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Insensible and free:

Love's balmy blessing would you try, No longer sport a Butterfly,

But imitate the Bee.

VERSES

DROPT IN MR. GARRICK'S TEMPLE OF SHAKE-
SPEARE.

WHILE here to Shakespeare' Garrick pays
His tributary thanks and praise; .
Invokes the animated stone,
To make the poet's mind his own;
That he each character may trace
With humour, dignity, and grace;
And mark, unerring mark, to men,
The rich creation of his pen;

Preferr'd the pray'r-the marble god
Methinks I see, assenting, nod,
And, pointing to his laurell'd brow,
Cry" Half this wreath to you I owe:
Lost to the stage, and lost to fame;

Murder'd my scenes, scarce known my name;
Sunk in oblivion and disgrace

Among the common, scribbling race,
Unnotic'd long thy Shakespeare lay,
To dulness and to time a prey:
But now I rise, I breathe, I live
In you-my representative!
Again the hero's breast. I fire,
Again the tender sigh inspire;

Each side, again, with laughter shake,
And teach the villain-heart to quake;
All this, my son ! again I do-
1-No, my son!-'Tis I, and you."

While thus the grateful statue speaks, A blush o'erspreads the suppliant's checks— "What!Half this wreath, wit's mighty chief?

O grant," he cries, "one single leaf;
That far o'erpays his humble merit,
Who's but the organ of thy spirit."

Phoebus the gen'rous contest heard-
When thus the god address'd the bard:
"Here, take this laurel from my brow,
On him your mortal wreath bestow ;—
Fach matchless, each the palm shall bear,
la Heav'n the bard, on Earth the play'r."

CUPID BAFffled.

DIANA, hunting on a day,
Beheld where Cupid sleeping lay,
His quiver by his head:

One of his darts she stole away,
And one of her's did close convey

Into the other's stead.

When next the archer through the grove,
In search of prey, did wanton rove,
Aurelia fair he 'spy'd ;
Aurelia, who to Damon's pray'r
Disdain'd to lend a tender ear,

And Cupid's pow'r defy'd.

The statue of Shakespeare, in the temple de

dicated to the bard by Mr. Garrick, in his delightful garden at Hampton, was the work of that able and ingenious master, Roubiliac.

Soon as he ey'd the rebel maid;
"Now know my pow'r!" enrag'd, he said;
Then levell'd at her heart:

Full to the head the shaft he drew;
But harmless to her breast it flew,
For, lo!-'twas Dian's dart.

Exulting, then the fair-one cry'd,
"Fond urchin, lay your bow aside;
Your quiver be unbound:
Would you Aurelia's heart subdue,
Thy play-thing arrows ne'er will do;
Bid Damon give the wound."

DEATH AND THE DOCTOR. 'TWIXT Death and Schomberg, t'other day, A contestdid arise;

Death swore his prize he'd bear away;
The Doctor, Death defies.

Enrag'd to hear his pow'r defy'd,

Death drew his keenest dart;
But wond'ring saw it glance aside,
And miss the vital part.

AN

OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. POWELL, AT THE OPENING OF THE
THEATRE ROYAL IN COVENT-GARDEN, ON MON
DAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1767.

As when the merchant, to increase his store,
For dubious seas, advent'rous quits the shore;
Still anxious for his freight, he trembling sees
Rocks in each buoy, and tempests in each breeze;
The curling wave to mountain billows swells,
And ev'ry cloud a fancied storm foretells:
Thus rashly lanch'd on this theatric main,
Our all on board, each phantom gives us pain;
The catcall's note seems thunder in our ears,
And ev'ry hiss a hurricane appears;
In journal-squibs we lightning's blast espy,
And meteors blaze in every critic's eye.

Spite of these terrours,still some hopes we view, Hopes ne'er can fail us-since they're plac'd -in you,

Your breath the gale, our voyage is secure,
And safe the venture which your smiles insure;
Though weak his skill, th' advent'rer must suc

ceed,

Where candour takes th' endeavour for the deed. For Brentford's state two kings could once suf

fice;

In our's, behold! four kings of Brentford rise;
All smelling to one nosegay's od❜rous savour,
The balmy nosegay of-the public favour.
From hence alone our royal funds we draw,
Your pleasure our support, your will our law.
While such our government, we hope you'll own
us;

But should we ever tyrants prove-dethrone us.

