TO Mr. Robert Atwood, PART I

The rising Year beheld th' Imperious Gaul Stretch his Dominion, while a hundred Towns Crouch'd to the Victor: But a steady Soul Stands firm on its own Base, and reigns as wide, As Absolute; and sways ten thousand Slaves, Lusts and wild Fancies with a Soveraign Hand.

We are a little Kingdom: But the Man That chains his Rebel Will to Reasons Throne Forms it a large one, ATWOOD, whilst his Mind Makes Heaven its Council, from the Rolls above Draws his own Statutes, and with Joy obeys.

'Tis not a Troop of Well-appointed Guards Create a Monarch, not a Purple Robe Dy'd in the Peoples Blood, not all the Crowns Or dazling Tiars that bend about the Head, Tho' Gilt with Sun-Beams and beset with Stars. A Monarch He that Conquers all his Fears And treads upon them; when he stands alone, Makes his own Camp; four Guardian Virtues wait His Nightly Slumbers and secure his Dreams. Now dawns the Light; He ranges all his Thoughts In square Battalions, bold to meet th' Attacks Of Time and Chance, himself a numerous Host, All Eye, all Ear, all wakeful as the Day, Firm as a Rock, and moveless as the Centre.

In vain the Harlot Pleasure spreads her Charms To lull his Thoughts in Luxuries fair Lap To sensual Ease, (the Bane of little Kings, Monarchs whose waxen Images of Souls Are moulded into Softness) still his Mind Wears its own Shape, nor can the Heavenly Form Stoop to be model'd by the wild Decrees Of the mad Vulgar, that unthinking Herd.

He lives above the Crowd, nor hears the Noise Of Wars and Triumphs, nor regards the Shouts Of Popular Applause, that empty Sound, Nor feels the flying Arrow of Reproach, Or Spite, or Envy. In himself secure, Wisdom his Tower, and Conscience is his Shield, His Peace all Inward, and his Joys his Own.

Now my Ambition swells, my Wishes soar, This be my Kingdom; sit above the Globe My 'Rising Soul, and dress thy self around And shine in Virtues Armour; Climb the height Of Wisdoms lofty Castle, there reside Safe from the Smiling and the Frowning World.

Yet once a Day drop down a gentle Look On the great Molehill, and with pitying Eye Survey the Busie Emmets round the Heap Crowding and Bustling in a Thousand Forms Of Strife and Toil, to purchase Wealth and Fame, A Bubble or a Dust: Then call thy Thoughts Up to thy self to feed on Joys unknown, Rich without Gold, and Great without Renown.