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Til Education's eye explores

Phoebus, according to the rule, The sleeping intellectual pow'rs,

Resolv'd to send his son to school : Awakes the dawn of wit and sense,

And, knowing well the tricks of youth, And lights them into excellence.

Resign'd him to the matron Truth, On this depends the patriot-flame,

Whose hut, unknown to Pride and Pelf, was The fine ingenuous feel of fame,

Near his own oracle at Delphos. The manly spirit, brave and bold,

The rev'rend dame, who found the child Superior to the taint of gold,

A little mischievous, and wild, The dread of infamy, the zeal

Taught him at first to spell and read, Of honour, and the public weal,

To say his prayers, and get his creedAnd all those virtues which presage

Wou'd often tell him of the sky, The glories of a rising age.

And what a crime it is to lie. But, leaving all these graver things

She chid him when he did amiss, To statesmen, moralists, and kings,

When well, she bless'd him with a kiss. Whose business 'tis such points to settle

Her sister Temp'rance, sage, and quiet, Ring-and bid Robin bring the kettle.

Presided at his meals and diet : Mean while the Muse, whose sportive strain

She watch'd him with religious care, Flows like her voluntary vein,

And fed him with the simplest fare; And impudently dares aspire

Wou'd never let the urchin eat To share the wreath with Swift and Prior,

Of pickled pork, or butcher's meat. Shall tell an allegoric tale,

But what of aliment earth yields Where truth lies hid beneath the veil.

In gardens, orchards, woods, and fields; “ One April morn as Phæbus play'd

Whate'er of vegetable wealth His carols in the Delphic shade,

Was cultur'd by the hand of Health, A nymph, call's Fancy, blithe and free,

She cropp'd and dress'd it, as she knew well, The far’rite child of Liberty,

In many a mess of soup and gruel ; Heard, as she rov'd about the plain,

And now and then, to cheer his heart, The bold enthusiastic strain;

Indulg'd him with a Sunday's tart. She heard, and led by warm desire,

“ A lusty peasant chanc'd to dwell To know the artist of the lyre,

Hard by the solitary cell: Crept softly to a sweet alcove,

His name was Labour.--Ere the dawn Hid in the umbrage of the grove,

Had broke upon the upland-lawn, And, peeping through the myrtle, saw

He hied him to his daily toil, A handsome, young, celestial beau,

To turn the glebe, or mend the soil. On Nature's sopha stretch'd along,

With him young Genius oft would go Awaking harmony, and song.

O'er dreary wastes of ice and snow, “Struck with his fine majestic mien,

With rapture climb the cloud-topt hill, As certain to be lov'd as seen, .

Or wade across the shallow rill; Long ere the melting air was o'er,

Or through th' entangled wood pursue She cry'd, in ecstasy, . Encore;'

The footsteps of a straggling ewe. And, what a prude will think but odd,

By these fatigues he got at length Popp'd out, and curtsey'd to the god.

Robustness, and athletic strength, Phobos, gallant, polite, and keen as

Spirits as light as fies the gale Each earth-born votary of Venus,

Along the lily-silver'd vale. Rose up, and with a graceful air,

The cherub Health, of dimple sleek, Address'd the visionary fair;

Sat radiant on his rosy cheek, Excus'd his morning dishabille,

And gave each nerve's elastic spring Complain'd of late he had been ill.

The vigour of an eaglet's wing. In short, he gaz'd, he bow'd, he sigh’d,

“ Time now had roll’d, with smooth career, He sung, he flatter'd, press'd, and ly'd,

Our hero through his seventh year. With such a witchery of art,

| Though in a rustic cottage bred, That Fancy gave him all her heart,

The busy imp had thought and read: Her catechism quite forgot,

He knew th' adventures, one by one, And waited on him to his grot.

Of Robin Hood and Little John; " In length of time she bore a son,

Cou'd sing with spirit, warmth, and grace, As brilliant as his sire the Sun.

