From thorny errour, from unjoyous wrong,
Into the paths of kind prineval faith,
Of happiness and justice. All his parts,
His virtues all, collected, sought the good
Of human-kind. For that he, fervent, felt
The throb of patriots, when they model states:
Anxious for that, nor needful sleep could hold
His still-awaken'd soul; nor friends had charms
To steal, with pleasing guile, one useful hour;
Toil knew no languor, no attraction joy.
Thus with unwearied steps, by Virtue led,
He gain'd the summit of that sacred hill,,
Where, rais'd above black envy's darkening clouds,
Her spotless temple lifts its radiant front.
Be nam'd, victorious ravagers, no more!
Vanish, ye human comets! shrink your blaze!
Ye that your glory to your terrours owe,
As, o'er the gazing desolated Earth,
You scatter'd famine, pestilence, and war;
Vanish before this vernal Sun of fame;
Effulgent sweetness! beaming life and joy.

4

How the heart listen'd while he, pleading, spoke!
While on th' enlighten'd mind, with winning art,
His gentle reason so persuasive stole,
That the charm'd hearer thought it was his own.
Ah! when, ye studious of the laws, again
Shall such enchanting lessons bless your ear?
When shall again the darkest truths, perplext,
Be set in ample day? when shall the harsh
And arduous open into smiling ease?
The solid mix with elegant delight?
His was the talent with the purest light
At once to pour conviction on the soul,
And warm with lawful flame th' impassion'd heart,
That dangerous gift with him was safely lodg'd
By Heaven-He, sacred to his country's cause,
To trampled want and worth, to suffering right,
To the lone widow's and her orphan's woes,
Reserv'd the mighty charm. With equal brow,
Despising then the smiles or frowns of power,
He all that noblest eloquence effus'd,

With generous passion, taught by reason, breathes:
Then spoke the man; and, over barren art,
Prevail'd abundant Nature. Freedom then
His client was, humanity and truth.

Plac'd on the seat of Justice, there he reign'd,
In a superior sphere of cloudless day,
A pure intelligence. No tumult there,
No dark emotion, no intemperate heat,
No passion e'er disturb the clear serene
That round him spread. A zeal for right alone,
The love of justice, like the steady Sun,
Its equal ardour lent; and sometimes rais'd
Against the sons of violence, of pride,
And bold deceit, his indignation gleam'd,
Yet still by sober dignity restrain'd.
As intuition quick, he snatch'd the truth,
Yet with progressive patience, step by step,
Self-diffident, or to the slower kind,

He through the maze of falsehood trac'd it on,
Till, at the last, evolv'd, it full appear'd,
And ev❜n the loser own'd the just decree.

But when, in senates, he, to freedom firm, Enlighten'd freedom, plann'd salubrious laws, His various learning, his wide knowledge, then, His insight deep into Britannia's weal,

Spontaneous seem'd from simple sense to flow,
And the plain patriot smooth'd the brow of law.
No specious swell, no frothy poinp of words,
Fell on the cheated ear; no study'd maze

Of declamation, to perplex the right,
He darkening threw around: safe in itself,
In its own force, all-powerful reason spoke;
While on the great, the ruling point, at once,
He stream'd decisive day, and show'd it vain
To lengthen farther out the clear debate.
Conviction breathes conviction; to the heart,
Pour'd ardent forth in eloquence unbid,
The heart attends: for let the venal try
Their every hardening stupifying art,
Truth must prevail, zeal will enkindle zeal,
And Nature, skilfu! touch'd, is honest still.
Behold him in the councils of his prince.
What faithful light he lends! How rare, in courts,
Such wisdom! such abilities! and, join'd
To virtue so determin'd, public zeal,
And honour of such adamantine proof,
As ev'n corruption, hopeless, and o'er aw'd,
Durst not have tempted! Yet of manners mild,
And winning every heart, he knew to please,
Nobly to please; while cqually he scorn'd
Or adulation to receive, or give.
Happy the state, where wakes a ruling eye
Of such inspection keen, and general care!
Beneath a guard so vigilant, so pure,
Toil may resign his careless head to rest,
And ever-jealous freedom sleep in peace.
Ah! lost untimely lost in downward days!
And many a patriot counsel with him lost!
Counsels, that might have humbled Britain's foe,
Her native foe, from eldest time by Fate
Appointed, as did once a Talbot's arms,

