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THE LARK...TO THE HONOURABLE CHARLES TOWNSEND.

'Tis true, of old the patriarch spread

His happier tents which knew not war, And chang'd at will the trampled mead

For fresher greens and purer air:

But long has man forgot such simple ways; Truth unsuspecting harm!-the dream of ancient days.

Ev'n he, cut off from human kind,

(Thy neighbouring wretch) the child of care, Who, to his native mines confin'd,

Nor sees the Sun, nor breathes the air, [womb But 'midst the damps and darkness of Earth's Drags out laborious life, and scarcely dreads the tomb.

Ev'n he, should some indulgent chance
Transport him to thy sylvan reign,
Would eye the floating veil askance,

And hide him in his caves again,

While dire presage in every breeze that blows

This you observ'd, and ask'd from me, My gentle friend, a simile.

So take in homely verse, but true,
Instead of one the following two.

That larks are poets' birds, is known,
So make the case the poet's own.
And see him first from fields arise
And pastoral scenes, to Cælia's eyes.
From thence the bold adventurer springs
To vaulted roofs, and courts, and kings,
Till having crown'd his soaring lays
With something more than empty praise;
And, like his readers, learnt aright
To mingle profit with delight;
He reads the news, he takes the air,
Or slumbers in his elbow chair.

Or lay aside for once grimace,
And make it, yours, the parson's case;
Who, leaving curate's humble roof,
Looks down on crape, and sits aloof.
Tho' no vain wish his breast enthral

Hears shrieks, and clashing arms, and all Germa-To swell in pomp pontifical,

nia's woes.

And, doubt not, thy polluted taste

A sudden vengeance shall pursue; Each fairy form we whilom trac'd

Along the morn or evening dew, Nymph, Satyr, Faun, shall vindicate their grove, Robb'd of its genuine charms, and hospitable Jove.

I see, all arm'd with dews unblest,
Keen frosts, and noisome vapours drear,
Already, from the bleak north-east,

The Genins of the wood appear!
-Far other office once his prime delight,

But pure contentment seated there,
Nor finds a want, nor feels a care,
Yet are there not to stain the cloth
(O may'st thou live secure from both!)
A city pride, or country sloth?
And may not man, if touch'd with these,
Resign his duty for his ease?

But I forbear; for well I ween
Such likenings suit with other men.
For never can my humble verse
The cautious ear of patron pierce ;
Nor ever can thy breast admit
Degrading sloth, or self-conceit.

Then let the birds or sing or fly,

To nurse thy saplings tall, and heal the harms of As Hector says, and what care !?

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221

HONOURABLE CHARLES TOWNSEND.

O CHARLES, in absence hear a friend complain, Who knows thou lov'st him wheresoe'er he goes, Yet feels uneasy starts of idle pain,

And often would be told the thing he knows. Why then, thou loiterer, fleets the silent year, How dar'st thou give a friend unnecessary fear?

We are not now beside that osier'd' stream,
Where erst we wander'd, thoughtless of the
We do not now of distant ages dream,
[way;

And cheat in converse half the ling'ring day;
No fancied heroes rise at our command,
And no Timoleon weeps, and bleeds no Theban band.

Yet why complain? thou feel'st no want like these,

From me, 'tis true, but me alone debar'd, Thou still in Granta's shades enjoy'st at ease

The books we reverenc'd, and the friends we

shar'd;

Nor see'st without such aids the day decline, Nor think how much their loss has added weight to

thine.

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Bade us bedew with tears the kindred urri, And for a brother lost like sad Maria mourn.

He bids thee too, in whispers felt within,
For sure he finely tun'd thy social soul,
Haste to the lovely mourner, and restrain

Grief's swelling tides which in her bosom roll,
Not by obstructing the tumultuous course,
But stealing by degrees, and yielding to its force.

