'ring with her wings, at last makes flight 

 Unto those endless cords of true delight. 



PHILANTHROPIC. 