Let learning, arts, let universal worth,
Lament a patron lost, a friend and judge.
Unlike the sons of vanity, that veil'd
Beneath the patron's prostituted name,
Dare sacrifice a worthy man to pride,
And flush confusion o'er an honest cheek.
When he conferr'd a grace, it seem'd a debt
Which he to merit, to the public, paid,
And to the great all bounteous source of good.
His sympathising heart itself receiv'd
The generous obligation he bestow'd.
This, this indeed, is patronizing worth.
Their kind protector him the Muses own,
But scorn with noble pride the boasted aid
Of tasteless vanity's insulting hand.
The gracious stream, that cheers the letter'd world,
Is not the noisy gift of summer's noon,
Whose sudden current, from the naked root,
Washes the little soil which yet remain'd,
And only more dejects the blushing flowers:
No, 'tis the soft-descending dews at eve,
The silent treasures of the vernal year,
Indulging deep their stores, the still night long;
Till, with returning morn, the freshen'd world,
Is fragrance all, all beauty, joy, and song.

Still let me view him in the pleasing light
Of private life, where pomp forgets to glare,
And where the plain unguarded soul is seen.
There, with that truest greatness he appear'd,
Which thinks not of appearing; kindly veil'd
In the soft graces of the friendly scene,
Inspiring social confidence and ease.
As free the converse of the wise and good,
As joyous, disentangling every power,
And breathing mixt improvement with delight,
As when amid the various-blossom'd spring,
Or gentle-beaming autumn's pensive shade,
The philosophic mind with Nature talks.

Say ye, his sons, his dear remains, with whom
The father laid superfluous state aside,
Yet rais'd your filial duty thence the more,
With friendship rais'd it, with esteem, with love,
Beyond the ties of blood, oh! speak the joy,
The pure serene, the cheerful wisdom mild,
The virtuous spirit, which his vacant hours,
In semblance of amusement, through the breast
Infus'd. And thou, O Rundle'! lend thy strain,
Thou darling friend! thou brother of his soul!
In whom the head and heart their stores unite;
Whatever fancy paints, invention pours,
Judgment digests, the well tun'd bosom feels,
Truth natural, moral, or divine, has taught,
The Virtues dictate, or the Muses sing.
Lend me the plaint, which, to the lonely main,
With memory conversing, you will pour,
As on the pebbled shore you, pensive, stray,
Where Derry's mountains a bleak crescent form,
And mid their ample round receive the waves,
That from the frozen pole, resounding, rush,
Impetuous. Though from native sunshine driven,
Driven from your friends, the sunshine, of the soul,
By slanderous zeal, and politics infirm,
Jealous of worth; yet will you bless your lot,
Yet will you triumph in your glorious fate,
Whence Talbot's friendship glows to future times
Intrepid, warm, of kindred tempers born;
Nurs'd, by experience, into slow esteem,
Calm confidence unbounded, love not blind,
And the sweet light from mingled minds disclos'd,
From mingled chymic oils as bursts the fire.

I too remember well that cheerful bowl,
Which round his table flow'd. The serious there
Mix'd with the sportive, with the learn'd the plain;
Mirth soften'd wisdom, candour temper'd mirth;
And wit its honey lent, without the sting.
Not simple Nature's unaffected sons,
The blameless Indians, round the forest-cheer,
In sunny lawn or shady covert set,
Hold more unspotted converse: nor, of old,
Rome's awful consuls, her dictator-swains,
As on the product of their Sabine farms
They far'd, with stricter virtue fed the soul:
Nor yet in Athens, at an Attic meal,
Where Socrates presided, fairer truth,
More elegant humanity, more grace,
Wit more refin'd, or deeper science reign'd.
But far beyond the little vulgar bounds,
Of family, or friends, or native land,
By just degrees, and with proportion'd flame,
Extended his benevolence: a friend
To human kind, to parent Nature's works.
Of free access, and of engaging grace,
Such as a brother to a brother owes,
He kept an open judging ear for all,
And spread an open countenance, where smil'd
The fair effulgence of an open heart;
While on the rich, the poor, the high, the low,
With equal ray, his ready goodness shone :
For nothing human foreign was to him.