As the kind parent treats the wounded child With open smiles, and only weeps by stealth; Its wayward pain with condescension mild

She charms to rest, and cheats it into health: So must we lightly urge th' afflicted fair, [bear. Probe the self-tortur'd breast, and teach it how to

Improve each moment when th' elastic mind, Tir'd with its plaints, resumes the bent of mirth; Lead it to joys, not boistrous, but refin'd, [birth, Far from those scenes which gave its sorrows Thro' the smooth paths of fancy's flowery vale, And the long devious tracks of some well-woven tale. Tho' oft I've known a sorrow like to theirs, In well-devised story painted strong, Cheat the fond mourners of their real cares, And draw perforce the list'ning ear along; Till powerful fiction taught the tears to flow, And more than half their grief bewail'd another's

woe.

But she, alas, unfortunately wise,

Will see thro' every scheme thy art can frame, Reject with honest scorn each mean disguise,

And her full share of genuine anguish claim; Wild as the winds which ocean's face deform, Or silent as the deep ere rolls th' impetuous storm.

Why had she talents given beyond her sex,
Or why those talents did her care improve?
Free from the follies which weak minds perplex,
But most expos'd to all which most can move.
Great souls alone are curs'd with grief's excess,
That quicker finer sense of exquisite distress.

Yet shall that power beyond her sex, at last,
Not giv'n in vain, o'er grief itself prevail,
Stop those heart-bursting groans which heave so
fast,

And reason triumph where thy counsels fail; Save when some well-known object ever dear Recalls th' untutor'd sigh, or sudden-starting tear.

Such tender tribute to departed friends

Thro' life alas must sad remembrance pay; And such, O Charles, when kinder fate extends Thy stronger thread beyond my fatal day, Such shall I hope from thee, till thou resign That last sure pledge of love to some poor friend of thine.

TO MR. GARRICK.

ON old Parnassus, t'other day, The Muses met to sing and play; Apart from all the rest were seen The tragic and the comic queen,

Engag'd, perhaps, in deep debate

On Rich's, or on Fleetwood's fate.
When, on a sudden, news was brought
That Garrick had the patent got,
And both their ladyships again
Might now return to Drury-lane.
They bow'd, they simper'd, and agreed,
They wish'd the project might succeed,
Twas very possible; the case
Was likely too, and had a face-

A face!" Thalia titt'ring cry'd,
And could her joy no longer hide;
"Why, sister, all the world must see
How much this makes for you and me :
No longer now shall we expose
Our unbought goods to empty rows,
Or meanly be oblig'd to court
From foreign aid a weak support;
No more the poor polluted scene
Shall teem with births of Harlequin ?
Or vindicated stage shall feel
The insults of the dancer's heel.
Such idle trash we'll kindly spare
To operas now-they'll want them there;
For Sadler's-Wells, they say, this year
Has quite outdone their engineer."

"Pugh, you're a wag," the buskin'd prude
Reply'd, and smil'd; "beside 'tis rude
To laugh at foreigners, you know,
And triumph o'er a vanquish'd foe:
For my part, I shall be content

If things succeed as they are meant ;
And should not be displeas'd to find
Some changes of the tragic kind.
And say, Thalia, mayn't we hope
The scale will take a larger scope?
Shall he, whose all-expressive powers

Can reach the heights which Shakspeare soars,
Descend to touch an humbler key,

And tickle ears with poetry;
Where every tear is taught to flow
Thro' many a line's melodious woe,
And heart-felt pangs of deep distress
Are fritter'd into similies?

-O thou, whom Nature taught the art
To pierce, to cleave, to tear the heart,
Whatever name delight thy ear,
Othello, Richard, Hamlet, Lear,
O undertake my just defence,
And banish all but Nature hence !
See, to thy aid with streaming eyes
The fair afflicted Constance flies;
Now wild as winds in madness tears
Her heaving breasts, and scatter'd hairs;
Or low on earth disdains relief,
With all the conscious pride of grief.
My Pritchard too in Hamlet's queen"-
The goddess of the sportive vein

Here stopp'd her short, and with a sneer,
"My Pritchard, if you please, my dear!
Her tragic merit I confess,

But surely mine's her proper dress;
Behold her there with native ease
And native spirit, born to please;

With all Maria's charms engage,

Or Milwood's arts, or Touchwood's rage,

'Mrs. Cibber, in the character of Lady Constance,

in Shakespear's King John.

