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Insulted by a peevish, noisy wife,
Or at the bar foredoom'd to lose his life;
What moving words flow from his artless tongue,
Sublime with ease, with condescension strong!
Yet scorn'd to flatter vice, or virtue blame;
Nor chang'd to please, but pleas'd because the same;
The same by friends caress’d, by foes withstood,
Still unaffected, cheerful, mild, and good.
Behold one pagan, drawn in colours faint,
Outshine ten thousand monks, tho' each a faint!
Here let us fix our foot, hence take our view,
And learn to try false merit by the true.
We fee, when reason ftagnates in the brain,
The dregs of fancy cloud its purest vein ;
But circulation betwixt mind and mind
Extends its course, and renders it refin'd.
When warm with youth we tread the flow'ry way,
All nature charms, and ev'ry scene looks
Each object gratifies each sense in turn,
Whilst now for rattles, now for nymphs we burn;
Enslav'd by friendship’s or by love's soft smile,
We ne'er suspect, because we mean no guile :
Till, Aufh'd with hope from views of paft success,
We lay on some main trifle all our stress;
When lo! the mistress or the friend betrays,
And the whole fancied cheat of life displays :
Stun'd with an ill that from ourselves arose ;
For instinct rul'd, when reason should have chose;
We fly for comfort to some lonely scene, Vi&tims henceforth of dirt, and drink, and spleen. But let no obstacles that cross our views, Pervert our talents from their destin'd use; For, as upon life's hill we upwards press, Our views will be obstructed less and less. Be all false delicacy far away, Left it from nature lead us quite astray ; And for th’imagin’d vice of human race, Destroy our virtue, or our parts debase ; Since God with reason joins to make us own, That 'tis not good for man to be alone.
On the Death of Col. CHARLES Ross, in the Action
at Fontenoy. Written May 1745.
HILE, loft to all his former mirth,
BRITANNIA's genius bends to earth,
And mourns the fatal day ;
While, ftain’d with blood, he strives to tear
Unseemly from his sea-green hair
The wreaths of cheerful May;
The thoughts which musing pity pays,
And fond remembrance loves to raise,
Your faithful hours attend;
Still fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the soften'd mind,
And points the bleeding friend.
By rapid Scheld's descending wave
His country's vows fall bless the grave,
Where-e'er the youth is laid :
That sacred spot the village hind
With ev'ry sweetest turf hall bind,
And peace protect the shade.
O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
Aërial forms shall fit at eve
And bend the pensive head !
And, fall’n to save his injur'd land,
Imperial Honour's aweful hand
Shall point his lonely bed!
The warlike dead of every age,
Who fill the fair recording page,
Shall leave their sainted rest :
And, half-reclining on his spear,
Each wond'ring Chief by turns appear,
To hail the blooming guest.
Old EDWARD's fons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from CRESSY's laureli'd field,
And gaze with fix'd delight;
Again for Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish th' avenging fight.
If, weak to sooth so soft an heart,
These pictur'd glories nought impart
To dry thy constant tear;
If yet in forrow's diftant eye,
Expos’d and pale thou feeft him lie,
Wild war insulting near.
Where-e'er from time thou court'st relief,
The Mufe shall fill with social grief
Her gentle promise keep :
Ev'n humble HARTING's cottag’d vale
Shall learn the fad repeated tale,
And bid her hepherds weep.
By the Same.
OW sleep the brave, who sink to reft,
By all their country's wishes bleft!
When Spring with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow'd mold,
She there shall dress a sweeter fod,
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By formsunseen their dirge is sung ;
There Honour comes, a PILGRIM grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom fhall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping Hermit there!