Written in the Year 1776.
WARTON, the wonder of a thanklefs age!
Thine, are the varied gifts, the skill divine
To ftrike the folemn lyre with Pindar's rage;
Humour and wit, with Lucian, to combine;
Or dig unwearied in thy toilfome mine,
Antiquity, with wealth time-hidden fraught;
From duft and drofs the purer ore refine,
And pick with patient care the fparrs of thought.
Ah fay, what fair reward confirms thy fame?
Alas! regardless of thy evening hour,
Unletter'd Envy bars thy titled claim,
And fuppler Virtue wins the fmile of Power!
And yet, when Power's proud pageantry is paft,
And Envy's fnakes are dead, thy name fhall last!
Written on a Blank Leaf of his FAST SERMON.
HERE are who, plac'd on life's important ftage,
Wate in fcholaftic war their idle frength,
Or dream dull days away of tedious length,
In learned trifling moft profoundly fage!
Accomplished Watfon, wider views engage
Thy active thought, thy comprehenfive mind!
Truth, liberty, and love of human kind,
And mild religion animate thy page.
Philanthropy, that knows no felfifh part,
And more than patriot paffion warms thy heart.
Of mean and fervile foul, detraction raves,
Nor brooks the favourite of the good and wife;
But thefe applauding, well may'ft thou despise
The reptile race of prostituted flaves.
V. To the DUKE of RICHMOND.
On his Motion for Annual Parliaments, and Equal Representation,
THE ftream, that wandering from its parent fource
Brightens the bloom of many a fragrant flower,
Shall oft, as chance directs its careless course,
Swell into life the plant of poisonous power.
Thus flows from honour's fount the flattering tide:
It marks alike the virtuous and the vile!
Ah think not, Richmond, though it pamper pride,
Such vain diftinction wins the Mufe's fmile!
Let boastful heralds pompously proclaim
Whence flows thy blood, thy honours whence defcend,
And draw from ducal rank an empty fame!
A loftier title fhall thy country lend,
And fondly hail thee by a nobler name
Her freedom's champion, and the people's friend.
CONCLUDING STANZAS of MISS WILLIAMS's ODE on the
NCHANTING vifions footh my fight
The finer arts in beauty dreft,
Benignant fource of pure delight!
Reclining on her bofom reft.
While each difcordant found expires,
Strike, Harmony! thy warbling wires,
The fine vibrations of the spirit move,
Wake extafy's pure thrill, and touch the springs of love.
Bright Painting's living forms fhall rise,
And still for Ugolino's woe
Shall Reynolds wake unbidden fighs,
And Romney's foothing pencil flow,
That Nature's look benign pourtrays,
When, to her infant Shakfpeare's gaze,
The fmiling form "unveil'd her awful face,"
And bade his "colours clear" each glowing feature trace.
And Poefy! thy deep-ton'd fhell
The heart fhall footh, the fpirit fire,
And all the according paffions fwell
While rapture trembles on thy lyre;
Awake its fweetly-thrilling found,
And call enchanting vifions round,
Strew the foft path of Peace with Fancy's flowers,
And lead the glowing heart to Joy's elyfian bowers.
While Hayley wakes thy magic ftrings,
His fhades fhall no rude found prophane,
But ftillness on her tender wings,
Enamour'd drink the potent ftrain.
Tho' genius flash the vivid flame
Around his lyre's enchanting frame,
Where fancy's warbled tones melodious roll,
More warm his friendship glows, more harmoniz'd his foul!
While tafte inftructs a polish'd age
With luxury of mind to trace
The luftre of th' unerring page,
Where Symmetry fheds finish'd grace;
Judgment fhall point to Fancy's gazed,
As wild the sportive wand'rer ftrays,
Perfection's faireit form, where mimic art
With nature foftly blends, and leads the fubject heart.
Th' hiftoric Muse illumes the maze
Oblivion veil'd in deep'ning night,
Where empire with meridian blaze
Once trod ambition's lofty height;
Tho' headlong from the dizzy fteep
It rolls with wide, and wasteful fweep,
Her tablet still records the deeds of fame,
And fwells the patriot's foul, and wakes the hero's flame.
While meek Philofophy explores
Creation's vaft ftupendous round,
With piercing gaze fublime the foars,
And bursts the fyftem's diftant bound.
Lo! 'mid the dark deep void of space,
A rushing world her glance can trace!