The woful hunt of Chevy Chace; Pure ether was the vital ray

And how St. George, his fiery nag on, That lighted up his finer clay;

Destroy'd the vast Egyptian dragon. The Nymphs, the rosy-finger's Hours,

Chief he admir'd that learned piece The Dryads of the woods and bow'rs,

Wrote by the fabulist of Greece, The Graces with their loosen'd zones,

Where Wisdom speaks in crows and cocks, The Muses with their barps and crowns,

And Cunning sneaks into a fox. Young Zephyrs of the softest wing,

In short, as now his op'ning parts, The Loves that wait upon the spring,

Ripe for the culture of the arts, Wit with his gay associate Mirth,

Became in ev'ry hour acuter, Attended at the infant's birth,

Apollo look'd out for a tutor ; And said, Let Genius be his name,

But had a world of pains to find And his the fairest wreath of fame.'

This artist of the human mind. " The gossips gone, the christ’ning o'er,

For, in good truth, full many an ass was And Genius now 'twixt three and four,

Among the doctors of Parnassus,

Who scarce had skill enough to teach

Just when the Stagyrite had writ Old Lilly's elements of speech;

His lectures on the pow'rs of wit. And knew as much of men and morals

Here, flush'd in all the bloom of youth, As doctor Rock of ores and corals.

Sat Beauty in the shrine of Truth. At length, with much of thought and care, | Here, all the finer arts were seen He found a master for his heir ;

Assembled round their virgin queen. A learned man, adroit to speak

Here, Sculpture on a bolder plan Pure Latin, and your attic Greek;

| Ennobled marble into man. Well known in all the courts of fame,

Here, Music, with a soul on fire, And Criticism was his name.

Impassion'd, breath'd along the lyre ; “ Beneath a tutor keen and fine as

And here, the Painter-Muse display'd Or Aristotle, or Longinus,

Diviner forms of light and shade. Beneath a lynx's eye that saw

“ But, such the fate, as Hesiod sings, The slightest literary flaw,

Of all our sublunary things, Young Genius trod the path of knowledge, When now the Turk, with sword and halters, And grew the wonder of the college.

Had drove Religion from her altars, Old authors were his bosom friends

And delug'd with a sea of blood He had them at his fingers' ends

The academic dome and wood; Became an acc'rate imitator

Affrighted Taste, with wings unfurld, Of truth, propriety, and nature ;

Took refuge in the western world ; Display'd in every just remark

And settled on the Tuscan main, The strong sagacity of Clark;

With all the Muses in his train. And pointed out the false and true

“ In this calm scene, where 'Taste withdrew, With all the sun-beams of Bossu.

And Science trimm'd her lamp anew; “ But though this critic-sage' refin'd

Young Genius rang'd in every part His pupil's intellectual mind,

The visionary worlds of art, And gave him all that keen discerning

And from their finish'd forms refind Which marks the character of learning;

His own congenial warmth of mind, Yet, as he read with much of glee

And learn'd with happy skill to trace The trifles of antiquity,

The magic powers of ease and grace: And Bentley like would write epistles

His style grew delicately fine, About the origin of whistles ;

His numbers flow'd along his line, The scholar took his master's trim,

His periods manly, full, and strong, And grew identically him;

Had all the harmony of song. Employ'd a world of pains to teach us

Whene'er his images betray'd What nation first invented breeches;

Too strong a light, too weak a shade, Asserted that the Roman socks

Or in the graceful and the grand Were broider'd with a pair of clocks;

Confess'd inelegance of hand, That Capua serv'd up with her victuals

His noble master, who cou'd spy An olio of Venafran pickles;

The slightest fault with half an eye, That Sisygambis dress'd in blue,

Set right by one ethereal touch, And wore her tresses in a queue.

What seem'd too little or too much; In short, he knew what Paulus Jovius,

Till every attitude and air Salmasius, Grævius, and Gronovius,

Arose supremely full and fair. Have said in fifty folio volumes,

" Genius was now among his betters Printed by Elzevir in columps.

Distinguish'd as a man of letters. “ Apollo saw, with pride and joy,

There wanted still, to make him please, The vast improvement of his boy;

The splendour of address and ease, But yet had more than slight suspicion,

The soul-enchanting mien and air, That all this load of erudition

Such as we see in Grosvenor-square, Might overlay his parts at once,

When lady Charlotte speaks and moves, And turn him out a letter'd dunce.

