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WITH FENTON'S MISCELLANIES.
WALTER HARTE, M. A.
These various strains, where every talent charms,
'Tis hard to say what mysteries of fate, What turns of fortune, on good writers wait. The party slave will wound them as he can, And damos the merit, if he hates the man. Nay, ev’n the Bards with wit and laurels crown'd, Bless'd in each strain, in every art renown'd: Misled by pride, and taught to sin by power, Still search around for those they may devour; Like savage monarchs on a guilty throne, Who crush all might that can invade their own.
EPISTLES CRITICAL, &c.
Others who hate, yet want the soul to dare,
odern days, And can the best of poets hope for praise ?
How small a part of human blessings share
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,
And the soft sorrow steals from every eye.
Muse! at that name each thought of pride recall,
JAMES THOMSON, ESQ.
ON HIS SEASONS.
JAMES DALACOURT, B. d.
From sunless worlds, where Phoebus seldom smiles,
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 80 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 lulus' temples, blazing bright! In locks disheveld stream'd a length of light; The prince unharm'd beheld the sparkles spread, Nor shook the shining honors from his head.
Beneath thy touch, Description paints anew,
In various drapery see the rolling year,