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The future, heaven involves in thickest night.
Credit grey hairs though freedom much we boast,
Some least perform, what they determine most.
What fudden changes our refolves betray?
To-morrow is a fatire on to-day,

And fhews its weakness. Whom shall men believe,
When conftantly themselves, themselves deceive?

II.

Long had I bid my once-lov'd Muse adieu;

You warm old age; my paffion burns anew.

How sweet your verfe! how great your force of mind t
What power of words! what skill in dark mankind!
Polite the conduct; generous the defign;

And beauty files, and strength sustains, each line.
Thus Mars and Venus are, once more, befet;
Your wit has caught them in its golden net.

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III.

But what strikes home with most exalted grace
Is, haughty genius taught to know its place;
And, where worth fhines, its humbled creft to bend,
With zeal devoted to that godlike end.

When we difcern fo rich a vein of sense,
Through the fmooth flow of pureft eloquence;
'Tis like the limpid streams of Tagus roll'd
O'er boundless wealth, o'er fhining beds of gold.

IV.

But whence fo finifh'd, fo refin'd a piece?
The tongue denies it to old Rome and Greece;
The Genius bids the moderns doubt their claim,
And flowly take poffeffion of the fame.

But I nor know, nor care by whom 'twas writ,
Enough for me that 'tis from human wit,
That fooths my pride: all glory in the pen
Which has done honour to the race of men.

V.

But this have others done; a like applaufe
An ancient and a * modern Horace draws.
But they to glory by degrees arofe,
Meridian luftre you, at once, difclose.
'Tis continence of mind, unknown before,
To write fo well, and yet to write no more.
More bright renown can human nature claim,
Than to deferve, and fly immortal fame ?

VI. Next

* Boileau.

VI.

Next to the godlike praife of writing well,
Is on that praise with juft delight to dwell.
O, for fome God my drooping foul to raise!
That I might imitate, as well as praise;
For all commend: ev'n foes your fame confess;
Nor would Auguftus' age have priz'd it less;
which had not held its pride fo long,
But for the want of fo compleat a fong.

An

age,

VII.

A golden period fhall from you commence :
Peace fhall be fign'd 'twixt wit and manly sense;
Whether your genius or your rank they view,
The Mufes find their Halifax in you.

Like him fucceed! nor think my zeal is fhewn
For you; 'tis Britain's interest, not your own :
For lofty ftations are but golden fnares,

Which tempt the great to fall in love with cares.

VIII.

I would proceed, but age has chill'd my vein,
'Twas a short fever, and I'm cool again.
Though life I hate, methinks I could renew
Its taftelefs, painful course, to fing of you.
When such the subject, who shall curb his flight?
When fuch your genius, who shall dare to write?
In pure respect, I give my rhyming o'er,
And, to commend you moft, commend no more.

IX. Adieu,

IX.

Adieu, whoe'er thou art! on death's pale coast
Ere long I'll talk thee o'er with Dryden's ghost;
The bard will smile. A last, a long farewell!
Henceforth I hide me in my dusky cell;
There wait the friendly stroke that sets me free,
And think of immortality and thee —

My strains are number'd by the tuneful Nine;
Each maid prefents her thanks, and all present thee

mine.

VERSES SENT BY LORD MELCOMBE

TO DOCTOR YOUNG,

NOT LONG BEFORE HIS LORDSHIP'S DEATH

KIND companion of my youth,

Lov'd for genius, worth, and truth!

Take what friendship can impart,
Tribute of a feeling heart;

Take the Mufe's lateft fpark,
Ere we drop into the dark.
He, who parts and virtue gave,
Bad Thee look beyond the grave :
Genius foars, and Virtue guides;
Above, the love of God prefides.
There's a gulph 'twixt us and God;
Let the gloomy path be trod :
Why ftand shivering on the fhore?
Why not boldly venture o'er ?
Where unerring Virtue guides,

Let us have the winds and tides:
Safe, through feas of doubts and fears,
Rides the bark which Virtue fteers.

* "A Poetical Epistle from the late Lord Mel"combe to the Earl of Bute, with corrections by the "Author of the Night Thoughts," was published in 4to. 1776.

SEA

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