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TO

MR. GARRICK,

ON

RECEIVING HIS PORTRAIT,

PAINTED BY

MR. DANCE,

GARRICK! whate'er resembles thee
Must ever claim regard from me e ;
Well pleas'd I view thy counter part,
And highly praise the Painter's art.

Arduous the task is, great the merit, 'To represent that fire and spirit, Those piercing eyes, that speaking face, That form, compos'd of ease and grace: All this I feel -could feelings do, Then I should be a Painter too; I should draw GARRICK, and perchance Produce a work, t'outrival Dance,

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But GARRICK, sure thou need'st not send A gift of this sort to thy friend, As if that friend requir'd to see Something to make himn think of thee.

Whoe'er has seen thy wond'rous pow'rs, Whoe'er has shar'd thy social hours, Can he, can such a one forget Thy native humor, sterling wit? No, GARRICK-he must surely find, Deeply imprinted on his mind, In such warm tints, thy form and face, No time or distance can efface.

TO

DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.

AT

MOUNT EDGCUMBE.

BY THE LATE

EARL OF CHATHAM.

Leave, Garrick, the rich landscape, proudly gay,
Docks, forts, and navies, brightening all the bay:
To my plain roof repair, primaeval seat!
Yet there no wonders your quick eye can meet,
Save, should you deem it wonderful to find
Ambition cur'd, and an unpassion d mind;
A statesman without power, and without gall,
Hating no courtiers, happier than them all ;
Bow'd to no yoke, nor crouching for applause,
Votary alone to freedom and the laws.
Herds, flocks, and smiling Ceres deck our plain,
And, interspers’d, an heart-enlivening train
Of sportive children frolic o'er the green;
Meantime pure Love looks on, and consecrates the
Come, then, immortal Spirit of the stage,
Great Nature's proxy, glass of every age !
Come, taste the simple life of Patriarchs old,
Who, rich in rural peace, ne'er thought of pomp or

scene,

gold.

MR. GARRICK's

ANSWER.

When Peleus' son, untaught to yield,
Wrathful forsock the hostile field,
His breast still warm with heavenly fire,
He tun'd the lay, and swept the lyre.

So, Chatham, whose exalted soul Pervaded and inspir’d the whole, Where far by martial glory led, Britain her sails and banners spread, Retires (though Wisdom's God dissuades) And seeks repose in rural shades : Yer thither comes the God confessid ; Celestial form! a well-known guest.

Nor slow he moves with solemn air,
Not on his brow hangs pensive care;
Nor in his hand th' historic page
Gives lessons to experienc'd age,
As when in vengeful ire he rose,
And plann'd the fate of Britain's focs,

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