Like brother monarchs, who to coax the nation,

Began their reign with some fair proclamation,

We too should talk at least-of reformation;
Declare, that during our imperial sway,
No bard shall mourn his long-neglected play;

But then the play must have some wit, some spirit,

And we allow'd sole umpires of its merit.

For those deep sages of the judging pit, Whose taste is too refin'd for modern wit, From Rome's great theatre we'll cull the piece, And plant, ou Britain's stage, the flow'rs of Greece.

If some there are our British bards can
please,

Who taste the ancient wit of ancient days,
Be our's to save, from time's devouring womb,
Their works, and snatch their laurels from the
tomb.

For you, ye fair, who sprightlier scenes may
chuse,

Where music decks in all her airs the Muse,
Gay opera shall in all its charms dispense,
Yet boast no tuneful triumph over sense;
The nobler bard shall still assert his right,
Nor Handel rob a Shakespeare of his night.

To greet their mortal brethren of our skies,
Here all the gods of pantomime shall rise:
Yet 'midst the pomp and magic of machines,
Some plot may mark the meaning of our scenes;
Scenes which were held, in good king Rich's
days,

By sages, no bad epilogues to plays.

If terms like these your suffrage can engage, To fix our mimic empire of the stage; Confirm our title in your fair opinions, And croud each night to people our dominions.

VERSES

ON CONVERTING THE CHAPEL TO A KITCHEN, AT THE SEAT OF THE LORD DONNERAYLE, CALLED THE GROVE, IN HERTFORDSHIRE.

For a Jew many people the master mistook, Whose Levites were scullions, his high-priest a cook;

And thought he design'd our religion to alter, When they saw the burnt-offering smoke at the altar.

The bell's solemn sound, that was heard far and

By Ovid, among other wonders, we're told What chanc'd to Philemon and Baucis of old; How their cot to a temple was conjur'd by Jove, So a chapel was chang'd to a kitchen at Grove. The lord of the mansion most rightly conceiting, His guests lov'd good prayers much less than good eating; Lye, And possess'd by the devil, as some folks will tell What was meant for the soul, he assign'd to the belly.

The word was scarce giv'n-when down dropp'd the clock,

near,

And oft rous'd the chaplain unwilling to pray'r, No more to good sermons now summons the sin

And straight was seen fix'd in the form of a jack; And, shameful to tell! pulpit, benches, and pews, Form'd cupboards and shelves for plates, saucepans, aud stews.

ner,

But blasphemous rings in the country to dinner. When my good lord the bishop had heard the strange story, [G-'s glory; How the place was profan'd, that was built to Full of zeal he cried out, "Oh, how impious the deed,

Pray'r-books turn'd into platters; nor think it a fable,

A dresser sprung out of the communion table; Which, instead of the usual repast, bread and wine,

To cram Christians with pudding, instead of the

"Is stor❜d with rich soups, and good English sirloin. No fire, but what pure devotion could raise, "Till now, had been known in this temple to blaze: But, good lord! how the neighbours around did admire,

When a chimney rose up in the room of a spire!

creed!"

Then away to the Grove hied the church's protector,

Resolving to give his lay-brother a lecture; But he scarce had begun, when he saw, plac'd before 'em,

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A haunch piping hot from the Sanctum Sanclo

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VERSES

INSCRIBED ON A MONUMENT CALLED THE TOMB
OF CARE, IN THE GARDEN OF THE LATE JOHN
RICH, ESQ. AT COWLEY, IN MIDDLESEX; WHERE-
ON THREE BEAUTIFUL BOYS ARE COVERING A
FUNERAL URN WITH A VEIL OF FLOWERS,

Way, busy boys, why thus entwine
The flowery vest around this shrine?
As if, for halcyon days like these,
The sight too solemn were to please;
Mistaken boys, what sight's so fair
To mortals, as the Tomb of Care?
Here let the gloomy tyrant lie;
His urn an altar shall supply,
Sacred to Ease, and social Mirth;

For Care's decease-is Pleasure's birth.