Attended by a swarm of Loves. He saw the lad had fill'd his sense

“ Genius had got, to say the truth, With things of little consequence;

A manner aukward and uncouth; That though he read, with application,

Sure fate of all who love to dwell The wits of every age and nation,

In Wisdom's solitary cell: And could, with nice precision, reach

So much a clown in gait, and laugh, The boldest metaphors of speech;

He wanted but a scrip and staff; Yet warp'd too much, in truth's defiance,

And such a beard as hung in candles From real to fictitious science,

Down to Diogenes's sandals, He was, with all his pride and parts,

And planted over all his chin thick, A mere mechanic in the arts,

To be like him a dirty cynic. That measures with a rule and line

“Apollo, who, to do him right, What Nature meant for great and fine.

Was always perfectly polite, “ Phoebus, who saw it right and wise was Chagrin'd to see his son and heir To counteract this fatal bias,

Dishonour'd by his gape and stare, Took home his son'with mighty haste,

Resolv'd to send him to Versailles, And sent him to the school of Taste.

To learn a minuet of Marseilles : This school was built by Wealth and Peace, | But Venus, who had deeper reading Some ages since, in elder Greece,

In all the mysteries of breeding,

Obseri'd to Phoebus, that the name

| Plac'd him her substitute, to awe Of fop and Frenchman was the same.

The nation on her bench of law ! “ French manners were,” she said, “ a thing which And now, to make her work complete, 'Those grave misguided fools, the English,

Has thron'd him on her mercy-seat. Had, in despite of common sense,

I'll hold you, Mun! an honest guinea, Mistook for manly excellence;

That pest ambition's busy in you; By which their nation strangely sunk is,

You mind no more your little crops, And half their nobles turn'd to monkies.

Nor ever ask the price of hops; She thought it better, as the case was,

Nor grieve about such idle things To send young Genius to the Graces :

As half the trumps, and all the kings : Those sweet divinities," she said,

But, blest each night with objects brighter, “ Wou'd form him in the myrtle shade;

Behold a visionary mitre; And teach him more, in half an hour,

And see the verger near you stand Than Lewis or his Pompadour.”

Majestic with his silver wand. Phoebus agreed-the Graces took

Well-if, as matters now foretel it, Their noble pupil from his book,

It is your fate to be a prelate; Allow'd him at their side to rove

Though, loth to lose the comic strain, Along their own domestic grove,

The song, and ev'ry mirthful vein, Amidst the sound of melting lyres,

Which oft have made me full of glee, Soft-wreathing smiles, and young desires :

And kept my spirits up till three; And when confin'd by winds or show'rs,

Yet, fond to see, when pray’rs begin, Within their amaranthine bow'rs,

E d , thy heteroclite chin, They taught him with address and skill

With all that venerable bush on, To shiae at ombre and quadrille;

Reposing on a velvet cushion ; Or let him read an ode or play,

I would the man of humour quit, To wing the gloomy hour away.

And think the bishop worth the wit. Genius was cbarm'd-divinely plac'd

But, hark you, L- r! as you mean Midst beauty, wit, politeness, taste;

To be a bishop, or a dean, And, having every hour before him

And must, of course, look grave, and big, The finest models of decorum,

I'd have you get a better wig: His manners took a fairer ply,

You know full well when, cheek by jole, Expression kindled in his eye;

We waited on his grace at Knowl; His gesture disengag'd, and clean,

Though that trim artist, barber Jackson, Set off a fine majestic mien;

Spent a whole hour about your caxon, And gave his happy pow'r to please

With irons hot, and fingers plastic, The noblest elegance of ease.

To make it look ecclesiastic; Thus, by the discipline of Art,

With all his pains, and combs, and care, Genius shone out in head and heart.

He scarce cou'd curl a single bair. Form'd from his first fair bloom of youth,

It wou'd be right too, let me tell you, By Temp'rance and her sister Truth,

To buy a gown of new prunella ; He knew the scientific page

And bid your maid, the art who knows, Of every clime and every age;

Repair your cassoc at the elbows. Had learnt with critic-skill to rein

Lord ! what a sudden alteration The wildness of his native vein;

Will wait on your exalted station ! That critic-skill, though cool and chaste,

Cawthorn, too proud a prince to fatter, Refin'd beneath the eye of Taste;

Who calls thee nought but Mun and , His unforbidding inien and air,

Will now put on a softer mien, His awkward gait, his haughty stare,

And learn to lisp out Mr. Dean; And every stain that wit debases,

Or, if you're made a mitred peer, Were melted off among the graces;

Humbly entreat your grace's ear. And Genius rose, in form and mind,

Poor Adams, too, will funk and stare, The first, the greatest of mankind.

