Изображения страниц

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 * or ** pious Christians be.

How will my Fox, alone, thy strength of parts, Shake the loud senate, animate the hearts Of fearful statesmen? while around you 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,

Than god-like Homer's elevated song;
Loud as the torrent, as the billows strong;
Cast o'er this fault a friendly veil, you'll find
A friendly, social, and ingenuous mind.

Witness, ye Naiads, and ye guardian powers, Who sit sublime on Henry's lofty towers; Witness if e'er I saw thy open brow, Sunk in despair, or sadden'd into woe, Well-natur'd Stavordale-the task is thine Foremost in pleasure's festive band to shine: Say, wilt thou pass alone the midnight hour, Studious the depths of Plato to explore ? To lighter subjects shall thy soul give way, Nor heed what grave philosophers shall say? The god of mirth shall list thee in his train, A cheerful vot'ry, and the foe of pain.

Whether I Storer sing in hours of joy, When every look bespeaks the inward boy; Or when no more mirth wantons in his breast, And all the man appears in him confest; In mirth, in sadness, sing him how I will, Sense and good-nature must attend him still.




My Lord, your verses, penn'd with so much ease,
The fair, the young, and ev'n the critics please;
Such solid sense, and grace, and judgment meet,
We add the epithet of Strong to Sweet.

That some are peers by stars and strings we find ;
You, by intrinsic nobleness of mind;
Fair Fancy's manly strokes your lines adorn ;
We truly may pronounce you, poet born:
And if in youth your genius we may scan,
How will it glow, and brighten in the man !
True sings the bard, that one well-natur'd deed,
Does all desert in sciences exceed :

And if, my Lord, from what you write, we guess, Yourself those virtues, which you paint, possess:

[merged small][ocr errors]

The sense of St. John, Fox, and Legge's your

The sweetness of unblameable Buccleugh;
Ophaly's honor, Stavordale's desert,
Storer's good-nature, and Fitzwilliam's heart.





[Afterwards Sir Richard.]

WHEN Pleasure's falling to the low delight,
In the vain joys of the uncertain sight;
No sense of Wit when rude spectators know,
But in distorted gesture, farce and show;
How could, great Author, your aspiring mind,
Dare to write only to the few refin'd!
Yet, though that nice ambition you pursue,
'Tis not in Congreve's power to please but few.
Implicitly devoted to his fame,

Well-dress'd Barbarians know his aweful name; Though senseless they're of mirth, but when they laugh,

As they feel wine, but when, till drunk, they quaff.

On you, from Fate, a lavish portion fell, In every way of writing to excell.

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »