A poem sacred to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton: By James Thomson.

Table of contents

- [titlepage]

- To the Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole, KNIGHT of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.

- BOOKS Printed for and Sold by Richard Norris, at the Corner of Crane-lane in Essex-street.

A POEM Sacred to the Memory of Sir ISAAC NEWTON.

SHALL the great Soul of NEWTON quit this Earth,

To mingle with his Stars, and every Muse,

Astonish'd into Silence, shun the Weight

Of Honours due to his illustrious Name!

But what can Man?—Even now the Sons of Light,

In Strains such as delight the Ear of GOD,

Hail his Arrival on the Coasts of Bliss.

Yet am not I deterr'd, tho' high the Theme,

And sung to Harps of Angels; for with you,

Aetherial Flames! ambitious I aspire

In Nature's general Symphony to join.

AND what new Wonders can ye show your Guest!

Who, while on this dim Spot where Mortals toil

Clouded in Dust, from Motion's simple Laws

Could trace the boundless Hand of Providence,

Wide-working thro' this universal Frame.

HAVE ye not listen'd while he bound the Suns,

And Planets to their Spheres! Th' unequal Task

Of Humankind till then. Oft had they roll'd

O'er erring Man the Year, and oft disgrac'd

The Pride of Schools, before their Course was known

Full in its Causes and Effects to Him,

All-piercing Sage! Who sat not down and dreamt

Romantic Schemes, defended by the Din

Of specious Words, and Tyranny of Names,

But bidding his amazing Mind attend,

And with heroick Patience Years on Years

Deep-searching, saw at last the System dawn,

And shine, of all his Race, on him alone.

WHAT were his Raptures then! how pure! how strong!

And what the Triumphs of old Greece and Rome,

By his diminish'd, but the Pride of Boys

In some small Fray victorious! When instead

Of shatter'd Parcels of this Earth usurp'd

By Violence unmanly, and sore Deeds

Of Cruelty and Blood, Nature herself

Stood all subdu'd by him, and open laid

Her every latent Glory to his View.

AND first our solar System he survey'd

With accurate Ken, and by the mingling Power

Of Gravitation and Projection saw

The whole in silent Harmony revolve.

Drawn to his lengthen'd Eye th' attending Moons,

Design'd to chear remoter Planets, were

By him in all their mix'd Proportions seen.

He also fix'd the wandering Queen of Night,

Whether she wanes into a scanty Orb▪

Or waxing broad with her pale shadowy Light

In a soft Deluge overflows the Sky.

Her every Motion clear discerning, He

Adjusted to th' obsequious Main, and taught

Why now the mighty Mass of Waters swells

Resistless, heaving on the broken Rocks,

And the full River turning; till again

The Tide revertive, unattracted, leaves

A Yellow Waste of idle Sands behind.

THEN breaking hence, he took his ardent Flight

Thro' the blue Infinite; and every Star,

Which the clear Concave of a Winter's Night

Pours on the Eye, or Astronomic Tube,

Far-stretching, snatches from the dark Abyss,

Or such as farther in successive Skies

To Fancy only shine, at his Approach

Blaz'd into Suns. Th' enlivening Centre each

Of an harmonious System. All, combin'd,

And rul'd unerring by that single Power

Which draws the Stone projected to the Ground.

O UNPROFUSE Magnificence divine!

O Wisdom truly perfect! thus to call

From a few Causes such a Scheme of Things,

Effects so various, beautiful, and great,

An Universe compleat! And O Belov'd

Of Heaven! into th' Almighty's Councils thus

To be admitted, and allow'd to scan

The rising, moving, wide-establish'd Frame.

HE too, unbaffled in his Aim, pursu'd

The Comet to' the long Elliptic Curve,

As round innumerous Worlds he wound his Way,

Till to the Forehead of the Evening-Sky

Reduc'd, the blazing Wonder glares anew.

THE Heavens are all his own. Finish'd by him

The fair Discovery lies; and every Eye

May lay the useless Telescope aside,

Unless it be to hold the great Acquests

By Newton made: Who from the wild Domain

Of the [*] French Dreamer rescu'd Heaven and Earth.