Thro' every foible trace the fair,

Or leave the town, and toilet's care,
To chant in forests unconfin'd

The wilder notes of Rosalind.

"O thou, where'er thou fix thy praise, Brute, Drugger, Fribble, Ranger, Bays? O join with her in my behalf,

And teach an audience when to laugh.
So shall buffoons with shame repair
To draw in fools at Smithfield fair,
And real humour charm the age,
Though Falstaff should forsake the stage."
She spoke. Melpomene reply'd,
And much was said on either side;
And many a chief, and many a fair,
Were mention'd to their credit there.
But I'll not venture to display
What goddesses think fit to say.
However, Garrick, this at least
Appears by both a truth confest,
That their whole fate for many a year
But hangs on your paternal care.
A nation's taste depends on you:
-Perhaps a nation's virtue too.
O think how glorious 'twere to raise
A theatre to virtue's praise.
Where no indignant blush might rise,
Nor wit be taught to plead for vice;
But every young attentive ear
Imbide the precepts, living there.
And every unexperienc'd breast
There feel its own rude hints exprest,
And, waken'd by the glowing scene,
Unfold the worth that lurks within.

If possible, be perfect quite;

A few short rules will guide you right.
Consult your own good sense in all,
Be deaf to fashion's fickle call,

Nor e'er descend from reason's laws
To court, what you command, applause.

NATURE TO DR. HOADLY,

ON HIS COMEDY OF THE SUSPICIOUS HUSBAND.

SLY hypocrite! was this your ain?
To borrow Pæon's sacred name,
And lurk beneath his graver mien,
To trace the secrets of my reign?
Did I for this applaud your zeal,
And point out each minuter wheel,
Which finely taught the next to roll,
And made my works one perfect whole?
For who, but I, till you appear'd,
To model the dramatic herd,
E'er bade to wond'ring ears and eyes,
Such pleasing intricacies rise?
Where every part is nicely true,
Yet touches still the master clue;
Each riddle opening by degrees,
Till all unravels with such ease,
That only those who will be blind
Can feel one doubt perplex their mind.

2 Mr. Quin, inimitable in that character, who was then leaving the stage.

Nor was't enough, you thought, to write; But you must impiously unite With Garrick too, who long before Had stol'n my whole expressive pow'r. That changeful Proteus of the stage, Usurps my mirth, my grief, my rage; And as his different parts incline, Gives joys or pains, sincere as mine.

Yet you shall find (howe'er elate Your triumph in your former cheat) "Tis not so easy to escape

In Nature's, as in Pæon's shape.
For every critic, great or small,
Hates every thing that's natural.
The beaux, and ladies too can say,
"What does he mean? is this a play?
We see such people every day."

Nay more, to chafe, and tease your spleen,
And teach you how to steal again,
My very fools shall prove you're bit,
And damn you for your want of wit.

TO RICHARD OWEN CAMBRIDGE, ES2.

DEAR Cambridge, teach your friend the art
You use to gain the Muse's heart,
And make her so entirely yours,
That at all seasons, and all hours,
The anxious goddess ready stands
To wait the motion of your hands.

It was of old a truth confest
That poets must have needful rest,
And every imp of Phœbus' quire
To philosophic shades retire,
Amid those flowery scenes of ease
To pick up sense and similies.

Had Virgil been from coast to coast,
Like his Eneas, tempest-tost,
Or pass'd life's fluctuating dream
On Tyber's or on Mincio's stream,
He might have been expert in sailing;
But Mævius ne'er had fear'd his railing,
Nor great Augustus sav'd from fire
The relics of a trav'ling squire.

