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But lo! yon bark, that, rich with India spoils,
In safety waft, ye winds, the precious freight:
How yet affrighted GANGES, oft distain'd
With GENTOO carnage, quakes through all his branches! Soon may I greet the morn,
When, HASTINGS screen'd, DUNDAS and GEORGE
One of the many frivolous charges brought against Mr. Hastings by factious men, is the removal of a Mr. FowXE, contrary to the orders of the Directors, that he might make room for his own appointment of my son to the Residentship of BENARES. I have ever thought it my duty support the late Governor-General, both at Leadenhall and in the House of Peers, against all such vexatious accusations.
Through BISHOPTHORP's* glad roofs shall sound,
Or in thy chosen PLACE, ST. JAMES,
When wealthy Innocence, pursu'd
By factious Envy, courts a Monarch's succour,
Dishonour him who gives, and him who takes.
As many of my Competitors have complained of Signor Delpini's ignorance, I cannot help remarking here, that he did not know Bishopthorp to be the name of my palace in Yorkshire; he did not know Mr. Hastings's house to be in St. James's Place; he did not know Mrs. Hastings to have two sons by Mynheer Imhoff, her former husband, still living. And what is more shameful than all in a Critical Assessor, he had never heard of the poetical figure, by which I elegantly say, thy Place, St. James, instead of St. James's Place.
IMITATIONS OF MYSELF.
How headlong Rhone, and Ebro erst distain'd
With Moorish carnage, quakes through all her branches
Soon shall I greet the morn,
When, Europe sav'd, BRITAIN and GEORGE's name
Familiar in domestic merriment,
* Ő máy thy blooming Heir, In virtues equal, be like thee prolifie! Till a new race of little GUELPAS, Beneath the rod of future MARKHAMS train'd, Lisp on their Grandsire's knee his mitred Laureat's
* Signor Delpini wanted to strike out all that follows, because truly it had no connexion with the rest. The transition, like some others in this and my former Ode to Arthur Onslow, Esq. may be too fine for vulgar apprehensions, but it is therefore the morè Pindaric.
IMITATIONS OF MYSELF.
O may your rising hope,
Till a fresh-springing flock implore,
Or round your honour'd couch their prattling sports pursue,
By the REV. THOMAS WARTON, B. D. Fellow of the Trinity College, in Oxford; late Professor of Poetry in that University; and now Poet Laureat
to His Majesty.
AMID the thunder of the war,
True glory guides no echoing car ;
Nor bids the sword her bays bequeath;
Nor stains with blood her brightest wreath :
No plumed host her tranquil triumphs own:
On that fair throne, to Britain dear,
With the flowering olive twin'd,
To kings like these, her genuine theme,
The Muse a blameless homage pays :
His tutelary sceptre's sway
The vindicated Arts obey,
And hail their patron King :
'Tis his to judgment's steady line
From Greece her great example takes,
Corinth, thy tufted shafts ascend;
Those gems around the throne he throws
That shed a softer ray:
While from the summits of sublime Renown
Conspicuous in a nation's eye,
The sacred pattern shines!
Be this the monarch's aim ;
The monarch's meed to claim.