THE EPITAPH

(IN LETTERS OF BRASS, INSERTED BY A FEMALE
FIGURE REPRESENTING HISTORY) ON A MARBLE
PYRAMID OF THE MONUMENT OF JOHN, DUKE
OF ARGYLE.

BRITON, behold, if patriot worth be dear,
A shrine that claims thy tributary tear!
Silent that tongue admiring senates heard,
Nerveless that arm opposing legions fear'd!
Nor less, O Campbell! thine the pow'r to please,
And give to grandeur all the grace of ease.
Long, from thy life, let kindred heroes trace
Arts which ennoble still the noblest race.-
Others may owe their future fame to me;
I borrow immortality from thee.
Westminster Abbey.

P. WHITEHEAD.

The muse unfetter'd trod the Grecian stage;
Free were her pinions, unrestrain'd her rage:
Bold and secure she aim'd the pointed dart,
And pour'd the precept poignant to the heart,
Till dire dominion stretch'd her lawless sway,
And Athens' sons were destin'd to obey:
Then first the stage a licens'd bondage knew,
And tyrants quash'd the scene they fear'd toview:
Fair Freedom's voice no more was heard to
charm,

Or Liberty the Attic audience warm.

Then fled the muse, indignant from the shore, Nor deign'd to dwell where Freedom was no more: Vain then, alas! she sought Britannia's iste, Charm'd with her voice, and cheer'd us with a smile.

If Gallic laws her gen'rous flight restrain,
And bind her eaptive with th' ignoble chain;
Bold and unlicens'd, in Eliza's days,
Free flow'd her numbers, flourish'd fair her bays;
O'er Britain's stage majestic, unconfin'd,
She tun'd her patriot lessons to mankind;
For mighty heroes ransack'd ev'ry age,
Then beam'd them glorious in her Shakespeare's
page.

name,

Shakespeare's no more!-lost was the poet's [fame; Till thou, my friend, my genius, sprung ta Lur'd by his laurel's never-fading bloom, You boldly snatch'd the trophy from his tomb, Taught the declining muse again to soar, And to Britannia give one poet more.

Pleas'd in thy lays we see Gustavus live; But, O Gustavus! if thou can'st, forgive Britons, more savage than the tyrant Dane, Beneath whose yoke you drew the galling chain, Degen'rate Briton's, by thy worth dismay'd, Prophane thy glories, and proscribe thy shade,

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TO MR. BROOKE, ON THE REFUSAL OF A LICENCE TO HIS PLAY OF GUSTAVUS VASA.

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How languid my strains, and how tuneless my lyre!

Go, Zephyrs, salute in soft accents her ear,
And tell how I languish, sigh, pine, and despair;
In gentlest murmurs my passion commend;
But whisper it softly, for fear you offend, [pain;
For sure, O ye winds, ye may tell her my
'Tis Strephon's to suffer, but not to complain.
Wherever I go, or whatever I do,

[view:

First published in the Gentleman's Magazine, Still something presents the fair nymph to my

1739.

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If I traverse the garden, the garden still shows
Me her neck in the lily, her lip in the rose:

But with her neither lily nor rose can compare;
Far sweeter's her lip, and her bosom more fair.
If, to vent my fond anguish, I steal to the grove,
The spring there presents the fresh bloom of my
love;

The nightingale too, with impertinent noise, Pours forth her sweet strains in my syren's sweet voice: [brings; Thus the grove and its music her image still For, like spring she looks fair, like the nightingale sings.

If, forsaking the groves, I fly to the court,
Where beauty and splendour united resort,
Some glimpse of my fair in each charmer I spy,
In Richmond's fair form, or in Brudenel's bright
[appear?
eye;
But, alas! what wou'd Brudenel or Richmond
Unheeded they'd pass, were my Daphne but
there.

If to books I retire, to drown my fond pain,
And well over Horace, or Ovid's sweet strain;
In Lydia, or Chloe, my Daphne I find;
But Chloe was courteous, and Lydia was kind:
Like Lydia, or Chloe, wou'd Daphne but prove,
Like Horace, or Ovid, I'd sing and I'd love.

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