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Written in the Year 1776.
ARTON, the wonder of a thankless age!
Thine, are the varied gifts, the kill divine
To strike the solemn lyre with Pindar's rage;
Humour and wit, with Lucian, to combine;
Or dig unwearied in thy toilsome mine,
Antiquity, with wealth time-hidden fraught;
From duft and dross the purer ore refine,
And pick with patient care the sparrs of thought.
Ah say, what fair reward confirms thy fame?
Alas! regardless of thy evening hour,
Unletter'd Envy bars thy titled claiin,
And suppler Virtue wins the smile of Power!
And yet, when Power's proud pageantry is paft,
And Envy's inakes are dead, thy naine shall lait!
Written on a Blank Leaf of his Fast SERMON.
WHERE are who, plac'd on life's important stage,
Waite in scholastic war their idle strength,
Or dream dull days away of tedious length, In learned trifling most profoundly fage ! Accomplished Watson, 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 selfish part,
And more than patriot passion warms thy heart.
Of mean and servile soul, detraction raves,
Nor brooks the favourite of the good and wife;
But these applauding, well may'st thou despise The reptile race of prostituted Naves.
V. To the DUKE of RICHMOND,
On his Motion for Annual Parliaments, and Equal Representation,
HE stream, that wandering from its parent source
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 distinction wins the Mule's smile!
Let boastful heralds pompously proclaim
Whence flows thy blood, thy honours whence descend,
And draw from ducal rank an empty fame!
A loftier title shall 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 sight
The finer arts in beauty drest,
Benignant source of pure delight!
Reclining on her bosom reft.
While each discordant sound expires,
Strike, Harmony! thy warbling wires,
The fine vibrations of the spirit move,
Wake extasy's pure thrill, and touch the springs of love.
Bright Painting's living forms shall rise,
And still for Ugolino's woe
Shall Reynolds wake unbidden fighs,
And Romney's soothing pencil flow,
That Nature's look benign pourtrays,
When, to her infant Shakspeare's gaze,
The smiling form" unveild her awful face,"
And bade his “colours clear” each glowing feature trace.
And Poesy! thy deep-ton'd shell
The heart shall rooth, the spirit fire,
And all the according passions swell
While rapture trembles on thy lyre;
Awake its (weetly-thrilling found,
And call enchanting visions round,
Strew the soft path of Peace with Fancy's flowers,
And lead the glowing heart to Joy's elysian bowers.
While Hayley wakes thy magic strings,
His fhades shall no rude sound prophane,
But stillness on her tender wings,
Enamour'd drink the potent strain.
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 soul!
While taste instructs a polish'd age
With luxury of mind to trace
The lustre of th' unerring page,
Where Symmetry sheds finith'd grace;
Judgment shall point to Fancy's gazed,
As wild the sportive wand'rer strays,
Perfection's faireit form, where mimic art
With nature softly blends, and leads the subject 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 steep
It rolls with wide, and wasteful sweep,
Her tablet still records the deeds of fame, And swells the patriot's soul, and wakes the hero's flame.
While meek Philosophy explores
Creation's vaft ftupendous round,
With piercing gaze fublime the soars,
And bursts the system's distant bound.
Lo! 'mid the dark deep void of space,
A rulling world her glance can trace !
It moves majestic in its ample sphere,
Sheds its refracted light, and rolls its ling'ring year.
Ah ! ftill diffuse 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 shall still entwine
Rich attic flowers around the Mhrine,
View hallow'd Learning ope his treasured store, And with her fignet stamp the mass of claffic ore.
Auspicious Peace! for thine the hours
Meek Wisdom decks in moral grace,
And thine each tenderness that pours
Enchantment o'er their destin'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 hostile spirit bind.
While Albion on her parent deep
Shall reft, may glory gild her thore,
And blossom on her rocky steep
Till Time fhall wing his course no more ;
Till angels wrap the spheres in fire,
Till earth and yon fair orbs expire, While Chaos mounting in the rushing flame, Shall spread his cold deep (hade o'er nature's finking frame.
DESCRIPTION of an AGED RUSTIC.
(From Mr. Crabbe's Village.] JOR yet can Time itself obtain for these
For yonder see that hoary (wain, whose age
Can with no cares except its own engage;
Who, propt on that rude staff
, looks up to see
The bare arms broken from the withering tree;
On which, a boy, he clim'd the loftiest bough,
Then his frst joy, but his fad emblem now.
He once was chief in all the ruftic trade,
His steady hand the straiteft furrow made ;
Full many a prize he won, and still is proud
To find the triumphs of his youth allow'd ;
A transient pleasure sparkles in his eyes,
He hears and smiles, then thinks again and lighs ;
For now he journeys to his grave in pain;
'The rich disdain hiin; nay, the poor
Alternate masters now their fave command,
And urge the efforts of his feeble hand;
Who, when his age attempts its talk in vain,
With ruthlefs caunts of lazy poor complain.
Oft may you see 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 snow ;
When rouz'd by rage and muttering in the morn,
He mends the broken hedge with icy thorn.
* Why do I live, when I desire to be
At once from life and life's long labour free?
Like leaves in fprics, the young are blown away,
Without the forrows of a flow decay;
I, like yon wither'd lenf, remain behind,
Nipt by the frost and shivering in the wind;
There it abides till younger buds come on,
As I, now all my fellow Twains are gone ;
Then, from the rising generation thurst,
It falls, like me, unnoticed to the duft.
These fruitful fields, these numerous flocks I see,
Are others' gain, but killing cares to me;
To me the children of my youth are lords;
Slow in their gifts but hasty in their words;
Wants of their own demand their care, and who
Feels his own want and succours 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 curf be laid,
And men forget the wretch they would not aid.”
The Village APOTHECARY and CLERGYMAN.
UT soon a loud and hasty fummons calls,
Shakes the thin roof, and echoes round the walls ;
Anon a figure enters, quaintly neat,
All pride and business, bustle and conceit.
With looks unalter'd by these scenes of woe,
With speed that entering, speaks' his hafte to go ;
He bids the gazing throng around him fiy,
And carries fate and physicin his eye;
A potent quack, long vers'd in human ills,
Who first insults the victim whom he kills;
Whose 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 sapient sneer;
In haste he seeks the bed where misery lies,
Impatience mark'd in his averted eyes;
And, some 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 hastens to the grave.
But ere his death some pious doubts arise,
Some simple fears which “bold bad" men defpise ;
Fain would he ask the parish priest to prove
His title certain to the joys above ;
For this he sends the murmuring nurse, who calls
The holy Itranger to these dismal walls;
And doth not he, the pious man, appear,
He,“ paffing rich with forty pounds a year?'"
Ah! no ; a shepherd of a different stock,
And far unlike him, feeds this little flock;