Thus to a dread inheritance, my lord,
And hard to be supported, you succeed:
But, kept by virtue, as by virtue gain'd,

It will, through latest time, enrich your race,
When grosser wealth shall moulder into dust,
And with their authors in oblivion sunk
Vain titles lie, the servile badges oft

Dr. Rundle, late bishop of Derry, in Ireland.

Of mean submission, not the meed of worth.
True genuine honour its large patent holds
Of all mankind, through every land and age,
Of universal reason's various sons,
And ev❜n of God himself, sole perfect judge!
Yet know, these noblest honours of the mind
On rigid terms descend: the high-plac'd heir,
Scann'd by the public eye, that, with keen gaze,
Malignant seeks our faults, cannot through life,
Amid the nameless insects of a court,
Unheeded steal: but, with his sire compar'd,
He must be glorious, or he must be scorn'd.
This truth to you, who merit well to bear
A name to Britons dear, th' officious Muse
May safely sing, and sing without reserve.

Vain were the plaint, and ignorant the tear,
That should a Talbot mourn. Ourselves, indeed,
Our country robb'd of her delight and strength,
We may lament. Yet let us, grateful, joy,
That we such virtues knew, such virtues felt,
And feel them still, teaching our views to rise
Through ever-brightening scenes of future worlds.
Be dumb, ye worst of zealots! ye that, prone
To thoughtless dust, renounce that generous hope,
Whence every joy below its spirit draws,
And every pain its balm: a Talbot's light,
A Talbot's virtues, claim another source,
Than the blind maze of undesigning blood;
Nor, when that vital fountain plays no more,
Can they be quench'd amid the gelid stream.
Methinks I see his mounting spirit, freed
From tangling earth, regain the realms of day,
Its native country, whence, to bless mankind,
Eternal goodness, on this darksome spot,
Had ray'd it down a while. Behold! approv'd
By the tremendous Judge of Heaven and Earth,
And to th' Almighty Father's presence join'd,
He takes his rank, in glory, and in bliss,
Amid the human worthies. Glad around
Crowd his compatriot shades, and point him out,
With joyful pride, Britannia's blameless boast.
Ah! who is he, that with a fonder eye
Meets thine enraptur'd ?—'Tis the best of sons!
The best of friends!-Too soon is realiz'd
That hope, which once forbad thy tears to flow !
Meanwhile the kindred souls of every land,
(Howe'er divided in the fretful days
Of prejudice and errour) mingled now,
In one selected never jarring state,
Where God himself their only monarch reigns,
Partake the joy; yet, such the sense that still
Remains of earthly woes, for us below,
And for our loss, they drop a pitying tear.
But cease, presumptuous Muse, nor vainly strive
To quit this cloudy sphere that binds thee down:
'Tis not for mortal hand to trace these scenes,
Scenes, that our gross ideas groveling cast
Behind, and strike our boldest language dumb.
Forgive, immortal shade! if aught from Earth,
From dust low-warbled, to those groves can rise,
Where flows celestial harmony, forgive
This fond superfluous verse. With deep-felt voise,
On every heart impress'd, thy deeds themselves
Attest thy praise. Thy praise the widow's sighs,
And orphan's tears embalm. The good, the bad,
The sons of justice and the sons of strife,
All who or freedom or who interest prize,
A deep divided nation's parties all,
Conspire to swell thy spotless praise to Heaven.
Glad Heaven receives it, and seraphic lyres

With songs of triumph thy arrival hail.
How vain this tribute then! this lowly lay!
Yet nought is vain which gratitude inspires.
The Muse, besides, her duty thus approves
To virtue, to her country, to mankind,
To ruling Nature, that, in glorious charge,
As to her priestess, gives it her, to hymn,
Whatever good and excellent she forms.

POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS.

TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS

THE PRINCE OF WALES.

WHITE secret leaguing nations frown around,

Ready to pour the long expected storm; While she, who wont the restless Gaul to bound, Britannia, drooping, grows an empty form; While on our vitals selfish parties prey, And deep corruption eats our soul away : Yet in the goddess of the main appears

A gleam of joy gay-flushing every grace, As she the cordial voice of millions hears,

Rejoicing, zealous, o'er thy rising race:
Straitgh her rekindling eyes resume their fire,
The Virtues smile, the Muses tune the lyre.
But more enchanting than the Muse's song,

United Britons thy dear offspring hail :
The city triumphs through her glowing throng;

The shepherd tells his transport to the dale;
The sons of roughest toil forget their pain,
And the glad sailor cheers the midnight main.
Can aught from fair Augusta's gentle blood,

And thine, thou friend of liberty! be born: Can aught save what is lovely, generous, good; What will, at once, defend us and adorn? From thence prophetic joy new Edwards eyes, New Henrys, Annas, and Elizas rise. May Fate my fond devoted days extend,

To sing the promis'd glories of thy reign! What though, by years depress'd, my Muse might

bend;

My heart will teach her still a nobler strain : How, with recover'd Britain, will she soar, When France insults, and Spain shall rob no

more.

VERSES.

OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF
MR. AIKMAN,

A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THe author's.

As those we love decay, we die in part,
String after string is sever'd from the heart;
Till loosen❜d life, at last, but breathing clay,
Without one pang is glad to fall away.
Unhappy he, who latest feels the blow,
Whose eyes have wept o'er every friend laid low,
Dragg'd lingering on from partial death to death,
Fill, dying, all he can resign is breath.

ODE.

TELL me, thou soul of her I love,
Ah! tell me, whither art thou fled;
To what delightful world above,
Appointed for the happy dead?

Or dost thou, free, at pleasure, roam,
And sometimes share thy lover's woe,
Where, void of thee, his cheerless home
Can now, alas! no comfort know?
Oh! if thou hover'st round my walk,
While, under every well known tree,
I to thy fancy'd shadow talk,

And every tear is full of thee;
Should then the weary eye of grief,
Beside some sympathetic stream,
In slumber find a short relief,

Oh, visit thou my soothing dream!

And vigour of mind,

That ever exalted the most heroical man; Who having lived the pride and delight of her parents,

The joy, the consolation, and pattern of her friends,
A mistress not only of the English and French,
But in a high degree of the Greek and Roman
learning,

Without vanity or pedantry,
At the age of eighteen,

After a tedious, painful, desperate illness,
Which, with a Roman spirit,

And a Christian resignation,

She endured so calmly, that she seemed insensible To all pain and suffering, except that of her

friends,

Gave up her innocent soul to her Creator, And left to her mother, who erected this monument, The memory of her virtues for her greatest support; Virtues which, in her sex and station of life, Were all that could be practised,

And more than will be believed, Except by those who know what this inscription relates.

See what is said of this lady in Summer.

HERE, Stanley, rest, escap'd this mortal strife,
Above the joys, beyond the woes of life.
Fierce pangs no more thy lively beauties stain,
And sternly try thee with a year of pain:
No more sweet patience, feigning oft relief,
Lights thy sick eye, to cheat a parent's grief:
With tender art, to save her anxious groan,
No more thy bosom presses down its own:
Now well-earn'd peace is thine, and bliss sincere:
Ours be the lenient, not unpleasing tear!

Q, born to bloom, then sink beneath the storm,
To show us Virtue in her fairest form;
To show us artless Reason's moral reign,
What boastful Science arrogates in vain;
Th' obedient passions knowing each their part;
Calm light the head, aud harmony the heart!
Yes, we must follow soon, will glad obey,
When a few suns have roll'd their cares away,
Tir'd with vain life, will close the willing eye:
'Tis the great birth-right of mankind to die.
Blest be the bark! that wafts us to the shore,
Where death-divided friends shall part no more:
To join thee there, here with thy dust repose,
Is all the hope thy hapless mother knows.

