Search, with thy more than mortal eye, See if thy unfufpecting heart In fome for truth mistook not art, From thefe, the pefts of human kind, Protect our parent King : Unmak their treach'ry to his fight, Drag forth the vipers into light, And crush them ere they fting. If fuch his truft and honours fhare, Each venom'd heart difclofe; On Ilim, on Him, our all depends, Oh fave him from his treach'rous friends, He cannot fear his foes. 70 75 80 Whoe'er fhall at the helm prefide, 85 Still let thy prudence be his guide, To ftain the troubled wave; But chiefly whisper in his ear, "That GEORGE is open, juft, fincere, "And dares to fcorn a knave." go No selfish views t' opprefs mankind, To purchase fame with blood; Thy bofom glow'd with purer heat; 95 To hear no lawless paffion's call, Unite, ye kindred fons of worth; Be Britain's weal your view! 105 AD AMICOS. BY RICHARD WEST, ESQ." YES happy youths, on Camus' fedgy fide, 5 10 * Born 1716; dyed 1742. This poem is in imitation of the 5th Elegy of the 3d book of Tibullus, and of a letter of Mr. Pope, in fickness, to Mr. Steel. "Almost all Tibullus's Elegy," Mr. Mafon obferves," is imitated in this little piece, from whence the tranfition to Mr. Popes letter is very artfully contrived, and bespeaks a degree of judgment much beyond Mr. Weft's years." It was written before 21. The reader may compare this with another imitation of the fame elegy by Mr. Hammond. (See p. 35.) From you remote, methinks, alone I stand Around no friends their lenient care to join 15 In mutual warmth, and mix their hearts with mine. To fickness still, and still to grief a prey, 20 Juft heav'n! what fin, ere life begins to bloom, Devotes my head untimely to the tomb? 25 Did e'er this hand against a brother's life Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe, Or know a thought but all the world might know? 30 40 Ah, ftay till age shall blaft my withering face, 50 55 How weak is Man to Reafon's judging eye! Born in this moment, in the next we die ; Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire, Too proud to creep, too humble to aspire. In vain our plans of happiness we raise, Pain is our lot, and patience is our praise ; Wealth, lineage, honours, conqueft, or a throne, Are what the wife would fear to call their own. Health is at best a vain precarious thing, And fair-fac'd youth is ever on the wing; 'Tis like the ftream, befide whofe wat❜ry bed Some blooming plant exalts his flow'ry head, Nurs'd by the wave the spreading branches rise, Shade all the ground, and flourish to the skies; 60 The waves the while beneath in fecret flow, And undermine the hollow bank below; Wide and more wide the waters urge their way, Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey. Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride, And finks, untimely, in the whelming tide. But why repine, does life deserve my figh? neither envy nor regard their fate. 65 70 |