EPISTLE VI.

TO A

YOUNG LADY.

WITH FENTON's MISCELLANIES.

FROM

WALTER HARTE, M. A.

THESE various strains, where every talent charms,
Where humour pleases, or where passion warms:
(Strains, where the tender and sublime conspire,
A Sappho's sweetness, and a Homer's fire)
Attend their doom, and wait, with glad surprise,
Th' impartial justice of Cleora's eyes.

'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 damns 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.

79

Epist. VI.

EPISTLES CRITICAL, &c.

Others who hate, yet want the soul to dare,
So ruin bards-as beaux deceive the fair:
On the pleas'd ear their soft deceits employ;
Smiling they wound, and praise but to destroy.
These are th' unhappy crimes of modern days,
And can the best of poets hope for praise ?

How small a part of human blessings share
The wise, the good, the noble and the fair!
Short is the date unhappy Wit can boast,
A blaze of glory in a moment lost.
Fortune, still envious of the great man's praise,
Curses the coxcomb with a length of days.
So (Hector dead) amid the female choir,
Unmanly Paris tun'd the silver lyre.

Attend, ye Britons, in so just a cause, 'Tis sure a scandal to with-hold applause; Nor let posterity reviling say,

Thus unregarded 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,
Correctly graceful, and with labor bold.
At Sappho's woes we breathe a tender sigh,

And the soft sorrow steals from every eye.
Here Spenser's thoughts in solemn numbers roll,
Here lofty Milton seems to lift the soul.
There sprightly Chaucer charms our hours away
With stories quaint, and gentle roundelay.

Muse! at that name each thought of pride recall, Ah, think how soon the wise and glorious fall; What though the Sisters every grace impart, To smooth thy verse, and captivate the heart: What though your charms, my fair Cleora, shine Bright as your eyes, and as your sex divine: Yet shall the verses and the charms decay, The boast of youth, the blessing of a day! Not Chaucer's beauties could survive the rage Of wasting Envy, and devouring Age: One mingled heap of ruin now we see ;

Thus Chaucer is, and Fenton thus shall be !

EPISTLE VII.

ΤΟ

JAMES THOMSON, ESQ.

ON HIS SEASONS.

FROM

JAMES DELACOURT, B. A.

FROM Sunless worlds, where Phoebus seldom smiles,
But with his evening wheels hangs o'er our isles;
A Western Muse to worth his tribute pays,
From regions bordering on the Hebrides:

For thee the Irish harp, new strung, once more
Greets our rough rocks, and bleak Hibernian shore:
Thou, Thomson, bad'st my fingers wake the strings,
And with thy praise the wild wood hollow rings;
The shades of reverend Druids hover round,
And bend transported o'er the brazen sound.

So the wing'd bees that idly rove along,
(Renown'd alike for sweets as those for song)
If the shrill brass invite them from the sky,
In dusky clusters round the music fly.

Blest Bard! with what new lustre dost thou rise, Soft as the Season o'er the Summer skies! Thy works a little world new-found appear, And thou the Phoebus of a Heaven so fair; Thee their bright sovereign all the signs allow, And Thomson is the name for Nature now: Thou first could'st drive the coursers of the day, Nor through the dazzling glories lost thy way; Thy steeds red hoofs, still trod th' eternal round, Nor threw the burning chariot to the ground.

So round Iulus' temples, blazing bright! In locks dishevel'd stream'd a length of light; The prince unharm'd beheld the sparkles spread, Nor shook the shining honors from his head.

Beneath thy touch, Description paints anew,
And the skies brighten to a purer blue;
Spring owes thy pencil her peculiar green,
And drown'd in redder roses Summer's seen;
While hoary Winter whitens into cold,
And Autumn bends beneath her bearded gold.

In various drapery see the rolling year,
And the wild waste in sable spots appear;
O'er the black heath the bittern stalks alone,
And to the naked marshes makes his moan;
Engulph'd in bogs behold his muddy beak,
And the brown partridge feeding in the brake.