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Though sweet your presence, graceful is your mien,
You to be happy want not to be seen;
Though priz'd in public, you can smile alone,
Nor court an approbation but your own :
In throngs, not conscious of those

eyes
that

gaze
In wonder fix'd, though resolute to please ;
You, were all blind, would still deserve applause ;
The world 's your glory's witness, not its cause:
That lies beyond the limits of the day,
Angels behold it, and their God obey.

You take delight in others excellence ;
A gift, which Nature rarely does dispense:
Of all that breathe 'tis you, perhaps, alone
Would be well pleas’d to see yourself outdone.
You with not those, who sheuv your name respect,
So little worth, as might excuse neglect;
Nor are in pain left merit

you

should know;
Nor shun the well-deserver as a foe;
A troublesome acquaintance, that will claim
To be well us’d, or dye your cheek with fhaine.

You wish your country's good ; that told, so well
Your powers are known, th’ event I need not tell,
When Nestor spoke, none ask'd if he prevail’d;
That god of sweet persuasion never failid :
And such great fame had Hector's valour wrought,
Who meant he conquer'd, only said he fought.

When you, my lord, to fylvan scenes retreat,
No crouds around for pleasure, or for state,
You are not cast upon a stranger land,
And wander pensive o'er the barren strand;

Nor

Nor are you by receiv'd example taught,
In toys to shun the discipline of thought;
But, unconfin’d by bounds of time and place,
You chuse companions from all human race;
Converse with those the deluge swept away,
Or those whose midnight is Britannia's day.

Books not so inuch inform, as give consent
To those ideas your own thoughts present;
Your only gain from turning volumes o’er,
Is finding cause to like yourself the more :
In Grecian sages you are only taught
With more respect to value your own thought :
Great Tully grew immortal, while he drew
Those precepts we behold alive in you :
Your life is so adjusted to their schools,
It makes that history they meant for rules.
What joy, what pleasing transport, must arise
Within

your breaft, and lift you to the skies, When in each learned

page
that

you unfold, You find some part of your own conduct told !

So pleas’d, and so surpriz’d, Æneas stood,
And such triumphant raptures fir'd his blood,
When far from Trojan shores the hero fpy'd
His story shining forth in all its pride;
Admir'd himself, and saw his actions stand
The praise and wonder of a foreign land.

He knows not half his being, who 's confin'd
In converse, and reflection on mankind :
Your soul, which understands her charter well,
Difdains imprison'd by those skies to dwell;

Ranges

N 3

Ranges Eternity without the leave
Of death, nor waits the passage of the grave.

When pains eternal, and eternal bliss,
When these high cares your weary thoughts dismiss,
In heavenly numbers you your soul unbend,
And for your eale to deathlefs fame descend.
Ye Kings! would ye true greatness understand,
Read Seneca grown rich in Granville's hand *,

Behold the glories of your life compleat !
Still at a flow, and permanently great ;
New moments shed new pleasures as they fiy, .
And yet your greatest is, that you must die.

Thus Anna faw, and rais'd you to the seat
Of honour, and confess'd her fervant great;
Confess’d, not made him such ; for faithful Fame
Her trumpet swell'd long since with Granville's name.
Though you in modesty the title wear,
Your name shall be the title of

your

heir; Farther than ermin make his glory known, And cast in shades the favour of a throne. From thrones the beam of high distinction springs ; The foul's endowments from the King of kings. Lo! one great day calls forth ten mighty peers ! Produce ten Granvilles in five thousand years ; Anna, be thou content to fix the fate Of various kingdoms, and control the great ; But 0! to bid thy Granville brighter shine! To him that great prerogative resign,

Who * See his Lordship’s Tragedy intitled “ Heroic Love."

YOUNG

Who the sun's height can raise at pleasure higher,
His lamp illumine, fet his flames on fire.

Yet still one bliss, one glory, I forbear,
A darling friend whom near your heart

you wear ; That lovely youth, my lord, whom you must blame, That I grow thus familiar with your name.

He 's friendly, open, in his conduct nice,
Nor serve these virtues to atone for vice :
Vice he has none, or such as none wish less,
But friends indeed, good-nature in excess.
You cannot boast the merit of a choice,
In making him your own, 'twas nature's voice,
Which call'd too loud by man to be withstood,
Pleading a tye far nearer than of blood;
Similitude of manners, such a mind,
As makes you less the wonder of mankind.
Such ease his common converse recommends,
As he ne'er felt a passion, but his friend's;
Yet fix'd his principles, beyond the force
Of all beneath the sun, to bend his course *

Thus the tall cedar, beautiful and fair,
Flatters the motions of the wanton air;
Salutes each passing breeze with head reclin’d;
The pliant branches dance in every

wind :
But fix'd the stem her upright state maintains,
And all the fury of the North disdains.

How are you bless’d in such a matchless friend! Alas! with me the joys of friendship end;

N4

O Harrison ! * His Lordhip’s Nephew, who took Orders.

YOUNG,

O Harrison ! I must, I will complain ;
Tears footh the soul's distress, though shed in vain;
Didst thou return, and bless thy native shore
With welcome peace, and is my friend no more?
Thy talk was early done, and I must own
Death kind to thee, but ah! to thee alone.
But 'tis in me a vanity to mourn,
The forrows of the great thy tomb adorn ;
Strafford and Bolingbroke the loss perceive,
They grieve, and make thee envy'd in thy grave.

With aking heart, and a foreboding mind,
I night to day in painful journey join’d,
When first inform’d of his approaching fate;
But reach'd the partner of my soul too late :
'Twas past, his cheek was cold, that tuneful tongue,
Which Isis charm’d with its melodious song,
Now languith'd, wanted strength to speak his pain,
Scarce rais’d a feeble groan, and sunk again :
Each art of life, in which he bore a part,
Shot like an arrow through my bleeding heart,
To what serv'd all his promis'd wealth and power,
But more to load that most unhappy hour ?

Yet still prevail’d the greatness of his mind;
That, not in health, or life itself confin’d,
Felt through his mortal pangs Britannia's

peace, Mounted to joy, and smil'd in death's embrace.

His spirit now just ready to resign,
No longer now his own, no longer mine,
He grafps my hand, his swimming eye-balls roll,
My hand he grasps, and enters in my soul;

Thep

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