Had Horace too, from day to day,
Run post upon the Appian way,
In restless journies to and from
Brundisium, Capua, and Rome;
The bard had scarcely found a time
To put that very road in rhyme;
And sav❜d great cities much expense
In lab'ring to mistake his sense.

Nay he, whose Greek is out of date
Since Pope descended to translate,
Though wand'ring still from place to place,
At least lay by in stormy weather
(Whate'er Perrault or Wotton says)
To track his rhapsodies together.
But you, reversing every rule
Of ancient or of modern school,

Nor hurt by noise, nor cramp'd by rhymes,
Can all things do, and at all times.
Your own Scriblerus never knew
A more unsettled life than you,
Yet Pope in Twit'nam's peaceful grot
Scarce ever more correctly thought.
In whirligigs it is confest

The middle line's a line of rest;

And, let the sides fly how they will,
The central point must needs stand still.
Perhaps your mind, like one of these,
Beholds the tumult round at ease,
And stands, as firm as rock in ocean,
The centre of perpetual motion.

That Cæsar did three things at once,
Is known at school to every dunce;
But your more comprehensive mind
Leaves pidling Cæsar far behind.
You spread the lawn, direct the flood,
Cut vistas through, or plant a wood,
Build China's barks for Severn's stream,
Or form new plans for epic fame,
And then, in spite of wind or weather,
You read, row, ride, and write together.
But 'tis not your undoubted claim
To naval or equestrian fame,
Your nicer taste, or quicker parts,
In rural or mechanic arts,

(Though each alone in humbler station
Might raise both wealth and reputation)
It is not these that I would have,
Bear them, o' God's name, to your grave.
But 'tis that unexhausted vein,

That quick conception without pain.
That something, for no words can show it,
Which without leisure makes a poet.

Sure Nature cast, indulgent dame,
Some strange peculiar in your frame,
From whose well-lodg'd prolific seeds
This inexpressive power proceeds.

Or does Thalia court your arms
Because you seem to slight her charms,
And, like her sister females, fly
From our dull assiduity.

If that's the case, I'll soon be free,
I'll put on airs as well as she;
And ev'en in this poetic shade 1,
Where erst with Pope and Gay she play'd,
Ev'n here I'll tell her to her face

I've learn'd to scorn a forc'd embrace.
In short, here ends her former reign;
And if we e'er begin again

It must be on another score-
I'll write like you, or write no more.

TO MR. MASON.

BELIEVE me, Mason, 'tis in vain

Thy fortitude the torrent braves;
Thou too must bear the inglorious chain;
The world, the world will have its slaves.
The chosen friend, for converse sweet,
The small, yet elegant retreat,
Are peaceful unambitious views

Which early fancy loves to form,
When aided by th' ingenuous Muse,
She turns the philosophic page,
And sees the wise of every age
With Nature's dictates warm.

But ah! how few has fortune given The choice, to take or to refuse; To fewer still indulgent Heav'n Allots the very will to choose,

'Middleton Park, Oxfordshire.

And why are varying schemes prefer'd ?
Man mixes with the common herd:
By custom guided to pursue,

Or wealth, or honours, fame, or ease,
What others wish he wishes too;
Nor from his own peculiar choice,
Till strengthen'd by the public voice,
His very pleasures please.
How oft, beneath some hoary shade
Where Cam glides indolently slow,
Hast thou, as indolently laid,

Prefer'd to Heaven thy fav'rite vow:
"Here, here for ever let me stay,
Here calmly loiter life away,
Nor all those vain connections know

Which fetter down the free-born mind,
The slave of interest, or of show;
While yon gay tenant of the grove,
The happier heir of Nature's love,
Can warble unconfin'd."

Yet sure, my friend, th' eternal plan
By truth unerring was design'd ;
Inferior parts were made for man,

But man himself for all mankind.
Then by th' apparent judge th' unseen;
Behold how rolls this vast machine
To one great end, howe'er withstood,
Directing its impartial course.
All labour for the general good:
Some stem the wave, some till the soil,
By choice the bold, th' ambitious toil,
The indolent by force.