And trembling steal behind your chair;
Or else, with boly zeal addressing,
Drop on his knees, and ask your blessing.

And now, my worthy friend! ere yet
A LETTER TO A CLERGYMAN!, We read it in the next Gazette,

That Tuesday last a royal writ
OCCASIONED BY A REPORT OF HIS PATRON'S BEING MADE
ONE OF THE LORDS COMMISSIONERS OF THE GREAT

Was sent by secretary Pitt
SEAL, 1756.

To all and singular the stalls

Prebendal in the church of Paul's, I fame, dear Mun! the truth reveals,

Commanding them to choose and name Your friend, the baron, has the seals,

A bishop of unspotted fame; With two compeers, his reverend brothers,

And warmly recommending thee Willes and sir Eardly are the others.

As prelate of the vacant see; Justice, who long had seen imprest

It will not be amiss to know Her fairest image on his breast,

Beforehand wbat you have to do.

First, as yoа'll want a grave divine
"Rev. Edmund Latter of St. John's College, To wait upon you when you dine,
Cambridge. His patron was sir Sidney Stafford To guard your kitchen from disorders,
Smytbe. c.

| And school the youths who come for orders; VOL XIV,

B

Take not an academic saplin,

Maps half the winds, and gives the sail to fly But, for your life, make S--n chaplain.

In ev'ry ocean of the arctic sky; He's tall and solemn, soft and sleek,

While he whose vast capacious mind explores Well read in Latin, and in Greek;

All Nature's scenes, and Nature's God adores, A proper man to tell the clerum

Skill'd in each drug the varying world provides, About Eusebius and St. Jerom;

All earth embosoms, and all ocean hides; And wou'd as soon a fiend embrace as

Expels, like Heberden, the young disease, Give up a jot of Athanasius.

And softens anguish to the smile of ease. Then, as to what a bishop Aeeces,

The passions then all human virtue give, In procurations, fines, and leases,

Fill up the soul, and lend her strength to live. And boarding up a world of pelf,

To them we owe fair Truth's unspotted page, You'll want no steward but yourself:

The gen'rous patriot, and the moral sage; For, faith! your lordship has great skill in

The hand that forms the geometric line, The virtues of a splendid shilling;

The eye that pierces through th' unbowell'd mine, And know, as well as Child and Hoare ?,

The tongne that thunders eloquence along, That two and two will make up four.

And the fine ear that melts it into song.

And yet these passions which, on Nature's plan, Call out the hero while they form the man,

Warp'd from the sacred line that Nature gave, THE REGULATION OF THE PASSIONS

As meanly ruin as they nobly save.

Th' ethereal soul that Heav'n itself inspires
THE SOURCE OF

With all its virtues, and with all its fires,
HUMAN HAPPINESS.

Led by these syrens to some wild extreme,

Sets in a vapour when it ought to beam;
A MORAL ESSAY.

Like a Dutch Sun that in the autumnal sky

Looks through a fog, and rises but to die.
SPOKEN AT THE ANNIVERSARY VISITATION OF THE

But he whose active, unencumber'd mind
TUNBRIDGE SCHOOL, 1755.

Leaves this low Earth, and all its mists behind, Dunque ne l' Uso per cui fur concesse

Fond in a pure unclouded sky to glow, L'impieghi il soggio Duce, e le governi:

Like the bright orb that rises on the Po, Et a suo Senno or tepide, or ardenti,

O'er half the globe with steady splendour shines, Le faccia : et or le affretti, et or le allenti.

And ripens virtues as it ripens mines.
Tasso.

