MR. THOMSON,
Who had procured him a Benefit-Night.
REFLECTING on thy worth, methinks I find
Thy varied Seasons in their author's mind.
Spring opes her blossoms, various as thy Muse,
And, like thy soft compassion, sheds her dews.
Summer's hot drought in thy expression glows,
And o'er each page a tawny ripeness throws.
Autumn's rich fruits th' instructed reader gains,
Who tastes the meaning purpose of thy strains.
Winter-but that no semblance takes from thee
That hoary season yields a type of me.
Shatter'd by time's bleak storms I withering lay,
Leafless, and whitening in a cold decay !
Yet shall my propless ivy, pale and bent,
Bless the short sunshine which thy pity lent.
MR. DRYDEN,
Drawn with the Bays in his Hand,
BY BAINBRIGG BUCKEREdge, esq.
NAY, sure 'tis he! the living colors move,
And strike our souls with wonder and with love!
Has his soft lyre dissolv'd Death's fatal chain,
And given our Orpheus to the world again?
Such is thy art, great Kneller, as relieves
His mourning friends, and into joy deceives.
They who beneath the heaviest sorrow bend,
Who grieve not for the Poet, but the Friend.
When they behold this piece, their tears restrain,
And doubt a while if they lament in vain.
So those whom Fate destroys, thy hand can save,
And lengthen out a life beyond the grave.
Oh! do thou place on Dryden's learned brow The sacred bays; for none dare envy now. Thus He to future ages shall be shown, Immortal in Thy Works, as in His Own.
PARDON, great Duke, if Britain's style delights;
Or, if th' Imperial title more invites,
Pardon, great Prince! the failings of a Muse,
That dares not hope for more than your excuse,
Forc'd at a distance to attempt your praise,
And sing your victories in mournful lays,
To cast in shadows, and allay the light
That wounds with nearer rays the dazzled sight,
Nor durst in a direct and open strain
Such acts with her unhallow'd notes profane :
In towering verse let meaner heroes grow,
And to elaborate lines their greatness owe;
Your actions, own'd by every nation, want
Praises no greater than a foe may grant.
Oh! when shall Europe, by her Marlborough's sword,
To lasting peace and liberty restor❜d,
Allow her weary Champion a retreat,
To his lov'd country and his rising seat?
Where
your soft partner, far from martial noise,
Your cares shall sweeten with domestic joys;
Your conquests she with doubtful pleasure hears,
And in the midst of every triumph fears;
Betwixt her Queen and You divides her life,
A Friend obsequious, and a faithful Wife.
Hail, Woodstock! hail, ye celebrated glades! Grow fast, ye woods! and florish thick, ye shades! Ye rising towers, for your new Lord prepare, Like your old Henry, come from Gallia's war. The General's arms as far the King's o'erpower, As this new structure does surpass the bower.
The pleasing prospects and romantic scite, The spacious compass, and the stately height, The painted gardens, in their flowery primne, Demand whole volumes of immortal rhyme; And, if the Muse would second the design, Mean as they are, should in my numbers shine; There live the joy and wonder of our isles, Happy in Albion's love and Anna's smiles.
While, from the Godlike race of Churchill born, Four beauteous Rosamonds this bower adorn, Who with the ancient Syren of the place In charms might vie and every blooming grace; But, bless'd with equal virtues had she been, Like them she had been favor'd by the Queen,
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