That bird, thy fancy frees from care,

With many a fear unknown to thee,
Must rove to glean his scanty fare

From field to field, from tree to tree,
His lot, united with his kind,
Has all his little joys confin'd ;
The lover's and the parent's ties

Alarm by turns his anxious breast;
Yet, bound by fate, by instinct wise,
He hails with songs the rising morn,
And, pleas'd with evening's cool return,
He sings himself to rest.

And tell me, has not Nature made

Some stated void for thee to fill,

Some spring, some wheel, which asks thy aid
To move, regardless of thy will?
Go then, go feel with glad surprise
New bliss from new attentions rise;
Till, happier in thy wider sphere,

Thou quit thy darling schemes of ease;
Nay, glowing in the full career,
Ev'n wish thy virtuous labours more;
Nor till the toilsome day is o'er

Expect the night of peace.

TO THE REVEREND DR. LOWTH '.

ON HIS LIFE OF WILLIAM OF WYKEHAM.

O LOWTH, while Wykeham's various worth you And bid to distant times his annals shine, [trace, Indulge another bard of Wykeham's race

In the fond wish to add his name to thine.

1 Afterward bishop of London. VOL. XVII.

From the same fount, with reverence let me boast, The classic streams with early thirst I caught; What time, they say, the Muses revel❜d most, When Bigg presided, and when Burton taught. But the same fate, which led me to the spring, Forbad me further to pursue the stream: Perhaps as kindly; for, as sages sing,

Of chance and fate full idly do we deem. And sure in Granta's philosophic shade Truth's genuine image beam'd upon my sight; And slow-ey'd reason lent his sober aid

To form, deduce, compare, and judge aright. Yes, ye sweet fields, beside your osier'd stream Full many an Attic hour my youth enjoy'd; Full many a friendship form'd, life's happiest dream, And treasur'd many a bliss which never cloy'd. Yet may the pilgrim, o'er his temperate fare At eve, with pleasing recollection say, 'T was the fresh morn which strung his nerves to The piercing beam, and useful toils of day.

So let me still with filial love pursue

[bear

The nurse and parent of my infant thought, From whence the colour of my life I drew, When Bigg presided, and when Burton taught. O, names by me rever'd!-till memory die, Till my deaf ear forget th' enchanting flow Of verse harmonious, shall my mental eye Trace back old time, and teach my breast to glow. Peace to that honour'd shade, whose mortal frame Sleeps in the bosom of its parent earth, While his freed soul, which boasts celestial flame, Perhaps now triumphs in a nobler birth : Perhaps with Wykeham, from some blissful bower, App'auds thy labours, or prepares the wreath For Burton's generous toil.-Th' insatiate power Extends his deathful sway o'er all that breathe; Nor aught avails it, that the virtuous sage Forms future bards, or Wykehams yet to come; Nor aught avails it, that his green old age, [tomb: From youth well spent, may seem t' elude the For Burton too must fall. And o'er his urn, While science hangs her sculptur'd trophies round, The letter'd tribes of half an age shall mourn, Whose lyres he strung, and added sense to sound. Nor shall his candid ear, I trust, disdain

This artless tribute of a feeling mind; And thou, O Lowth, shalt own the grateful strain, Mean though it flow, was virtuously designed; For 't was thy work inspir'd the melting mood To feel, and pay the sacred debt I ow'd: And the next virtue to bestowing good,

Thou know'st, is gratitude for good bestow'd.

TO THE REVEREND MR. WRIGHT. 1751. PRITHEE tease me no longer, dear troublesome On a subject which wants not advice: [friend, You may make me unhappy, but never can mend Those ills I have learnt to despise.

You say I'm dependent; what then?-if I make
That dependence quite easy to me,

Say why should you envy my lucky mistake,
Or why should I wish to be free?

Q

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