TO Mr. Robert Atwood. Isaac Watts Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T82397 K067329.000 Watts, Isaac, 1674-1748. Horæ lyricæ: Poems, chiefly of the lyric kind. In two books. ... By I. Watts. London Printed by S. and D. Bridge, for John Lawrence at the Sign of the Angel in the Poultrey. MDCCVI. 1706 pp. 146-152. [20],267,[1]p.; 8⁰.

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TO Mr. Robert Atwood . THE Kingdom of the Wise Man.
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 .
PART II . OR The Bold Stoick . HOnour demands my Song . Forget the Ground My Generous Muse , and sit amongst the Stars ; There sing the Soul , that Conscious of her Birth Lives like a Native of the Vital World Amongst these dying Clods , and bears her State Just to her self : How nobly she maintains Her Character , Superiour to the Flesh , She weilds her Passions like her Limbs , and knows The Brutal Powers were only born't obey . This is the Man whom Storms could never make Meanly complain , nor can a flatt'ring Gale Make him talk proudly : He hath no Desire To read his Secret Fate ; yet unconcern'd And calm could meet his unborn Destiny In all its Charming or its Frightful Shapes . He that unshrinking and without a Groan Bears the first Wound may finish all the War With meer Couragious Silence , and come off Conqueror : For the Man that well conceals The heavy Strokes of Fate he bears 'em well . He , tho' th' Atlantick and the Midland Seas With adverse Surges meet , and rise on high Suspended 'twixt the Winds , then rush amain Mingled with Flames upon his Single Head And Clouds and Stars and Thunder , he would stand , And from the lofty Castle of his Mind Sublime look down and Joyfully Survey The Ruins of Creation ; he alone Heir of the Dying World : A piercing Glance Shoots upwards from between his closing Lids To reach his Birth-place , then without a Sigh He bids his batter'd Flesh lie gently down Amongst its Native Rubbish ; while his Soul Breaths and flies upward , an undoubted Guest Of the third Heaven , th' unruinable Sky . Thither when Fate has brought Our willing Souls , No matter whether 'twas a Sharp Disease , Or a sharp Sword that help'd the Travellers on , And push'd us to our Home . Bear up my Friend , My ATWOOD , and break thro' the Surging Brine With steddy Prow ; Know , we shall once arrive At the fair Haven of Eternal Bliss To which we ever steer ; whether as Kings Of wide Command we've spread the Spacious Sea With a broad Painted Fleet , or Row'd along In a thin Cockboat with a little Oar . There let my narrow Plank shift me to Land And I'll be happy , thus I'll leap Ashore Joyful and fearless on the Immortal Coast , Since all I leave is Mortal , and it must be lost .