To Dr. Sherlock, on His Practical Discourse Concerning Death

FORGIVE the Muse, who in unhallow'd Strains
The Saint one Moment from his God detains :
For sure, whatever You do, where-e'er You are,
'Tis all but one good Work, one constant Pray'r :
Forgive Her ; and intreat That God, to Whom
Thy favour'd Vows with kind Acceptance come.
To raise her Notes to that sublime Degree,
Which suits a Song of Piety and Thee.

Wond'rous good Man ! whose Labours may repel
The Force of Sin, may stop the Rage of Hell :
Thou, like the Baptist, from thy God wast sent
The crying Voice, to bid the World repent.

Thee Youth shall study; and no more engage
Their flatt'ring Wishes for uncertain Age ;
No more with fruitless Care, and cheated Strife
Chace fleeting Pleasure thro' this Maze of Life ;

Finding the wretched All They here can have,
But present Food, and but a future Grave :
Each, great as Philip's Victor Son, shall view
This abject World, and weeping, ask a New.

Decrepit Age shall read Thee, and confess,
Thy Labours can asswage, where Med'cines cease :
Shall bless thy Words, their wounded Souls Relief,
The Drops that sweeten their last Dregs of Life :
Shall look to Heav'n, and laugh at all beneath ;
Own Riches gather'd, Trouble; Fame, a Breath;
And Life an Ill, whose only Cure is Death.

Thy even Thoughts with so much Plainness flow ;
Their Sense untutor'd Infancy may know :

Yet to such height is all That Plainness wrought ;
Wit may admire, and lettered Pride be taught :
Easie in Words thy Style, in Sense sublime :

On it's blest Steps each Age and Sex may rise :
'Tis like the Ladder in the Patriarch's Dream,
It's Foot on Earth, it's Height above the Skies.
Diffus'd it's Virtue, boundless is it's Pow'r:
'Tis Publick Health, and Universal Cure :
Of Heav'nly Manna, 'tis a second Feast,
A Nation's Food, and All to ev'ry Taste.

To it's last Height mad Britain's Guilt was rear'd :
And various Death for various Crimes She fear'd :
With your kind Work her drooping Hopes revive :
You bid Her read, repent, adore, and live :
You wrest the Bolt from Heav'ns avenging Hand ;
Stop ready Death, and save a sinking Land.

O ! save Us still ; still bless Us with thy Stay :
O ! want thy Heav'n, 'till We have learnt the Way :
Refuse to leave thy destin'd Charge too soon :
And for the Church's Good, defer thy own.
O! live; and let thy Works urge our Belief;
Live to explain thy Doctrine by thy Life ;
'Till future Infancy, baptiz'd by Thee,
Grow ripe in Years, and old in Piety ;
'Till Christians, yet unborn, be taught to die.

Then in full Age, and hoary Holiness
Retire, great Teacher, to thy promis'd Bliss :
Untouch'd thy Tomb, uninjur'd be thy Dust,
As thy own Fame among the future Just ;
'Till in last Sounds the dreadful Trumpet speaks :
'Till Judgment calls; and quick'ned Nature wakes:
'Till thro' the utmost Earth, and deepest Sea
Our scatter'd Atoms find their destin'd Way,
In haste to cloath their Kindred Souls again ;
Perfect our State, and build immortal Man :
Then fearless Thou, who well sustain'dst the Fight,
To Paths of Joy, and Tracts of endless Light
Lead up all those who heard Thee, and believ'd :

'Midst thy own Flock, great Shepherd, be receiv'd ; -
And glad all Heav'n with Millions Thou hast sav'd.