All Europe stood appall'd; but found it vain

To keep at Odds with Demonstration strong,

And lingering to resist the awakening Force

Of Truth. At once their pleasing Visions fled,

With the gay Shadows of the Morning mix'd,

When Newton rose, our Philosophic Sun.

TH' Aerial Flow of Sound was known to Him,

From whence it first in wavy Circles breaks,

Till the touch'd Organ takes the Message in.

Nor could the darting Beam, of Speed immense,

Escape his swift Pursuit, and measuring Glance.

Even Light it self, which every thing displays,

Shone undiscover'd, till his brighter Mind

Untwisted all the shining Robe of Day;

And from the whitening, undistinguish'd Blaze,

Collecting every Ray into his Kind,

To the charm'd Eye educ'd the gorgeous Train

Of Parent-Colours. First the flaming Red

Sprung vivid forth; the tawny Orange next;

And then delicious Yellow; by whose Side

Fell the kind Beams of all-refreshing Green.

Then the pure Blue that swells autumnal Skies

Aetherial play'd; and then of sadder Hue

Emerg•d the deepen'd Indico, as when

The heavy-skirted Evening droops with Frost.

While the last Gleanings of refracted Light

Dy'd in the fainting Violetaway.

These, when the Clouds distil the rosy Shower,

Shine out distinct adown the watry Bow,

While o'er our Heads the dewy Vision bends

Delightful, melting on the Fields beneath.

Myriads of mingling Dies from these result,

And Myriads still remain, th' exhaustless Source

Of Beauty ever-flushing, ever-new!

DID ever Poet image ought so fair,

Dreaming in whispering Groves, by the hoarse Brook!

Or Prophet, to whose Rapture Heav'n descends!

Even now the setting Sun and liveri'd Clouds,

Seen, Greenwich, from thy lovely Heights, declare

How just, how beauteous the refractive Law.

THE noiseless Tide of Time, all bearing down

To vast Eternity's unbounded Sea

Where the green Islands of the Happy shine,

He backward stem'd alone; and to it's Source

Ascending, mark'd it's Periods, and hung out

His Lights at equal Distances to guide

Historian, wilder'd on his darksome Way.

BUT who can number up his Labours? Who

His high Discoveries sing? When but a few

Of the deep-studying Race can stretch their Minds

To image what he knew, as clear as they

The Truths self-evident with which he link'd

His far thest Views. For is there ought that's great.

That's wonderful, and hard, deterring Search?

That was his Prize! and worthy of his Toil

Unfailing, Who the lonely Monarch reign'd

Of Science thin-inhabited below.

WHAT Wonder then that his Devotion swell'd

Responsive to his Knowledge! For could he,

Whose piercing mental Eye diffusive saw

The finish'd University of Things,

In all its Order, Magnitude, and Parts,

Forbear incessant to adore that Power

Who fills, sustains, and actuates the whole.

SAY, ye who best can tell, ye happy few,

Who saw him in the softest Lights of Life,

All unwithheld, indulging to his Friends

The vast, unborrow'd Treasures of his Mind.

O speak the wondrous Man! how mild, how calm,

How greatly humble, how divinely good,

How firm, establish'd on eternal Truth,

Pure as his Faith, and active as his Love,

Fervent in doing well, with every Nerve

Still pressing on, forgetful of the Past,

And panting for Perfection! far above

Those little Cares, and visionary Joys

That so befool the fond, impassion'd Heart

Of over-cheated, ever-trusting Man.

AND say, ye downward, gloomy-minded Tribe,

Ye who, unconscious of those nobler Flights

That reach impatient at immortal Life,

Against the Prime, indearing Privilege

Of Being dare contend, say can a Soul

Of such extensive, deep, tremendous Powers▪

Enlarging still, be but a finer Breath

Of Spirits dancing thro' their Tubes awhile▪

And then for ever lost in vacant Air?

