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From hence, my Lord, Wit took a tour about, Residing in few countries on his rout, Appear’d in places, but ne'er took his seat in One spot of earth, except Greece, France, and Britain. The rest a single trophy only bear, And just enough to show he had been there. As Nature's ideot never fails to hit, Once in his life, on some sheer strokes of Wit; Then stoops ten thousand fathoms down behind, Plump in his own vacuity of mind, A like excursion never to repeat To the warm regions of aetherial heat. Yet when we look at home, my Lord, at best, We find but little that will stand the test; Ho But then the boasted days of Charles the Second, Unless Debauchery for Wit is reckon'd, Most that they had appears, by looking back, A fungus growing on their butt of sack. E'en my good cousin Rochester's but barren, From wholesome meat if you deduct the carrion.
In the next reigns how could it flourish much ?
in the lurch, To follow those who lighted her to church.
Then Halifax, my Lord, as you do yet, Stood forth the friend of Poetry and Wit; Sought silent Merit in its secret cell, And Heav'n, nay even man repaid him well. Man, in the praise of every grateful quill, And Heav'n in him, who bears his title still ; 230 Who, on a kingdom to his virtues won, Reflects the glories of our British Sun.
WITH FENTON'S MISCELLANIES.
WALTER HARTE, M. A.
These various strains, where every talent charms,
'Tis hard to say what mysteries of fate, What turns of fortune, on good writers wait. The party slave will wound them as he can, And damus the merit, if he hates the man. Nay, ev’n the Bards with wit and laurels crown'd, Bless'd in each strain, in every art renown'd: Misled by pride, and taught to sin by power, Still search around for those they may devour; Like savage monarchs on a guilty throne, Who crush all might that can invade their own.
EPISTLES CRITICAL, &c.
Others who hate, yet want the soul to dare,
How small a part of human blessings share
Attend, ye Britons, in so just a cause, 'Tis sure a scandal to with-hold applause; Nor let posterity reviling say, Thus un regarded Fenton pass'd away! Yet if the Muse may faith and merit claim (A Muse too just to bribe with venal fame), Soon shalt thou shine “ in majesty avow'd ; “ As thy own goddess breaking through a cloud." Fame, like a nation-debt, though long delay'd, With mighty interest must at last be paid.
Like Vinci's strokes, thy verses we behold,
And the soft sorrow steals from every eye.
Muse! at that name each thought of pride recall,