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Tum illo certe, negotiis
Et variis, et lubricis, et implicatis, difficillimum,
Cum dignitate sustinuit.
Honores alios, et omnia quæ sibi in lucrum cederent
Ut rei totus inserviret publice;
Justi rectique tenax,
Et fide in patriam incorrupta notus.
Ubi omnibus, quæ virum civemque bonum decent,
Paulatim se a publicis consiliis in otium recipiens,
Inter literarum amoenitates,
Inter apte-actæ vitæ haud insuaves recordationes,
Inter amicorum convictus et amplexus,
Et bonis omnibus, quibus charissimus vixit,
Hic, juxta cineres avi, suos condi voluit, et curavit
Gulielmus Bunbury Bitus, nepos et hæres.
PARAPHRASE OF THE ABOVE EPITAPH.
Thou, who survey’st these walls with curious eye,
Pause at the tomb, where Hanmer's ashes lie;
His various worth, through vary'd life, attend,
And learn his virtues, while thou mourn'st his end.
His force of genius burn'd, in early youth,
With thirst of knowledge, and with love of truth;
His learning, join'd with each endearing art,
Charm'd ev'ry ear, and gain'd on ev'ry heart.
Thus early wise, th' endanger'd realm to aid, His country call’d him from the studious shade;
This paraphrase is inserted in Mrs. Williams's Miscellanies. The Latin is there said to be written by Dr. Freind. Of the person whose memory it celebrates, a copious account may be seen in the appendix to the supplement to the Biographia Britannica.
In life's first bloom his publick toils began,
At once commenc'd the senator and man.
In bus'ness dextrous, weighty in debate,
Thrice ten long years he labour'd for the state;
In ev'ry speech persuasive wisdom flow'd,
In ev'ry act refulgent virtue glow'd:
Suspended faction ceas'd from rage and strife,
To hear his eloquence, and praise his life.
Resistless merit fix'd the senate's choice,
Who hail'd him speaker, with united voice.
Illustrious age! how bright thy glories shone,
When Hanmer fill'd the chair-and Anne the throne !
Then, when dark arts obscur'd each fierce debate,
When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of state,
The moderator firmly mild appear’d-
Beheld with love—with veneration heard.
This task perform'd-he sought no gainful post,
Nor wish'd to glitter, at his country's cost:
Strict on the right he fix'd his steadfast eye,
With temp’rate zeal and wise anxiety ;
Nor e'er from virtue's paths was lur'd aside,
To pluck the flow'rs of pleasure, or of pride.
Her gifts despis'd, corruption blush'd, and fled,
And fame pursu'd him, where conviction led.
Age call'd, at length, his active mind to rest,
With honour sated, and with cares oppress'd;
To letter'd ease retir'd, and honest mirth,
To rural grandeur and domestick worth;
Delighted still to please mankind, or mend,
The patriot's fire yet sparkled in the friend.
Calm conscience, then, his former life survey’d,
And recollected toils endear'd the shade,
Till nature call’d him to the gen'ral doom,
And virtue's sorrow dignified his tomb.
BRIGHT Stella, form’d for universal reign,
Too well you know to keep the slaves you gain;
When in your eyes resistless lightnings play,
Aw'd into love our conquer'd hearts obey,
And yield reluctant to despotick sway:
But, when your musick sooths the raging pain,
We bid propitions heav'n prolong your reign,
We bless the tyrant, and we hug the chain.
When old Timotheus struck the vocal string,
Ambition's fury fir'd the Grecian king:
Unbounded projects lab'ring in his mind,
He pants for room, in one poor world confin'd.
Thus wak’d to rage, by musick's dreadful pow'r,
He bids the sword destroy, the flame devour.
Had Stella's gentle touches mov’d the lyre,
Soon had the monarch felt a nobler fire ;
No more delighted with destructive war,
Ambitious only now to please the fair,
Resign'd his thirst of empire to her charms,
And found a thousand worlds in Stella's arms.
PARAPHRASE OF PROVERBS, CHAP. VI.
VERSES 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11.
“ Go to the ant, thou sluggardp.” Turn on the prudent ant thy heedful eyes, Observe her labours, sluggard, and be wise:
No stern command, no monitory voice,
Prescribes her duties, or directs her choice;
Yet, timely provident, she hastes away,
To snatch the blessings of the plenteous day;
When fruitful summer loads the teeming plain,
She crops the harvest, and she stores the grain.
How long shall sloth usurp thy useless hours,
Unnerve thy vigour, and enchain thy pow'rs;
While artful shades thy downy couch inclose,
And soft solicitation courts repose?
Amidst the drowsy charms of dull delight,
Year chases year with unremitted flight,
Till want now following, fraudulent and slow,
Shall spring to seize thee like an ambush'd foe.
HORACE, LIB. IV. ODE VII. TRANSLATED.
The snow, dissolv’d, no more is seen,
The fields and woods, behold! are green;
The changing year renews the plain,
The rivers know their banks again;
The sprightly nymph and naked grace
The mazy dance together trace ;
The changing year's successive plan
Proclaims mortality to man;
Rough winter's blasts to spring give way,
Spring yields to summer's sov'reign ray;
Then summer sinks in autumn's reign,
And winter chills the world again ;
Her losses soon the moon supplies,
But wretched man, when once he lies
Where Priam and his sons are laid,
Is nought but ashes and a shade.
Who knows if Jove, who counts our score,
Will toss us in a morning more?
What with your friend you nobly share,
At least you rescue from your heir.
Not you, Torquatus, boast of Rome,
When Minos once has fixed your doom,
Or eloquence, or splendid birth,
Or virtue, shall restore to earth.
Hippolytus, unjustly slain,
Diana calls to life in vain ;
Nor can the might of Theseus rend
The chains of hell that hold his friend.
The following translations, parodies, and burlesque verses,
most of them extempore, are taken from Anecdotes of Dr. Johnson, published by Mrs. Piozzi.
ANACREON, Ope IX.
LOVELY courier of the sky,
Whence and whither dost thou fly?
Scatt'ring, as thy pinions play,
Liquid fragrance all the way:
Is it business? is it love?
Tell me, tell me, gentle dove.
Soft Anacreon's vows I bear,
Vows to Myrtale the fair ;
Grac'd with all that charms the heart,
Blushing nature, smiling art.
Venus, courted by an ode,
On the bard her dove bestow'd :
Vested with a master's right,
Now Anacreon rules my flight;
His the letters that you see,
Weighty charge, consign'd to me:
Think not yet my service hard,
Joyless task without reward;
Smiling at my master's gates,
Freedom my return awaits ;
But the lib'ral grant in vain
Tempts me to be wild again.