Whoever thinks, must see that man was made

To face the storm, not languish in the shade: Yes, yes, dear stoic! hide it as you can,

Action's his sphere, and, for that sphere design'd, The sphere of pleasure is the sphere of man: Eternal pleasures open on his mind. This warms our wishes, animates our toil,

For this, fair Hope leads on th' impassion'd soul And forms alike a Newton, or an Hoyle;

Through life's wild labyrinths to her distant goal; Gives all the soul to all the soul regards,

Paints in each dream, to fan the genial flame, Whether she deal in planets, or in cards.

The pomp of riches, and the pride of fame; In every human breast there lives enshrin'd Or fondly gives reflection's cooler eye Some atom pregnant with th' ethereal mind; A glance, an image of a future sky. [road, Some plastic pow'r, some intellectual ray,

Yet, though kind Heav'n points out th' uuerring Some genial sunbeam from the source of day; That leads through Nature up to bliss and God; Something that, warm and restless to aspire, Spite of that God, and all his voice divine, Works the young heart, and sets the soul on fire, Speaks in the heart, or teaches from the shrine, And bids us all our inborn pow'rs employ

Man, feebly vain, and impotently wise, To catch the phantom of ideal joy.

Disdains the manna sent him from the skies; Were it not so, the soul, all dead and lost,

Tasteless of all that virtue gives to please, Like the tall cliff beneath th' impassive frost, For thought too active, and too mad for ease, Form'd for no end, and impotent to please,

From wish to wish in life's mad vortex tost,
Wou'd lie inactive on the couch of Ease;

Por ever struggling, and for ever lost;
And, heedless of proud Fame's immortal lay, He scorns Religion, though her seraphs call,
Sleep all her dull divinity away.

And lives in rapture, or not lives at all.
And yet, let but a zephyr's breath begin

And now, let loose to all our hopes and fears, To stir the latent excellence within

As Pride inspirits, or Ambition tears, Wak'd in that moment's elemental strife,

Froin ev'ry tie, from ev'ry duty freed, Impassion'd genius feels the breath of life; Without a balance, and without a creed, Th' expanding heart delights to leap and glow, Dead ev'ry sense, each particle divine, The pulse to kindle, and the tear to flow:

And all the man embruted in the swine; Strong and more strong the light celestial shines, These drench in Luxury's ambrosial bowl Each thought ennobles, and each sense refines, Reason's last spark, and drain off all the soal. Till all the soul, full op'ning to the flame,

Those for vain wealth fly on from pole to pole, Exalts to virtue what she felt for fame.

Where winds can waft them, and where seas can roll. Hence, just as Nature points the kindred fire, While others, wearied with the farce of pow'r, One plies the pencil, one awakes the lyre;

Or mad with riot in the midnight hour, This, with an Halley's luxury of soul,

With Spain's proud monarch to a cell retire, Calls the wild needle back upon the pole,

Or, Nero like, set half the globe on fire.

Stretch'd on high-tow'ring Dover's sandy bed, & Two Bankers.

Without a coffin, and without a head;

A dirty sail-cloth o'er his body thrown,

Th’ attentive artist threw a warmer dye, By marks of misery almost unknown,

Or call'd a glory from a pictur'd sky; Without a friend to pity, or to save,

Till both th' opposing powers mix'd in one, Without a dirge to consecrate the grave,

Cool as the night, and brilliant as the Sun. Great Suffolk lies--he who for years had shone, Passions, like colours, have their strength and ease, Eng'and's sixth Henry! nearest to thy throne. Those tco insipid, and too gaudy these : What boots it now, that list'ning senates hung Some on the heart, like Spagnoletti's, throw All ear, all rapture on bis angel-tongue ?

Fictitious horrours, and a weight of woe; Ah! what avails th' enormous blaze between Somne, like Albano's, catch from ev'ry ray His dawn of glory, and his closing scene !

Too strong a sunshine, and too rich a day; . When hanghty France his heav'n-born pow'rs ador'd, Otherz, with Carlo's Magdalens, require And Anjou's princess sheath'd Britannia's sword! A quicker spirit, and a touch of fire; Ask ye what bold conspiracy opprest

Or want, perhaps, though of celestial race, A chief so bonourd, and a chief so blest?