TO THE REVEREND

MR. MURDOCH,

RECTOR OF STRADDISHALL, IN SUFFOLK, 1738. THUS

Hus safely low, my friend, thou can'st not fall: Here reigns a deep tranquillity o'er all; No noise, no care, no vanity, no strife; Men, woods, and fields, all breathe untroubled life. Then keep each passion down, however dear; Trust me the tender are the most severe. Guard, while 'tis thine, thy philosophic ease, And ask no joy but that of virtuous peace; That bids defiance to the storms of Fate: High bliss is only for a higher state.

A PARAPHRASE

ON THE LATTER PART OF THE SIXTH CHAPTER OF
ST. MATTHEW.

WHEN my breast labours with oppressive care,
And o'er my cheek descends the falling tear;
While all my warring passions are at strife,
O, let me listen to the words of life!
Raptures deep-felt his doctrine did impart,
And thus he rais'd from Earth the drooping heart.
Think not, when all your scanty stores afford,
Is spread at once upon the sparing board;
Think not, when worn the homely robe appears,
While, on the roof, the howling tempest bears;
What farther shall this feeble life sustain,
And what shall clothe these shivering limbs again.
Say, does not life its nourishment exceed?
And the fair body its investing weed?

Behold! and look away your low despair-
See the light tenants of the barren air:
To them, nor stores, nor granaries, belong,
Nought, but the woodland, and the pleasing song;
Yet, your kind heavenly Father bends his eye
On the least wing that flits along the sky.

To him they sing, when Spring renews the plain,
To him they cry in Winter's pinching reign;
Nor is their music, nor their plaint in vain:
He hears the gay, and the distressful call,
And with unsparing bounty fills them all.
Observe the rising lily's snowy grace,
Observe the various vegetable race:
They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow,
Yet see how warm they blush! how bright they glow!
What regal vestments can with them compare!
What king so shiping! or what queen so fair!

If, ceaseless, thus the fowls of Heaven he feeds
If o'er the fields such lucid robes he spreads,
Will he not care for you, ye faithless, say;
Is he unwise? or, are ye less than they?

THE INCOMPARABLE

SOPORIFIC DOCTOR.

SWEET, sleeky Doctor! dear pacific soul!
Lay at the beef, and suck the vital bowl!
Still let th' involving smoke around thee fly,
And broad-look'd dulness settle in thine eye.
Ah! soft in down these dainty limbs repose,
And in the very lap of slumber doze;
But chiefly on the lazy day of grace,
Call forth the lambent glories of thy face;
If aught the thoughts of dinner can prevail,
And sure the Sunday's dinner cannot fail.
To the thin church in sleepy pomp proceed,
And lean on the lethargic book thy head.
These eyes wipe often with the hallow'd lawn,
Profoundly nod, immeasurably yawn.
Slow let the prayers by thy meek lips be sung,
Nor let thy thoughts be distanc'd by thy tongue;
If ere the lingerers are within a call,

Or if on prayers thou deign'st to think at all.
Yet-only yet-the swimming head we bend;
But when serene, the pulpit you ascend,
Through every joint a gentle horrour creeps,
And round you the consenting audience sleeps.
So when an ass with sluggish front appears,
The horses start, and prick their quivering ears;
But soon as e'er the sage is heard to bray,
The fields all thunder, and they bound away.

THE HAPPY MAN.

He's not the Happy Man, to whom is given
A plenteous fortune by indulgent Heaven;
Whose gilded roofs on shining columns rise,
And painted walls enchant the gazer's eyes;
Whose table flows with hospitable cheer,
And all the various bounty of the year; [Spring,
Whose vallies smile, whose gardens breathe the
Whose carved mountains bleat, and forests sing;
For whom the cooling shade in Summer twines,
From whose wide fields unbounded Autumn pours
While his full cellars give their generous wines;
A golden tide into his swelling stores:
Whose Winter laughs; for whom the liberal gales
Stretch the big sheet, and toiling commerce sails;
When yielding crowds attend, and pleasure serves;
While youth, and health, and vigour, string his

nerves.

