Hence Inspiration plans his manner'd lays,
Hence Homer's crown; and, Shakspere, hence thy bays.
Hence he, the pride of Athens, and the shame,
The best and wisest of mankind became.
Nor study only, practise what you know,
Your life, your knowledge, to mankind you owe.
With Plato's olive wreath the bays entwine:
Those who in study, should in practice shine.
Say, does the learned Lord of Hagley's shade,
Charm man so much by mossy fountains laid,
As when, arous'd, he stems Corruption's course,
And shakes the senate with a Tully's force?
When Freedom gasp'd beneath a Caesar's feet,
Then public virtue might to shades retreat;
But where she breathes, the least may useful be,
And Freedom, Britain, still belongs to thee.
Though man's ungrateful, or though Fortune frown,
Is the reward of worth a song, or crown?
Nor yet unrecompenc'd are Virtue's pains,
Good Allen lives, and bounteous Brunswick reigns.
On each condition disappointments wait,
Enter the hut, and force the guarded gate.
Nor dare repine, though early Friendship bleed,
From love, the world, and all its cares he's freed.
But know, Adversity's the child of God;
Whom Heaven approves of most, most feel her rod.
When smooth old Ocean and each storm's asleep,
Then Ignorance may plough the watʼry deep;
But when the demons of the tempest rave,
Skill must conduct the vessel through the wave.
Sydney, what good man envies not thy blow?
Who would not wish Anytus for a foe?
Intrepid Virtue triumphs over Fate,
The good can never be unfortunate.
And be this maxim graven in thy mind,
The height of virtue is to serve mankind.
But when old age has silver'd o'er thy head,
When memory fails, and all thy vigour's fled;
Then may'st thou seek the stillness of retreat;
Then hear aloof the human tempest beat;
Then will I greet thee to my woodland cave,
Allay the
pangs of age, and smooth thy grave.
HENCE to some convent's gloomy isles, Where cheerful day-light never smiles, Tyrant, from Albion haste to slavish Rome; There by dim taper's livid light,
At the still solemn hours of night,
In pensive musings walk o'er many a sounding tomb.
Thy clanking chains, thy crimson steel,
Thy venom'd darts, and barbarous wheel,
Malignant fiend, bear from this isle away,
Nor dare in Error's fetters bind
One active, freeborn, British mind,
That strongly strives to spring indignant from thy sway.
Thou bad'st grim Moloch's frowning priest,
Snatch screaming infants from the breast, Regardless of the frantic mother's woes:
Thou led'st the ruthless sons of Spain
To wondering India's golden plain,
From deluges of blood where tenfold harvests rose.
But lo! how swiftly art thou fled,
When Reason lifts his radiant head;
When his resounding, awful voice they hear,
Blind Ignorance, thy doating sire,
Thy daughter, trembling Fear, retire;
And all thy ghastly train of terrors disappear,
So by the Magi hail'd from far,
When Phoebus mounts his early car,
The shrieking ghosts to their dark charnels flock;
The full-gorg'd wolves retreat, no more
The prowling lionesses roar,
But hasten with their prey to some deep cavern'd rock,
Hail then, ye friends of Reason hail,
Ye foes to Mystery's odious veil,
To Truth's high temple guide my steps aright,
Where Clarke and Wollaston reside,
With Locke and Newton by their side,
While Plato sits above enthron'd in endless light.
SAY, Goddess, wilt thou never smile
Indulgent on Britannia's isle!
Hither thy gentle footsteps bend,
On Albion's sea-girt cliffs descend;
come, and with thy genial ray
Chase every gloomy cloud away:
No more shall Ignorance preside,
Or Gothic Rage in triumph ride.
Let Judgment, thy unshaken friend,
With polish'd elegance attend:
Simplicity, meek rural queen,
With downcast looks and modest mien,
In loosely-flowing neat attire,
Shall charm thee with her rustic lyre.
To that in her enchanting court
The frolic Graces ever sport,
And guarded by their watchful aid,
The finer Arts shall never fade.
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