« ForrigeFortsett »
Hard is my fate if murmurings there be,
Because the favour is announc'd by me,
Anxious, alarm'd and aw'd by ev'ry frown,
May I intreat the candour of the town?
You see me here by no unworthy art;
My all I venture where I've fix'd my heart. .
Fondly ambitious of an honest fame,
My humble hopes your kind indulgence claim.
I wish to hold no right but by your choice ;
I'll risk my PATENT, on the PUBLIC VOICE,
On the much lamented Death of the Marquis of Tavistock.*
Sunt lacrymæ rerum, & mentem mortalia tanguat. Virg.
- V Irtuous Youth!
Thank Heay'n, I knew thee not-I ne'er shall feel
The keen regret thy drooping friends fuftain ;
Yet will I drop the sympathizing tear,
And his due tribute to thy memory bring; ,
Not that thy noble birth provokes my song,
Qr claims such offering from the Muses' shrine;
But that ihy (potiess undissembling heart,
Thy unaffected manners, all-unitain's -
With pride of pow's, and infolence of wealth ; .
Thy probity, benevolence, and truth,
(Belt inmates of man's foul) for ever loft,
Cropt, like fair flow'rs, in life's meridian bloom,
Fade undistinguish'd in the filent grave.
O Bedford ! -pardon, if a Muse unknown,
Smit with thy heart.feli grief, directs her way,
To sorrow's dark abode, where thee shie views,
Thee, wretched fire, and pitying hears theç mourn
Thy Russel's fate" Why was he thus belov'd ?
« Why did he bless my life?"-Fond parent, cease ;
Count not his virtues o'er-Hard talk !--Call forth
Thy firm hereditary strength of mind,
Lol where the shade of thy great ancestor,
Fam'd Ruffel stands, and chides thy vain complaint ;
His philosophic soul, with patience arm’d,
And christian virtue bray'd che pangs of death;
Admir'd, belov'd, he dy'd; (if right I deem),
Not more lamented than thy vircuous son:
Yet calm thy mind; so may the lenient hand
Of Time, all-foothing Time, chy pangs assuage, .
Heal thy sad wound, and close thy days in peace.
* Occasioned by a fall from his horse,' ;...
See where the object of his filial love,
His mother, loft in tears, laments his doom :
Speak comfort to her soul:-
O! from the facred fount, where flow the streams
Of Heav'nly confolation, O! one drop,
To footh his hapless wife! sharp forrow preys
Upon her tender frame-Alas, The faints,
She falls ! ftill grasping in her hand
The picture of her lord-All-gracious Heav'n!
Juft are thy ways, and righteous thy decrees,
But dark and intricate; else why this meed
For tender faithful love; this sad return
For innocence and truth? was it for this
By Virtue and the smiling Graces led,
(Fair types of long succeeding years of joy),
She twin'd the votive wreath at Hymen's shrine,
So foo:) to fade and die ?-Yet O! reflect,
Chaste partner of his life! you ne'er deplor'd
His alienated heart: (disastrous state !
Condition worse than death!) the facred torch
Burnt to the last its unremitted fires !
No painful self-reproach halt thou to feel;
The conscious thought of every duty paid,
This sweet reflection shall support thy mind.
Be this thy comfort :-Turn thine eyes a while,
Nor with that lifeless picture feed thy woe;
Turn yet thine eyes ; see how they court thy smiles.
Those infant pledges of connubial joy!
Dwell on their looks,-and trace his image there :
And O! since Heav'n, in pity to thy loss,
For thee one future blessing has in store,
Cherish that tender hope-Hear reason's voice;
Hush'd be the storms that vex thy troubled breaft.
And angels guard thee in the hour of pain.
Accept this ardent pray’r; a mufe forgive,
Who for thy forrow draws the penfive figh,
Who feels thy grief, tho'erft in frolic hour
She tun'd her comic rhymes to mirth and joy,
Unskill'd (I ween) in lofty verse, unus'd
To plaiņtive strains, yet by soft pity led,
Trembling revists the Pierian vale ;
There culls each fragrant flow'r, to deck the tomb
Where generous Russel lies,
ODE for the New YEAR, Jan. 1, 1769.
THEN first the 'rude, o'er-peopled north,
V Pour'd his prolific offspring forth
At large, in alien climes, to roam,
And seek a newer better home,
From the bleak mountain's barren head,
The marshy vale, th' ungrateful plain,
From cold and penury they fled .
To warmer suns and Ceres' golden reigó.