Ev'n not all these, in one rich lot combin'd, Can make the Happy Man, without the mind;`

Where Judgment sits clear sighted, and surveys
The chain of Reason with unerring gaze;
Where Fancy lives, and to the brightening eyes,
His fairer scenes, and bolder figures rise;
Where social Love exerts her soft command,
And plays the passions with a tender hand,
Whence every virtue flows, in rival strife,
And all the moral harmony of life.

Nor canst thou, Doddington, this truth decline, Thine is the fortune, and the mind is thine.

O, tell her what she cannot blame,
Though fear my tongue must ever bind;
O, tell her that my virtuous flame
Is as her spotless soul refin'd.
Not her own guardian angel eyes
With chaster tenderness his care,
Not purer her own wishes rise,

Not holier her own sighs in prayer.

But, if, at first, her virgin fear

Should start at love's suspected name, With that of friendship sooth her earTrue love and friendship are the same.

ON THE REPORT OF A

WOODEN BRIDGE TO BE BUILT AT WESTMINSTER.

By Rufus' Hall, where Thames polluted flows,
Provok'd, the Genius of the river rose,
And thus exclaim'd: Have I, ye British swains,
Have I for ages lav'd your fertile plains?
Giv'n herds, and flocks, and villages increase,
And fed a richer than a golden fleece?
Have I, ye merchants, with each swelling tide,
Pour'd Afric's treasure in, and India's pride?
Lent you the fruit of every nation's toil?
Made every climate yours, and every soil?
Yet pilfer'd-from the poor, by gaming base,
Yet must a Wooden Bridge my waves disgrace?
Tell not to foreign streams the shameful tale,
And be it publish'd in no Gallic vale."
He said; and, plunging to his crystal dome,
White o'er his head the circling waters foam.

ONE

SONG.

ONE day the god of fond desire,

On mischief bent, to Damon said, "Why not disclose your tender fire,

Not own it to the lovely maid?"

The shepherd mark'd his treacherous art,
And, softly-sighing, thus reply'd:
'Tis true, you have subdued my heart,
But shall not triumph o'er my pride."

"The slave, in private only bears

Your bondage, who his love conceals; But when his passion he declares,

You drag him at your chariot-wheels."

SONG.

HARD is the fate of him who loves,
Yet dares not tell his trembling pain,
But to the sympathetic groves,

But to the lonely listening plain.
Oh! when she blesses next your shade,
Oh! when her footsteps next are seen
In flowery tracts along the mead,

In fresher mazes o'er the green,

Ye gentle spirits of the vale,

To whom the tears of love are dear, From dying lillies waft a gale,

And sigh my sorrows in her ear.

SONG.

UNLESS with my Amanda blest,

In vain I twine the woodbine bower; Unless to deck her sweeter breast, In vain I rear the breathing flower: Awaken'd by the genial year,

In vain the birds around me sing; In vain the freshening fields appear: Without my love there is no spring.

SONG.

FOR ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
An unrelenting foe to love,
And when we meet a mutual heart,
Come in between, and bid us part?

Bid us sigh on from day to day,
And wish, and wish the soul away;
Till youth and genial years are flown,
And all the life of life is gone?

But busy, busy, still art thou,
To bind the loveless joyless vow,
The heart from pleasure to delude,

To join the gentle to the rude.

For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
And I absolve thy future care;
All other blessings I resign,
Make but the dear Amanda mine.

SONG.

COME, gentle god of soft desire,
Come and possess my happy breast!
Not, fury-like, in flames and fire,

In rapture, rage, and nonsense drest
These are the vain disguise of love;

And, or bespeak dissembled pains,
Or else a fleeting passion prove-
The frantic fury of the veins.

But come in friendship's angel-guise :
Yet dearer thou than friendship art :
More tender spirit in thy eyes,

More sweet emotions at the heart,

O, come with goodness in thy train,
With peace, and transport void of storm,
And, would'st thou me for ever gain,
Put on Amanda's winning form.