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Sure fate of all who love to dwell
Apollo, who, to do him right, Was always perfectly polite, Chagrin'd to see his son and heir Dishonor'd by his gape and stare, Resolved to send him to Versailles, To learn a minuet of Marseilles : But Venus, who had deeper reading In all the mysteries of breeding, Observed to Phoebus, that the name Of fop and Frenchman was the same. French manners, were, she said, a thing which Those grave misguided fools, the English, Had, in despite of common sense, Mistook for manly excellence;
By which their nation strangely sunk is,
Phoebus agreed-the graces took Their noble pupil from his book,
Allow'd him at their side to rove
Genius was charın'd-divinely placed "Midst beauty, wit, politeness, taste; And, having every hour before him The finest models of decorum, His manners took a fairer ply; Expression kindled in his eye; His gesture, disengaged, and clean, Set off a fine majestic mein; And gave his happy power to please The noblest elegance of ease.
Thus, by the discipline of art, Genius shone out in head and heart. Form'd from his first fair bloom of youth, By Temperance and her sister Truth, He knew the scientific page
every clime and every age;
And learn'd with critic-skill to rein
And every stain that wit debases,
A MORAL ESSAY.
BY MR. CAWTHORN.
'TIS said that ere fair virtue learn'd to sigh,
The crest to libel, and the star to lie,
Our modern bards, by some unhappy fate, Condemn'd to flatter every fool of state, Have oft, regardless of their heaven-born flame, Enthroned proud greatness in the shrine of fame; Bestow'd on vice the wreaths that virtue wove, And paid to Nero what was due to Jove.
Yet hear, ye great! whom birth and titles crown With alien worth, and glories not your own; Hear me affirm, that all the vain can show, All Anstis boasts of, and all kings bestow, All envy wishes, all ambition hails, All that supports St. James's, and Versailles,
Can never give distinction to a knave,
Or make a lord whom vice has made a slave.
In elder times, ere heralds yet enroll'd The bleeding ruby in a field of gold, Or infant language pain'd the tender ear With sess, bend, argent, chev'ron, and saltier ; 'Twas he alone the bay's bright verdure wore, Whose strength subdued the lion or the boar; Whose art from rocks could call the mellowing grain, And give the vine to laugh along the plain ; Or, tracing nature in her moral plan, Explored the savage till he found the man. For him the rustic hind, and village maid, Stripp'd the gay spring of half its bloom and shade; With annual dances graced the daisy-mead,
And sung his triumphs on the oaten reed;
For three campaigns Kaprouli's hand display'd
With strange good nature give his worthless son
Hence, without blushing, (say whate'er we can)
Say, should you see a generous steed outfly
In spite of all that in his grandsire shone, An horse's worth is, like a king's, his own. If in the race, when lengthening shouts inspire His bold compeers, and set their hearts on fire, He seems regardless of th' exulting sound, And scarcely drags his legs along the ground; What will 't avail that, sprung from heavenly seed, His great forefathers swept th' Arabian mead; Or, dress'd in half an empire's purple, bore The weight of Xerxes on the Caspian shore?
I grant, my lord! your ancestors outshine