EPISTLE VI. TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH FENTON's MISCELLANIES. FROM WALTER HARTE, M. A. THESE various strains, where every talent charms, 'Tis hard to say what mysteries of fate, Misled by pride, and taught to sin by power, Who crush all might that can invade their own. Epist. VI. EPISTLES CRITICAL, &c. Others who hate, yet want the soul to dare, How small a part of human blessings share Fortune, still envious of the great man's praise, Attend, ye Britons, in so just a cause, 'Tis sure a scandal to with-hold applause; Nor let posterity reviling say, Thus unregarded Fenton pass'd away! Yet if the Muse may faith and merit claim (A Muse too just to bribe with venal fame), Soon shalt thou shine "in majesty avow'd; "As thy own goddess breaking through a cloud.” Fame, like a nation-debt, though long delay'd, With mighty interest must at last be paid. Like Vinci's strokes, thy verses we behold, 79 And the soft sorrow steals from every eye. There sprightly Chaucer charms our hours away Muse at that name each thought of pride recall, Ah, think how soon the wise and glorious fall; What though the Sisters every grace impart, To smooth thy verse, and captivate the heart: What though your charms, my fair Cleora, shine Bright as your eyes, and as your sex divine : Yet shall the verses and the charms decay, The boast of youth, the blessing of a day! Not Chaucer's beauties could survive the Of wasting Envy, and devouring Age: One mingled heap of ruin now we see ; Thus Chaucer is, and Fenton thus shall be ! rage EPISTLE VII. ΤΟ JAMES THOMSON, ESQ. ON HIS SEASONS. FROM JAMES DALACOURT, B. A. FROM Sunless worlds, where Phoebus seldom smiles, From regions bordering on the Hebrides: So the wing'd bees that idly rove along, Blest Bard with what new lustre dost thou rise, Soft as the Season o'er the Summer skies! Thy works a little world new-found appear, And thou the Phoebus of a Heaven so fair; Thee their bright sovereign all the signs allow, And Thomson is the name for Nature now : Thou first could'st drive the coursers of the day, Nor through the dazzling glories lost thy way; Thy steeds red hoofs, still trod th' eternal round, Nor threw the burning chariot to the ground. So round Iulus' temples, blazing bright! Beneath thy touch, Description paints anew, In various drapery see the rolling year, And the wild waste in sable spots appear; O'er the black heath the bittern stalks alone, And to the naked marshes makes his moan; Engulph'd in bogs behold his muddy beak, And the brown partridge feeding in the brake... |