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HIS GRACE THE
DUKE OF ARGYLL,
UPON READING THE PREAMBLE TO THE PATENT,
MINDLESS of fate, in these low vile abodes,
TO THE AUTHOR
MRS. GRACE BUTLER,
WHO DIED AGED LXXXVI.
SUPPOSED FROM HER SPIRIT.
By the Same.
STRIPT to the naked soul, escap'd from clay,
RIGHT HONORABLE THE
EARL OF CARLISLE,
SCHOOLFELLOWS WHILE AT ETON.
In youth, 'tis said, you easily may scan,
Say, will Fitzwilliam ever want a heart Cheerful, his ready blessings to impart? Will not another's woe his bosom share, The widow's sorrow, and the orphan's prayer ? Who aids the old, who soothes the mother's cry, Who wipes the tear from off the virgin's eye? Who feeds the hungry? who assists the lame? All, all re-echo with Fitzwilliam's name. Thou know'st I hate to flatter, yet in thee No fault, my friend, no single speck I see.
Nor, if alike my former maxims true, Shall e'er ill-nature tinge thy heart, Buccleugh; Shall deep remorse thy honest bosom tear, Disdainful anger, or corroding care; Shall e'er ambition dissipate that smile, Disturb that heart, so free from every guile : Sooner to Bute shall Temple bend his knee, And *
** pious Christians be.
How will my Fox, alone, thy strength of parts, Shake the loud senate, animate the hearts Of fearful statesmen ? while around
stand Both peers and commons listening your command; While Tully's sense its weight to you affords, His nervous sweetness shall adorn your words : What praise to Pitt, to Townshend 'e'er was due, In future times, my Fox, shall wait on you.
Mild as the dew that whitens yonder plain, Legge shines serenest 'midst your youthful train ; He whom the search of Fame with rapture moves, Disdains the pedant, tho’ the muse he loves; By nature form’d with modesty to please, And join'd with wisdom unaffected ease.
Will e'er Ophaly, consciously unjust, Revoke his promise, or betray his trust? What, tho' perhaps with warmer zeal he'd hear The echoing horn, the sportsman's hearty cheer,