BUT hark! Methinks I hear a warning Voice,

Solemn as when some awful Change is come,

Sound thro' the World—"He's dead.—The Measure's full,

"And I resign my Charge.—Ye mouldering Stones

That build the towring Pyramid, the proud

Triumphal Arch, the Monument effac'd

By ruthless Ruin, and whate'er supports

The worship'd Name of grey Antiquity,

Down to the Dust! What Grandeur can ye boast

While Newton lifts his Column to the Skies

Beyond the Waste of Time!—Let no weak Drop

Be shed for him. The Beauty in her Bloom

Cut off, the Joyous Youth, and darling Child,

These are the Tombs that claim the tender Tear,

And Elegiac Song, but Newton calls

For other Notes of Gratulation high,

That now he wanders thro' those endless Worlds

He here so well descry'd, and wondering talks,

And Hymns their Author with his glad Compeers.

O BRITAIN'S Boast! Whether with Angels thou

Sittest in dread Discourse, or Fellow Saints

Who joy to see the Honour of their Kind;

Or whether mounted on Cherubic Wing,

Thy swift Career is with the whirling Spheres,

Comparing Things with Things, in Rapture lost

And lowly Adoration for that Light

So plenteous ray'd into thy Mind below,

From Light himself, O look with Pity down

On Humankind, a frail, erroncous Race!

Asswage the Madness of a frantic World!

But chiefly o'er thy Country's Cause preside,

And be her Genius call'd! Her Council steer,

Correct her Manners, and inspire her Youth!

For, guilty as she is, she brought thee forth,

And glorious in thy Name; she points thee out

To all her Sons, and bids them eye thy Star:

While in Expectance of th' arrousing Blast,

When Time shall be no more, thy sacred Dust

Sleeps with her Kings, and dignifies the Scene.

THE END.

Notes

*
Des Cartes.
↵

A POEM Sacred to the MEMORY of SIR ISAAC NEWTON.

By JAMES THOMSON.

His Tibi me Rebus quaedam divina Voluptas

Percipit, atque Horror; quòd sic Natura tuâ Vi

Tam manifesta patet ex omni Parte retecta.

LUC.

DUBLIN: Printed by S. POWELL, for RICHARD NORRIS, at the Corner of Crane-lane in Essex-street, M DCC XXVII.

Where may be had Summer a Poem, and Winter a Poem.

To the Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole, KNIGHT of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.

SIR,

SINCE I have ventur'd to write a Poem on a Gentleman who is universally acknowledg'd to be the Honour of our Country as a Philosopher, prompted by the same Ambition, I address it to her most illustrious Patriot.

Tho', by the wise Choice of the best of Kings, you are engag'd in the highest and most active Scenes of Life, balancing the Power of Europe, watching over our common Welfare, informing the whole Body of Society and Commerce, and even like Heaven dispensing Happiness to the Discontented and Ungrateful; tho' thus gloriously employ'd, yet are you not less attentive, in the Hour of Leisure, to the Variety, Beauty, and Magnificence of Nature, nor less delighted, and astonish'd at the Discoveries of the incomparable Newton. The same comprehensive Genius which Way soever it looks must have a steady, clear, and unbounded Prospect.

But not to encroach any further on your important Moments all devoted to the Good of Mankind, I once more plead the Dignity of my Subject for my Excuse in this Approach, and beg Leave to subscribe my self, with the sincerest Veneration,

SIR,
Your most faithful, humble Servant, JAMES THOMSON.

BOOKS Printed for and Sold by Richard Norris, at the Corner of Crane-lane in Essex-street.

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Title statement

A poem sacred to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton: By James Thomson.

Thomson, James, 1700-1748.

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/4846

ID [isbn10]

1106018451

ID [isbn13]

9781106018458

ID [TCP]

K080517.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3315816561

ID [ECLL]

1034500200

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— A poem sacred to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton: By James Thomson., Thomson, James, 1700-1748.. 15,[1]p. ; 8⁰. Dublin :: printed by S. Powell, for Richard Norris,. 1727.. [The headpiece on p.[5] is a crude copy of Henry Woodfall's headpiece.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [Foxon, T206] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT100048.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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