Where 'midft the friendly joys that wait Freedom and genuine mirth I found, 'Twas there, with keen, though polish'd jeft More humourous far than e'er you feign'd. “Take him,” I cry'd, "bright comic Maid, "In all your native charms array'd; "No longer fhall my doubts appear.' When Clio whisper'd in my ear, "Go, bid it be no more difputed, "For what his talents beft are fuited: "In mimic characters alone "Let others fhine-but Garrick in his own. * Rigby. TH TO THE MEMORY OF DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. JANUARY 20, 1779. HOU great reviver of the Attic fire! Thou nobleft patron of the tuneful lyre! Thine was the power, and thine the gentle art, To fwell the paffions, and fubdue the heart! For thee, the fairest breast has heav'd a figh, And the tear started from the brightest eye! Learning and wit alike have bow'd the knee, And hermits left their cells to gaze on thee! On thee fhall charm'd remembrance love to reft; Come every Mufe, and ftrive to praise him beft! For, ah! my lute the tribute cannot pay, And the big tear has blotted out the lay! Ye fkilful nine, who fhall the chaplet weave? Hail his bright day! !-nor mourn his tranquil eve ! Your Garrick hail!-he breathes, he lives again, Lives in the thought, and breathes in every flrain! Triumphant Fame enrols his acts on high, And tells the mourner-Garrick cannot die! THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. FIRST PUBLISHED BY MR. PERCY. IT T was a Friar of Orders Gray; And he met with a lady fair Clad in a pilgrim's weeds. Now Chrift thee fave, thou reverend Friar, I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy fhrine My true-love thou didst fee. And how should I know your true love From any other one? O, by his cockle hat and staff, And by his fandal fhoon. But chiefly by his face and mien, O Lady, he is dead and gone! And at his head a green grafs turf, Within thefe holy cloifters long Lamenting of a lady's love, And 'plaining of her pride. Here bore him barefac'd on his bier, And art thou dead, thou gentle youth And art thou dead and gone! And didft thou die for love of me? Break, cruel heart of stone! O weep not, Lady, weep not fo! Let not vain forrows rive thy heart, O do not, do not, holy Friar, My forrow now reprove : For I have loft the sweetest youth That e'er won lady's love. And now, alas! for thy fad loss, For thee I only wish to live, For thee I wish to die. Weep no more, Lady, weep no more, Thy forrow is in vain; } For violets pluck'd, the fweeteft fhowers Will ne'er make grow again. Our joys as winged dreams do fly, O fay not fo, thou holy Friar, And will he never come again? Ah! no, he's dead, and laid in his grave, His cheek was redder than the role; Sigh no more, Lady, figh no more, Hadft thou been fond, he had been falfe, Now fay not fo, thou holy Friar, My love he had the trueft heart, |