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But not th' endearing springs that fondly move
To filial duty or parental love,
Nor all the ties that kindred bosoms bind,
Nor all in Friendship's holy wreaths entwin'd,
Are half so dear, so potent to controul
The generous working of the patriot soul.
As is that holy voice that cancels all
Those ties, that bids him for his country fall.
At this high summons with undaunted zeal
He bares his bread; invites th' impending steel:
Smiles at the hand that deals the fatal blow.
Nor heaves one sigh for all he leaves below.
Nor yet doth Glory, though her port be bold,
Her aspect radiant and her tresses gold,
Guide thro' the walks of Death alone her car,
Attendant only on the din of war;
She ne'er disdains the gentle vale of peace,
Or olive (hades of philosophic ease;
Where Heaven-taught minds to woo the muse resort,
Create in colours or with sounds transport;
More pleas'd on Ifis silent marge to roam.
Than bear in pomp the spoils of Mindtn home.
To read with Newton's ken the starry Iky,
And God the fame in all his orbs descry;
To lead forth Merit from her humble (hade;.
Extend to rising arts a patron's aid;
Build the nice structure of the generous law,
That holds the free-born mind in willing awe;
To swell the sail of trade—the barren plain
To bid with fruitage blulh, and wave with grain;
O'er pale Misfortune drop with anxious sigh
Pity's mild balm, and wipe affliction's eye;
These, these are deeds Britannia must approve,
Must nurse their growth with all a parent's love j
These are the deeds that public virtue owns,
And, just to Public Virtue, Glory crowns.
fbe following little Poem -was 'wrote in a blank leaf bifort Thomson's Seasons, at a compliment to that ingeaiout Autbir, by bit gnat admirer and namesake, the Rev. Mr. William Thompson, some time Fellow of Queen's College, in Oxford.
HAIL, Nature's Poet! whom (he tiught alone
To sing her Works in numbers like her own:
Sweet as the thrusli that warbles in the dale,
And soft as Philomela's tender tale.
O 4 Shi
She lent her pencil too, of wond'rous power,
To catch the rainbow, and to form the flower.
Of many mingling hues; and, smiling, said,
(But first with laurel crown'd her Favourite's head)
"These beauteous children, tho' so fair they shine,
"Fade in my Seasons, let them live in thine."
And live they (hall the charm of every eye,
'Till Natuhe sickens, and the Seasons die.
7h following beautiful Lints vim written by a Lads on observing fim •uiitl Ham on her Lover's Head.''
THOU, to whose power reluctantly we bend.
Foe to life's fairy dreams, relentless Time,
Alike the dread of lover, and of friend,
Why stamp thy seal on manhood's rosy prime?
Already twining 'midst my Thyrsis' hair,
The snowy wreaths of age, the monuments of care,
Thro' all her forms, tlio' Nature own thy sway,
That boasted sway thou'ft here exert in vain;
To the last beam of life's declining day,
Thyrsis Hull view, unmov'd, thy potent reign.
Secure to please, whilst goodness knows to charm.
Fancy and taste delight, or fense and truth inform.
Tyrant, when from that lip of crimson glow,
Swept by thy chilling wing, the rose Hall fly;
When thy rude scythe indents his polish'd brow,
And quench'd is all the lustre of hii eye;
When ruthless age disperses ev'ry grace,
Each smile that beams from that ingenuous face
Then, thro' her stores, shall active Mem'ry rove.
Teaching each various charm to bloom anew.
And still the raptur'd eye of faithful love
Shall bend on Thyrsis its delighted viewj
Still (hall he triumph, with resistless power,
Still rule the conquer'd heart to life's remotest hour.
VERSES by Lady Ciaven, en dreaming fi,, saw her Hurt at t<:
WHEN Nature, tir'd with thought, was sunk to rest,
And all my senses were by steep possest;
Sweet sleep, that soft and balmy comfort brings
Auke to beggars and despotic kings;
I dreamt of peice I never felt before,
I dreamt my heart was lying on the floor.
I view'd it, strange to tell! with joyful eyes,
And. stranger still, without the least surprise!
Elated with the fight, I smiling sat,
Exulting o'er the victim at my feet;
But soon with words of anguish thus addrest
This painful sweet disturber of my breast:—
'Say, busy, lively, trembling, hoping thing,
What new disaster hast thou now to bring.
To torture with thy fears my tender frame,
Who must for all her ills thee only blame?
Speak now, and tell me why, ungrateful guest.
For ten years past hast thou deny d me rest?
That in my bosom thou wast nurs'd, 'tis true.
And with my life and with my stature grew.
At first so small were all thy wants, that I
Vainly imagin'd 1 could ne'er deny
Whate'er thy fancy aslt'd.—Alas! but now
I find thy wants my ev'ry fense outgrow;
And ever having, ever wanting more,
A power to please, to give, or to adore.