Corregio's softness, and a Guido's grace. [knew, Why, lust of power, that wreck'd his rising fame Wou'dst thou then reach what Rembrant's genius On courts' vain shallows, and the gulf of shame: And live the model that his pencil drew, A Glo'ster's murder, and a nation's wrongs, Form all thy life with all his warmth divine, Call'd loud for vengeance with ten thousand tongues; Great as his plan, and faultless as his line; And hasten's death, on Albion's chalky strand, Let all thy passions, like his colours, play, To end the exile by a pirate's hand.

Strong without harshness, without glaring gay: Pleasure, my friend ! on this side folly lies; Contrast them, curb them, spread them, or confine, It may be vig'rous, but it must be wise:

Ennoble these, and those forbid to shine; And when our organs once that end attain,

With cooler shades Ambition's fire allay, Fach step beyond it is a step to pain.

And mildly melt the pomp of Pride away; For ask the man whose appetites pursue

Her rainbow-robe from Vanity remove, Each loose Roxana of the stew;

And soften malice with the smile of love; Who cannot eat till Luxury refine

Bid o'er revenge the charities prevail, His taste, and teach him how to dine;

Nor let a grace be seen without a vail : Who cannot drink till Spain's rich vintage flow, So shalt thou live as Hear'n itself design'd, Mix'd with the coolness of December's snow : Each pulse congenial with th' informing mind, Ask him, if all those ecstasies that move

Each action station'd in its proper place,
The pulse of rapture, and the rage of love,

Each virtue blooming with its native grace,
When wine, wit, woman, all their pow'rs employ, Each passion vig'rous to its just degree,
And ev'ry sense is lost in ev'ry joy,

And the fair whole a perfect symmetry.
E'er fill'd his heart, and beam'd upon his breast
Content's full sunshine, with the calm of rest?
NO---Virtue only gives fair Peace to shine,
And health, O sacred Temperance! is thine.

THE LOTTERY.
Hence the poor peasant, whose laborious spade

INSCRIBED TO MISS H-
Rids the rough crag of half its health and shade,
Feels in the quiet of his genial nights

CAWTHORN had once a mind to fix
A bliss more genuine than the club at White's: His carcass in a coach and six,
And has in full exchange for fame and wealth, And live, if his estate would bear it,
Herculean vigour, and eternal health.

On turtle, ortolans, and claret :
Of blooming genius, judgment, wit, possessid, For this he went, at Fortune's call,
By poets envied, and by peers caress'd;

To wait upon her at Guildhall;
By royal mercy sav'd from legal doom,

That is, like many other thick wits,
With royal favour crown'd for years to come, Hc bought a score of lottery tickets,
O hadst thon, Savage! known thy lot to prize, And saw them rise in dreadful ranks
And sacred held fair Friendship's gen'rous ties; Converted to a score of blanks.
Hadst thou, sincere to Wisdom, Virtue, Truth, Amaz'd, and vex'd to find his scheme
Curb'd the wild sallies of impetuous youth;

Delusive as a midnight dream,
Had but thy life been equal to thy lays,

He curs'd the goddess o'er and o'er, In vain had Envy strove to blast thy bays;

Call'd her a mercenary whore; la vain thy mother's unrelenting pride

Swore that her dull capricious sense Had strove to push thee helpless from her side; | Was always dup'd by impudence, Fair Competence had lent her genial dow'r,

That men of wit were but her tools,
And smiling Peace adorn'd thy evening-hour; And all her favours were for fools.
True Pleasure wonld have led thee to her shrine, He said, and with an angry gripe
And every friend to merit had been thine.

Snatch'd up his speculative pipe;
Bless'd with the choicest boon that Heav'n can give, And, that he might his grief allay,
Thou then hadst learnt with dignity to live; Read half a page in Seneca.
The scorn of wealth, the threats of want to brave, When, lo! a phantom, tall and thin,
Nor sought from prison a refuge in the grave. Knock'd at the door, and puter'd in :

Th'immortal Rembrant all his pictures made She wore a party-colour'd robe,
Soft as their anion into light and shade:

And seern'd to tread upon a globe
Wbene'er his colours wore too bright an air, Whisk'd round the room with haughty air,
A kindred shadow took off all the glare;

And toss'd into an elbow chair.
Whene'er that shadow, carelessly embrown'd, Then with a bold terrific look,
Stole on the tints, and breath'd a gloom around, Which made the doctor drop his book,

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