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Character of FATHER PAUL. From the fame.

ARPI, bleft name! from every foible clear,

SARPI,

Thy pen, thy life, of equal praife fecure!
Both wifely bold, and both fublimely pure!
That Freedom bids me on thy merits dwell,
Whofe radiant form illum'd thy letter'd cell;
Who to thy hand the noblest task aflign'd,
That earth can offer to a heavenly mind:
With Reason's arms to guard invaded laws,
And guide the pen of Truth in Freedom's caufe.
Too firm of heart at Danger's cry to stoop,
Nor Lucre's flave, nor vain Ambition's dupe,
Thro' length of days invariably the fame,
Thy country's liberty thy conftant aim!
For this thy fpirit dar'd th' Affaffin's knife,
That with repeated guilt purfu'd thy life;
For this thy fervent and unweary'd care
Form'd, ev'n in death, thy patriotic prayer,
And, while his fhadows on thine eye lids hung,
"Be it immortal!" trembled on thy tongue.

Character of VOLTAIRE. From the fame.

THO' Pontiff's execrate, and Kings betray,

Let not this fate your generous warmth allay,
Ye kindred Worthies! who full dare to wield
Reafon's keen fword, and Toleration's shield,
In climes where Perfecution's iron mace
Is rais'd to maffacre the human race!
The heart of Nature will your virtue feel,
And her immortal voice reward your zeal,
Firft in her praise her fearless champions live,

Crown'd with the nobleft palms that earth can give.
Firm in this band, who to her aid advance,
And high amid th' Hiftoric fons of France,
Delighted Nature faw, with partial care,
The lively vigour of the gay VOLTAIRE;
And fondly gave him, with ANACREON'S fire
To throw the hand of Age across the lyre:
But mute that vary'd voice, which pleas'd fo long!
Th' Hiftorian's tale is clos'd, the Poet's fong!
Within the narrow tomb behold him lie,
Who fill'd fo large a space in Learning's eye!

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Thou

Thou Mind unweary'd! thy long toils are o'er;
Cenfure and Praise can touch thy ear no more:
Still let me breathe with just regret thy name,
Lament thy foibles, and thy powers proclaim !
On the wide fea of Letters 'twas thy boast
To croud each fail, and touch at every coaft:
From that rich deep how often haft thou brought
The pure and precious pearls of fplendid Thought!
How didft thou triumph on that fubject-tide,
Till Vanity's wild guft, and ftormy Pride,
Drove thy ftrong bark, in evil hour, to split
Upon the fatal rock of impious Wit!
But be thy failings cover'd by thy tomb!
And guardian laurels o'er thy afhes bloom!
From the long annals of the world thy art,
With chemic procefs, drew the richer part;
To Hift'ry gave a philofophic air,

And made the intereft of mankind her care;
Pleas'd her grave brow with garlands to adorn,
And from the rofe of Knowledge ftrip the thorn.
Thy lively Eloquence, in profe, in verse,
Still keenly bright, and elegantly terfe,
Flames with bold fpirit; yet is idly rath:
Thy promis'd light is oft a dazzling flash;
Thy wifdom verges to farcaftic fport,
Satire thy joy! and ridicule thy fort!
But the gay Genius of the Gallic foil,
Shrinking from folemn tasks of ferious toil,
Thro' every scene his playful air maintains,
And in the light Memoir unrival'd reigns.
Thy Wits, O France! (as e'en thy Critics own).
Support not Hiftory's majeftic tone;

They, like thy Soldiers, want, in feats of length,
The perfevering foul of British ftrength.

Characters of CAMDEN, RAWLEIGH, CLARENDON, BURNET, RAPIN, HUME, LYTTELTON. From the fame.

TAIL to thee, Britain! hail! delightful land!

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I fpring with filial joy to reach thy ftrand:

And thou! bleft nourisher of Souls, fublime
As e'er immortaliz'd their native clime,

Rich in Poetic treasures, yet excufe
The trivial offering of an humble Mufe,
Who pants to add, with fears by love o'ercome,
Her mite of Glory to thy countless fum!
With vary'd colours, of the richest die,
Fame's brilliant banners o'er thy Offspring fly:

In native Vigour bold, by Freedom led,
No path of honour have they fail'd to tread:
But while they wifely plan, and bravely dare,
Their own atchievements are their latest care.
Tho' CAMDEN, rich in Learning's various ftore,
Sought in Tradition's mine Truth's genuine ore,
The waste of Hift'ry lay in lifeless fhade,