Say. ,why, like other hearts thou dost not bear
With callous apathy each worldly care i
Why dost thou shrink at Envy's horrid cries?
In thee Companion Hatred's place supplies.
Why not with malice treat malicious men?
Why ever pity, where thou fhould'st condemn?
Why, at the hearing of a dismal tale,
Dost thou with sorrow turn my beauty pale?
Why, when distress in any shape appears,
Poll thou dissolve my very soul in tears f
Why in thy secret folds is Friendship bred?
In other hearts its very name is dead.
Why, if keen Wit and learned Sense draw nigh,
Dost thou with emulation beat so high?
And while approving, wish to be approv'd,
And when you love, wish more to be belov'd?
Why not, in cold indifference ever clad,
Alike unmov'd, regard the good and bad?
Why dost thou waste my youthful bloom with care,
And sacrifice myself, that I may share
Distress in others? Why wilt thou adorn
Their days with roses, and leave me a thorn f'
But here I saw it heave a heavy sigh, And thus in sweetest sounds it did reply:
'Ah! cease, Eliza! cease thy speech unjust} Thy Heart has e'er fulsill'd its sacred trust;
And ever will its tender mansion serve,
Nor can it from thee this reproach deserve:
/ Against my dictates marm'ring have I found,
Which thus has laid me bleeding on the ground.
Compare thyself in this fame hour depriv'd
Of this soft Heart, from whence axe all deriv'd
The fame bewitching graces which adorn
And make thy face appear like beauteous morn:
With me its brilliant ornaments are fled,
And all thy features, like thy foul, are dead.
Tis I that make thee other's pleasures (hare,
And in a sister's joy forget thy care.
'Tis by my dictates thou art taught to find
A godlike pleasure in a godlike mind;
That makes thee oft relieve a stranger's woes,
And often fix those friends that would be foes.
'Tis I that tremblingly have taught thine ear
To cherish Music; and 'tis I appear
Jn all its softest dress, when to the hearts
Of all beholders my dear voice imparts
Harmonic strains: 'tis not because 'tis fine,
For every note that's felt is surely mine.
In smoothest numbers all that I indite,
For 'tis I taught thy fearful hand to write:
My genius has with watchful care supply'd
What Education to thy sexdeny'd;
Made Sentiment and Nature all combine
To melt the Reader in each flowing line.
Till they in words this seeling truth impart.
She needs no more, who will consult the Heart;
And own in reading what is writ by thee,
No study ever could improve like me.
And when thy bloom is gone, thy beauty flown,
And laughing youth to wrinkled age is grown,
Thy actions, writings, friendship, which I gave.
Still shall remain an age beyond the grave. ,
Then do not thus displac'd let me remain,
But take me to thy tender breast again.'
* Yes, soft persuader (1 rcturn'd) I will;
And if I am deceiv'd, deceive me Hill!'
Seduc'd I was in haste; then stooping low.
Soon re-instated my sweet, pleasing foe;
And waking, found it had not less nor more
Than all the joys, the pangs it had before 1
PROLOGUE to the CHAPTER of ACCIDENTS.
Written ij George Colman, Esq.
LONG has the passive stage, howe'er absurd,
Been rul'd by names, and govern'd by a word;
Some poor cant ttrm, like magic spells, can awe,
And bind our realms like a dramatic law.
When Fielding, Humour's favourite child, appear'd.
Low was the word—a word each author fear'd!
'Till chac'd at length, by pleasantry"s bright ray,
Nature and mirth resum'd their legal sway j
And Goldsmith's genius basic'd in open day.
No beggar, howe'er poor, a cur can lack;
Poor bards, of critic curs, can keep a pack.
One yelper illcnc'd, twenty baikers rife,
And with new howls, theirsnerlitgs still disguise.
Lew banish'd, the word sentiment succeeds;
And at that shrine the modern playwright bleeds.
Hard fate! but let each would-be critic know,
'That sentiments from genolnefreling flow!
Critics! in vain declaim, and write, and rail;
Nature, eternal nature! will prevail.
Give me the bard, who makes me laugh and cry;
Diverts and moves, and all, 1 scarce know why!
Untaught by commentators, French or Dutch,
Passion still answers to th' electric touch.
Reason, like Falstass, claims, when all is done,
The honours of the field already won.
• To night, our author's is a mixt intent-
Passion and humour—lovr and sentiment ■
Smiling in tears—a serio-comic play.
Sunshine and show'r—a kind of April Diy!
A lord, whose pride is in his honour plac'd;
A governor, with av'rice not disgrae'd;
An humble priest! a lady, and a lover
So full of virtue, some of it runs ever!
No temporary touches, no allusions
To camps, reviews, and all our late confusions:
No personal reflections, no sharp satire,
But a mere Chapter—from the book of nature.
Wrote by a woman too! the Muses now
Few liberties to naughty men allow;
But like old maids on earth, resolv'd to vex,
With cruel coyness treat the other sex.