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While the wing'd Hours obedient stand, And instant speed the dread command.
Chearful he came, all blythe and gay, Fair blooming like the son of May; Adown his radiant shoulder hung A harp, by all the Muses strung: Smiling he to his friend resign'd This soother of the human mind.
To Holdernesse, the Muses three,
Of Painting, Music, Poetry,
To him, their long-lov'd patron, friend,
In grievous pet this letter send-
Give ear, my Lord, while we complain,
Our sex to you ne'er sigh'd in vain.
'Tis said—A youth by you befriended,
Whom to your smiles we recommended;
Seduc'd by you, abjures our charms,
And flies for ever from our arms!
Could D'Arcy, whom we lov'd, caress'd,
In whose protection we were bless'd,
Could he, to whom our Sire imparts
That secret rare to taste our arts,
Could he, ungrateful, and unkind!
From us estrange our Mason's mind?
Could he, who serves and loves the nation,
So little weigh its reputation,
As in this scarcity of merit,
To damp with grace poetic spirit:
But be assur'd your scheme is vain-
He must, he shall be ours again :
Nor crape nor lawn shall quench his fires,
We'll fill his breast with new desires;
In vain you plead his ordination,
His cassock, gown, and grave vocation,
Whate'er he now has sworn, he swore
With stronger zeal to us before:
He pass'd our forms of consecration,
His lips receiv'd our inspiration;
To him were all our rites reveal'd,
From him no myst'ry was conceal'd-
Each kindred pow'r obey'd our call,
And grac'd the solemn festival!
The Loves forsook their Cyprian bow'rs,
And round his temples wreath'd their flow'rs;
The Graces danc'd their mystic maze,
Our Father struck him with his rays;
And all our Sisters, one by one,
Gave him full draughts of Helicon!
Thus bound our servant at the shrine,
Ordain'd he was, and made divine.
ON MEETING HIM AT MR. RIGBY'S.
BY CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY, ESQ.
THROUGH ev'ry part of grief or mirth,
To which the mimic stage gives birth,
I ne'er as yet with truth could tell
Where most your various pow'rs excel.
Sometimes amidst the laughing scene,
Blithe Comedy, with jocund mien,
By you in livelier colors drest,
With transport clasp'd you to her breast:
As oft the buskin'd Muse appear'd,
With awful brow her sceptre rear'd;
Recounted all your laurels won,
And claim'd you for her darling son.
Thus each contending goddess strove,
And each the fairest garland wove.
But which fair Nymph could justly boast
Her beanties had engag'd you most,
I doubted much; 'till, 'tother day,
Kind Fortune threw me in your way;
Where, 'midst the friendly joys that wait
Philander's hospitable gate,
Freedom and genuine mirth I found,
Sporting the jovial board around.
'Twas there with keen, tho' polish'd, jest, You sat, a pleas'd and pleasing guest; With social ease a part sustain'd, More humorous far than ere you feign'd. "Take him, I cry'd, bright comic Maid, In all your native charms array'd; No longer shall my doubts appear:" When Clio whisper'd in my ear, "Go, bid it be no more disputed, For what his talents best are suited; In mimic characters alone
Let others shine-but Garrick in his own."