Tho' RAWLEIGH's piercing eye that world furvey'd.
Tho' mightier names there caft a casual glance,
They feem'd to faunter round the field by chance, !
Till CLARENDON arofe, and in the hour
When civil Difcord wak'd each mental Power,
With brave defire to reach this diftant goal,
Strain'd all the vigour of his manly foul..
Nor Truth, nor Freedom's injur'd Powers, allow
A wreath unfpotted to his haughty brow:
Friendship's firm fpirit ftill his fame exalts,
With sweet atonement for his leffer faults.
His pomp of phrafe, his period of a mile,
And all the maze of his bewilder'd style,
Illum'd by warmth of heart, no more offend:
What cannot Tafte forgive, in FALKLAND's friend?
Nor flow his praifes from this fingle fource;
One province of his art displays his force:
His Portraits boaft, with features ftrongly like,
The foft precision of the clear VANDYKE:
Tho', like the Painter, his faint talents yield,
And fink embarrass'd in the Epic field,
Yet fhall his labours long adorn our ifle,
Like the proud glories of fome Gothic pile :
They, tho' conftructed by a Bigot's hand,
Nor nicely finish'd, nor correctly plan'd,
With folemn Majefty, and pious Gloom,
An awful influence o'er the mind affume;
And from the alien eyes of every fe&t
Attra& obfervance, and command refpe&.

In following years, when thy great name, NASSAW!
Stampt the bleft deed of Liberty and Law;
When clear, and guiltlefs of Oppreffion's rage,
There rofe in Britain an Auguftan age,
And clufter'd Wits, by emulation bright,
Diffus'd o'er ANNA's reign their mental light;
That conftellation feem'd, tho' ftrong its flame,
To want the fplendor of Historic fame:
Yet BURNET's page may lafting glory hope,
Howe'er infulted by the spleen of POPE.
Tho' his rough language hafte and warmth denote,
With ardent Honefty of foul he wrote ;

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Tho

Tho' critic cenfures on his work may shower,'
Like faith, his freedom has a faving power.

Nor fhalt thou want, RAPIN! thy well-earn'd praise,
The fage POLYBIUS thou of modern days! #
Thy fword, thy pen, have both thy name endear'd;
This join'd our arms, and that our story clear'd:
Thy foreign hand ditcharg'd th' Hiftorian's truft,
Unfway'd by Party, and to Freedom jutt.
To letter'd Fame we own thy fair pretence,
From patient Labour, and from candid Sense.
Yet public: Favour, ever hard to fix,
Flew from thy page, as heavy and prolix.
For foon, emerging from the Sophift's fchool,
With Spirit eager, yet with Judgment cool,
With fubtle kill to fteal upon applause,
And give falfe vigour to the weaker caufe;
To paint a fpecious fcene with nicest art,
Retouch the whole, and varnith every part;
Graceful in Style, in Argument acute;
Mafter of every trick in keen Difpute!
With thefe ftrong powers to form a winning tale,
And hide Deceit in Moderation's veil,
High on the pinnacle of Fathion plac'd,
HUME fhone the idol of Hiftoric Tafte.

Already, pierc'd by Freedom's fearching rays,'
The waxen fabric of his fame decays.--

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Think not, keen Spirit! that thefe hands prefume
To tear each leaf of laurel from thy tomb!

Thefe hands! which, if a heart of human frame
Could ftoop to harbour that ungenerous aim,

Would fhield thy grave, and give, with guardian care,
Each type of Eloquence to flourish there!

But public Love commands the painful task,
From the pretended Sage to firip the matk,

When his falfe tongue, averse to Freedom's cause,
Profanes the fpirit of her ancient laws.
As Afia's foothing opiate drugs, by fealth,
Shake every flacken'd nerve, and fap the health;
Thy writings thus, with noxious charms refin'd,
Seeming to foothe its ills, unnerve the mind.
While the keen cunning of thy hand pretends
To ftrike alone at Party's abject ends,

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Our hearts more free from Faction's weeds we feel
But they have loft the flower of Patriot zeal.:
Wild as thy feeble Metaphyfic page,

Thy Hift'ry rambles into Sceptic rage;
Whole giddy and fantastic dreams abufe

A HAMPDEN'S Virtue, and a SHAKESPEARE'S Mufe,

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With purer fpirit, free from party ftrife,
To foothe his evening hour of honour'd life,
See candid LYTTELTON at length unfold
The deeds of liberty in days of old!

Fond of the theme, and narrative with age,
He winds the lengthen'd tale thro' many a page;
But there the beams of Patriot Virtue fhine;
There Truth and Freedom fanctify the line,
And laurels, due to Civil Wifdom, fhield
This noble Neftor of th' Hittoric field.

The living names, who there display their power,
And give its glory to the prefent hour,
I pats with mute regard; in fear to fail,
Weighing their worth in a suspected scale:
Thy right, Pofterity! 1 facred hold,
To fix the ftamp on literary gold;

Bleft! if this lighter ore, which I prepare
For thy fupreme Affay, with anxious caro,
Thy current fanction unimpeach'd enjoy,
As only tinctur'd with a light alloy !

BONDEAU. Sung by Mrs. BARTHELEMON, at Ranelagh.

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IGHT and day the anxious lover

Is attentive to the fair,

Till the doubtful courtship's over:
Is the then fo much his care?

Warm as Summer his addreffes,

Hope and ardour's in his eyes;

Cool as Winter his careffes,

When the yields his captive prize.

Now the owner of her beauty,

Sees no more an Angel face;

Half is love, the reft is duty:
Pleafure fure is in the chace.

ACCOUNT

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