Quick at your call the trembling flaves appear,
Advance with caution, and retire with fear;
Ev'n Peggy trembles, though (or authors fail)
At times the anti-falic laws prevail.
Now, Lord have mercy on poor Dick! fay I;
"Where's the lac'd fhoe-who laid the flannel by ?”
Within, 'tis hurry, the house feems poffeft;
Without, the ho: fes wonder at their reft.
What terrible difmay, what scenes of care!
Why is the footy Mintrem's hopeful heir *
Before the morning-dawn compell'd to rife,
And give attendance with his half-shut eyes ?
What makes that girl with hideous visage ftare?
What fiends prevent Ead's † journey to the fair ‡ ?
Why all this noife, this buftle and this rout?
"Oh, nothing but poor master has the gout."
Meantime, fuperior to the pains below,
Your thoughts in foaring meditations flow,
In rapturous trance on Virgil's genius dwell,
To us, poor mortals, his ftrong beauties tell,
And, like Eneas, from your couch of ftate,
In ail the pomp of words difplay the Trojan fate,
Can nothing your afpiring thoughts reftrain?
Or does the Mufe fufpend the rage of pain?
Mr. Pitt's fervant, the fon of a blacksmith.
Another fervant of Mr. Pitt.
Blandford fair; two miles from Pimpern, Mr. Pitt's rectory, where he was born, and where he died, April 13, 1748, aged 48. See his epitaph in Hutchins's Dorfet, I. 82. N.
Awhile give o'er your rage; in ficknefs prove
Like other mortals, if you'd pity move;
Think not your friends compaffionate can be,
When fuch the product of disease they see;
Your sharpeft pangs but add to our delight,
We'll wish you still the Gout, if still
you
write.
Written in the Folds of a PIN-PAPER.
OF
F old, a hundred Cyclops ftrove
To forge the thunder-bolt for Jove;
I too employ a hundred hands,
And travel through as many lands.
A head I have, though very small,
But then I have no brains at all.
The miser locks me up with care,
Clofe as his money, all the year.
When John and Joan are both at strife,
'Tis I find money for the wife.
At court I make the ladies shine,
I grace ev'n gracious Caroline ;
And, though I often take my way
Through town and country, land and sea,
I'm neither fish, flesh, nor herring,
And now I live with goody Verring *.
* A feller of pins at Blandford. PITT.
DE MINIMIS MAXIMA.
E
AUTORE LUDOVICO DUNCOMBE*.
JA crefcit de glande altiffima quercus,
XIGU
Et tandem patulis furgit in aftra comis:
Dumque anni pergunt, crefcit latiffima moles;
Mox fecat æquoreas bellica navis aquas.
Angliacis hinc fama, falus hinc nascitur oris,
Et glans eft noftri præfidium imperii.
TRANSLATION of the foregoing, by MR. PITT.
FROM
a fmall acorn, fee! the oak arise,
Supremely tall, and towering in the skies!
Queen of the groves! her ftately head she rears,
Her bulk increafing with increafing years:
Now moves in pomp, majestic, o'er the deep,
While in her womb ten thousand thunders sleep.
Hence Britain boasts her far-extended reign,
And by th' expanded acorn rules the main.
See this ingenious young gentleman's verfes to the memory of Mr. Hughes, in vol. XXXI. He was fecond fon of John Duncombe, Efq. of Stocks; and died at Merton College, Oxford, where he was a gentleman commoner, Dec. 26, 1730, in the twentieth year of his age. N.
ΑΝ
EPITAPH,
Infcribed on a Stone that covers his Father, Mother, and Brother*,
YE facred fpirits! while your friends diftrefs'd
Weep o'er your afhes, and lament the blefs'd;
O let the penfive Muse inscribe that ftone,
And with the general forrows mix her own:
The penfive Mufe!-who, from this mournful hour,
Shall raise her voice, and wake the ftring no more!
Of love, of duty, this last pledge receive;
'Tis all a brother, all a fon can give,
*Robert Pitt, A. M. his eldest brother. See the Latin infcription, in Hutchins's Dorfet, vol. I. p. 83.
A POEM on the DEATH of the late Earl STANHOPE. Humbly inscribed to the Countess of STANHOPE.
"At length, grim Fate, thy dreadful triumphs ceafe: "Lock up the tomb, and feal the grave in peace."
NOW
WOW from thy riot of deftruction breathe, Call in thy raging plagues, thou tyrant Death: Too mean's the conqueft which thy arms bestow, Too mean to fweep a nation at a blow. No, thy unbounded triumphs higher run, And feem to ftrike at all mankind in one; Since Stanhope is thy prey, the great, the brave, A nobler prey was never paid the grave. We feem to feel from this thy daring crime, A blank in nature, and a pause in time. He food fo high in Reafon's towering sphere, As high as man unglorify'd could bear. In arms, and eloquence, like Cæfar, fhone So bright, that each Minerva was his own. How could fo vaft a fund of learning lie Shut up in fuch a fhort mortality? One world of fcience nobly travell'd o'er, Like Philip's glorious fon, he wept for more.
And now, refign'd to tears, th' angelic choirs, With drooping heads, unftring their golden lyres, Wrapt in a cloud of grief, they figh to view Their facred image laid by death fo low:
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