Hark! the old earthquake roars again
In Gouge's voice, and breaks the chain
Of heavy death, and rends the tombs;
The rising God! he comes, he comes,

[train.

With throngs of waking saints, a long triumphing See the bright squadrons of the sky,

Downward, on wings of joy and haste, they fly, Meet their returning Sovereign, and attend him high.

A shining car the conqueror fills,

Form'd of a golden cloud;

Slowly the pomp moves up the azure hills,

Old Satan foams and yells aloud,

And gnaws the' eternal brass that binds him to the wheels.

The opening gates of bliss receive their King,
The Father-God smiles on his Son,
Pays him the honours he has won;

The lofty thrones adore, and little cherubs sing.
Behold him on his native throne,

Glory sits fast upon his head;

Dress'd in new light and beamy robes,

His hand rolls on the seasons and the shining globes, And sways the living worlds, and regions of the

dead.

Gouge was his envoy to the realm below!
Vast was his trust, and great his skill,
Bright the credentials he could show,
And thousands own'd the seal.
His hallow'd lips could well impart
The grace, the promise, and command:
He knew the pity of Immanuel's heart,
And terrors of Jehovah's hand,

How did our souls start out to hear
The embassies of love he bare,
While every ear in rapture hung

Upon the charming wonders of his tongue.
Life's busy cares a sacred silence bound,
Attention stood with all her powers,
With fixed eyes and awe profound,
Chain'd to the pleasure of the sound,
Nor knew the flying hours.

But, O my everlasting grief!
Heaven has recall'd his envoy from our eyes,
Hence deluges of sorrow rise,

Nor hope the' impossible relief,
Ye remnants of the sacred tribe,
Who feel the loss, come share the smart,
And mix your groans with mine :
Where is the tongue that can describe
Infinite things with equal art,
Or language so divine?

Our passions want the heavenly flame,
Almighty Love breathes faintly in our songs,
And awful threatenings languish on our tongues;
Howe is a great but signal name :

Amidst the crowd he stands alone;

Stands yet, but with his starry pinions on,
Dress'd for the flight, and ready to be gone :

Eternal God! command his stay,

Stretch the dear months of his delay;

O we could wish his age were one immortal day! But when the Haming chariot's come,

And shining guards to attend thy prophet home, Amidst a thousand weeping eyes,

Send an Elisha down, a soul of equal size, [skies. Or burn this worthless globe, and take us to the

THE

POETICAL WORKS

OF

WILLIAM COLLINS,

WITH

A LIFE OF THE AUTHOR,

FROM DR. JOHNSON.

LIFE OF COLLINS.

WILLIAM COLLINS was born at Chichester, on the 25th day of December, about 1720. His fa ther was a hatter of good reputation. He was in 1733, as Dr. Warton has kindly informed me, admitted scholar of Winchester College, where he was educated by Dr. Burton. His English exercises were better than his Latin.

He first courted the notice of the public by some verses to a "Lady weeping," published in "The Gentleman's Magazine.'

In 1740, he stood first in the list of the scholars to be received in succession at New College, but unhappily there was no vacancy. He became a commoner of Queen's College, probably with a scanty maintenance; but was, in about half a year, elected a demy of Magdalen College, where he continued till he had taken a bachelor's degree, and then suddenly left the university; for what reason I know not that he told.

He now (about 1744) came to London, a literary adventurer, with many projects in his head, and very little money in his pocket. He designed many works; but his great fault was irresolution; or the frequent calls of immediate necessity broke his scheme, and suffered him to pursue no settled