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Else I would say, and as I spake bid fly
A captive bird into the boundless sky,
This triple realm adores thee-thou art come
From Sparia hither, and art here at home ;
We feel thy force still alive, at this hour
Enjoy immunity from priefly pow'r ;
While conscience, happier than in ancient years
Owns no superior but the God she fears,
Propitious Spirit! yet expunge a wrong
Thy rites have suffer’d, and our land, too long ;
Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts that share
The fears and hopes of a commercial care :
Prisons expect the wicked, and were built
To bind the lawless and to punish guilt,
But shipwreck, earthquake, baitle, fire, and flood,
Are mighty mischiefs not to be with flood;
And honest merit stands on flipp’ry ground,
Where cover guile and artifice abound:
Let just restraint, for public peace design'd,
up the wolves and tigers of mankind ;
The foe of virtue has no claim to thee,
But let insolvent innocence go free,
Patron of else the most despisid of men, Accept the tribute of a stranger's pen ; Verse, like the laurel its immortal meed, Should be the guerdon of a noble deed :
alarm thee, but I fear the shame (Charity chosen as my theme and aim) I mus incur, forgetting Howard's name.
Bleft with all wealth can give thee-to resign
Joys doubly sweet to feelings quick as thine ;
To quit the bliss thy rural scenes bestow,
To feek a nobler amidit scenes of woe ;
To traverse feas, range kingdoms, and bring home,
Not the proud monumeuts of Greece or Rome,
But knowledge such, as only dungeons teach,
And only sympathy like thine could reach;
That grief, fequefter'd from the public ftage,
Might smooth her feathers, and enjoy her cage-
Speaks a divine ambition, and a zeal
The boldest patriot might be proud to feel.
Oh that the voice of clamour and debate,
That pleads for peace till it dillurbs the state,
Were hush'd in favour of thy gen'rous plea,
The poor thy clients, and Heaven's smile thy fee!
Epifolary Verfes to George Colman, Esq. written in
the Year, 1756.
By Mr. ROBERT LLOYD.
OU know, dear George, I'm none of those
That condescend to write in prose :
Infpir'd with pathos and sublime,
I always foar-in doggrel rhyme :
Wi hut a jingling line or two.
Besides, I always took delight in
What bears the name of easy writing; ;. ,
Perhaps the reason makes it please
Is, that I find 'uis writ with ease.
I vent a notion here in private,
Which public'raste can ne'er connive at,
Which thinks no wit or judgment greater
Than Addifon and his Spectator ;
Who says (it is no matter where,
But that he fays it I can swear)
With easy verse most bards are smitten,
Because they think it's eafy written ;
Whereas the eafter it appears,
The greater marks of care it wears ;
Of which to give an explanation,
Take this by way of illustration,
The fam'd Mat. Prior, it is said,
Oft bit his nails, and scratch'd his head,
And chang'd a thought a hundred times,
Because he did not like the rhymes :
To make my meaning clear, and please ye,
In short, he labour'd to write easy.
And yet no Critic e'er defines
into labour'd lines.
I have a simile will hit him;
His verse, like clothes, was made to fit him;
Which (as no taylor e’er denied)
The better fit the more they're tried.
Though I have mention’d Prior's name,
Think not I aim at Prior's fame,
'Tis the result of admiration
To spend itself in imitation
If imitation may be said,
Which is in me by nature bred,
And you have better proofs than these,
That I'm idolater of Ease.
Who but a madman would engage
A Poet in the present age ?
Write what we will, our works bespeak us
Imitatores, fervum Pecus.
Tale, Elegy, or lofty Ode,
We travel in the beaten road.
The proverb still sticks closely by us,
Nil dictum, quod non diftum prius.
The only comfort that I know
Is, that 'twas said an age ago,
Ere Milton foar'd in thought fublime,
Ere Pope refin'd the chink of rhyme,
Ere Colman wrote in style so pure,
Or the great Two the Connoisseur ;
Ere I burlesqu’d the rural cit,
Proud to hedge in my scraps of wit ;
And, happy in the close connection,
T'acquire fome name from their reflection ;
So (the fimilitude is trite)
The moon ftill shines with borrow'd light ;
Vol. VI, 22. D
And, like the race of modern beaux,
Ticks with the sun for her lac'd clothes.
Mechinks there is no better time
To shew the use I make of rhyme,
Than now, -when I, who from beginning
Was always fond of couplet-finning.
Presuming on good-nature's score,
Thus lay iny bantling at your door,
The first advantage which I fee,
Is, that I ramble loose and free :
The bard indeed full of complains
That rhymes are fetters, links, and chains ;
And, when he wanis to leap the fence,
Still keeps him pris’ner to the sense.
Howe'er in common-place he rage,
Rhyme's like your fetters on the stage,
Which when the player once hath wore,
It makes him only strut the more,
While, raving in pathetic strains,
He shakes his legs to clank his chains.
From rhyme, as from a handsome face,
Nonsense acquires a kind of grace ;
I therefore give it all its scope,
That sense may unperceiv'd elope.
rs of baseft tricks
(I love a fing at politics)
Amuse the nation, court, and king,
With breaking Fkes, and hanging Byng;