It moves majestic in its ample fphere,
Sheds its refracted light, and rolls its ling'ring year.
Ah! ftill diffufe thy mental ray,
Fair Science! on my Albion's plain,
While oft' thy step delights to stray
Where Montagu has rear'd her fane ;
Where Eloquence fhall ftill entwine
Rich attic flowers around the shrine,
View hallow'd Learning ope his treasured ftore, And with her fignet ftamp the mafs of claffic ore.
Aufpicious Peace! for thine the hours
Meek Wisdom decks in moral grace,
And thine each tenderness that pours
Enchantment o'er their deftin'd space.
Benignant form! in filence laid
Beneath the olive's filken shade,
Shed each mild bliss that charms the tuneful mind, And in the zone of love the hoftile spirit bind.
While Albion on her parent deep
Shall reft, may glory gild her shore,
And bloffom on her rocky steep
Till Time fhall wing his courfe no more;
Till angels wrap the spheres in fire,
Till earth and yon fair orbs expire,
While Chaos mounting in the rufhing flame,
Shall spread his cold deep fhade o'er nature's finking frame.
DESCRIPTION of an AGED RUSTIC.
[From Mr. CRABBE's Village.]
OR yet can Time itself obtain for these
Life's lateft comforts, due refpect and ease;
For yonder fee that hoary fwain, whofe age
Can with no cares except its own engage;
Who, propt on that rude staff, looks up to fee
The bare arms broken from the withering tree;
On which, a boy, he clim'd the loftiest bough,
Then his frft joy, but his fad emblem now.
He once was chief in all the ruftic trade,
His steady hand the ftraiteft furrow made;
Full many a prize he won, and still is proud
To find the triumphs of his youth allow'd;
A tranfient pleafure fparkles in his eyes,
He hears and fimiles, then thinks again and fighs:
For now he journeys to his grave in pain;
The rich difdain him; nay, the poor disdain;
Alternate mafters now their flave command,
And urge the efforts of his feeble hand;
Who, when his age attempts its task in vain,
With ruthlefs taunts of lazy poor complain.
Oft may you fee him when he tends the sheep,
His winter charge, beneath the hillock weep;
Oft hear him murmur to the winds that blow
O'er his white locks, and bury them in fnow;
When rouz'd by rage and muttering in the morn,
He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn.
"Why do I live, when I defire to be
At once from life and life's long labour free?
Like leaves in fpring, the young are blown away,
Without the forrows of a flow decay;
I, like yon wither'd leaf, remain behind,
Nipt by the froft and fhivering in the wind;
There it abides till younger buds come on,
As I, now all my fellow fwains are gone;
Then, from the rifing generation thurst,
It falls, like me, unnoticed to the duft.
These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I fee,
Are others' gain, but killing cares to me;
To me the children of my youth are lords;
Slow in their gifts but hafty in their words;
Wants of their own demand their care, and who
Feels his own want and fuccours others too?
A lonely, wretched man, in pain I go,
None need my help and none relieve my woe :
Then let my bones beneath the turf be laid,
And men forget the wretch they would not aid."
The Village APOTHECARY and CLERGYMAN.
UT foon a loud and hafty fummons calls,
Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls;
Anon a figure enters, quaintly neat,
All pride and business, buftle and conceit.
With looks unalter'd by these scenes of woe,
With speed that entering, fpeaks his hafte to go;
He bids the gazing throng around him fly,
And carries fate and phyfic in his eye;
A potent quack, long vers'd in human ills,
Who firft infults the victim whom he kills;
Whofe murd'rous hand a drowsy bench protect,
And whose most tender mercy is neglect.
Paid by the parifh for attendance here,
He wears contempt upon his fapient fneer;
In hafte he feeks the bed where mifery lies,
Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes;
And, fome habitual queries hurried o'er,
Without reply, he rushes on the door:
His drooping patient, long inur'd to pain,
And long unheeded, knows remonstrance vain ;
He ceases now the feeble help to crave
Of man, and mutely haftens to the grave.
But ere his death fome pious doubts arife,
Some fimple fears which "bold bad" men defpife;
Fain would he afk the parish priest to prove
His title certain to the joys above;
For this he fends the murmuring nurse, who calls
The holy stranger to these dismal walls;
And doth not he, the pious man, appear,
He, "paffing rich with forty pounds a year?"
Ah! no; a fhepherd of a different stock,
And far unlike him, feeds this little flock;
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