At ev'ry step the breezes blew
Soft and more soft : the lengthen’d view :
Did fairer scenes expand :
Unconscious of approaching foes
The farm, the town, the city rose,
To tempt the spoiler's hand.
Not Britain fo. For nobler ends...
Her willing, daring fons the fends,
Fraught like the fabled car of old,
Which scatter'd blessings as it roll'd.
From cultur'd fields, from fleecy downs,
From vales that wear eternal bloom,
From peopled farms, and busy towns,
Where shines the ploughshare, and where founds the loom,
To sandy desarts, pathless woods,
Impending steeps, and headlong floods
She sends th' industrious swarm :
To where, self-strangled, Nature lies,
"Till focial art shall bid her rise
From chaos into form.
· Thus George and Britain bless mankind.
And, left the parent realm should find
Her numbers Thrink, with flag unfurl'd
She stands th' asylum of the world.
From foreign strands new subjects come;
New arts accede a thousand ways,
For here the wretched Ginds a home,
And all her portals charity displays.
From each proud master's hard command,
From tyrant Zeal's oppressive hand
What eager exiles Ay !
" Give us, they cry, 'tis Nature's cause,
O give us liberty and laws,
Beneath a harsher sky."
,. Thus George and Britain bless mankind. .
-Away, ye barks; the favouring wind Vol.x.
Springs from the East : ye pow'rs, divide
The vast Atlantic's heaving tide,
Britannia, from each rocky height,
Pursues you with applauding hands;
Afar, impatient for the freight,
See, the whole western world expecting ítands!
Already fancy paints each plain,
The desarts nod with golden grain,
· The wond'ring vales look gay:
The woodman's ftroke the forests feel,
The lakes admit the merchant's keel -
Away, ye barks, away!
Transation of a Greek Epigram, on a Grecian Beauty.
THY eyes declare th’imperial wife of Jove, .
| Thy breasts disclose the Cyprian queen of love ;
Minerva's fingers thy fair hand displays,
And Thetis' limbs each graceful ftep betrays.
Biest man! whose eye on thy bright form has hung;
Thrice blest! who hears the music of thy tongue.
As monarchs happy! who thy lips has preft ;
But who embraces, as the Gods is bleft.
An Original Poem, from the Appendix newly published to Dr. Swift's
Letier to the Dean, when in England, in 1726.
V OU will excuse me, I fuppose,
For sending rhyme instead of prose,
Because hot weather makes me lazy ;
To write in metre is more easy.
While you are trudging to the town,
I'm strolling Dublin up and down :
While you converse with lords and dukes,
I have their betters here, my books:
Fix'd in an elbow chair, at ease,
I chuse companions as I please.
I'd rather have one single shelf,
Than all my friends, except yourself;
For, after all that can be said,
Our best acquaintance are the dead.
While you're in raptures with Faustina,
I'm charm’d at home with our Sheelina,
While you are itarving there in state,
I'm cramming here with butcher's meat,
You say, when with those lords you dine,
They treat you with the best of wine,
Bargundy, Cyprus, and Tokay;
Why so can we, as well as they.
No reason then, my dear good Dean, ,
But you should travel home again.
What though you mayn’t in Ireland hope
To find such folk as Gay and Pope;
If you with rhymers here would share
But half the wit that you can spare,
I'd lay twelve eggs, that, in twelve days,
You'd make a doz'n of Popes and Gays.
Our weather's good, our sky is clear,
We've ev'ry joy, if you were here;
So lofty, and so bright a sky,
Was never seen by Ireland's eye!
I think it fit to let you know,
This week I shall to Quilca go ;
To see M Fayden's horny brothers,
First fuck, and after bull their mothers.
To fee, alas ! my wither'd trees!
To fee, what all the country lees!
My ftunted quicks, my famish'd beeves;
My servants such a pack of thieves ;
My shatter'd firs, my blasted oaks ;
My house in common to all folks :
No cabbage for a single snail;
My turnips, carrots, parsnips fail ;
My no green pease, my few green sproats .
My mother always in the pouts :
My horses rid, or gone astray ;
My fish all ftol’n, or run away ;
My mutton lean, my pullets old,
My poultry starv'd, the corn all sold.
Aman, come now from Quilca, says, They've stol'n the locks from all your keys; But, what must ftet and vex me more, He says, they stole the keys before. They've stol'n the knives from all the forks, And half the cows from half the sturks ; Nay more, the fellow swears and vows, They've stol'n the sturks from half the cows. With many more accounts of woe, Yet, though the Devil be there, I'll go : "Twixt you and me, the reason's clear, Because I've more vexation here.