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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.
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 beauties had engag'd you most, I doubted much; 'till, t'other 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 e'er 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."
As late at Comus' court I sat,
(Observe me well, I mean not that
Where ribaldry in triumph sits,
Delighting lords, and 'squires, and cits;
But there, where mirth and taste combine,
And Rigby gives more wit than wine)
Suspended for a while the joke,
With rapture of your muse we spoke ;
But all blam'd me, cry'd out, oh! fye!
What! send to verse a prose reply?
My friend, the Colonel, made the attack,
And wicked Calvert clapp'd his back.
Nay, Pottinger, tho' low in feather,
And somewhat ruffled by the weather,
Would peck and crow; and Madam Hale
Flew at my manners tooth and nail.
What! send to Anstey such dull stuff?
'Twas modesty, dear Hale; don't huff.
Cou'd I but rhyme as much as you,
And think that much as charming too,
I'd write, and write again; I care not;
But, as I feel, indeed I dare not.
Then Cox let loose his silver tongue;
O d-n it, David, you are wrong.
While independent Plummer cry'd,
He'd not vote plump on either side.
E'en Boon, who ne'er inclines to satire,
With modest sense and much good nature,
Cou'd not but say there was some blame,
And sweet Eliza blush'd the same.
My wife look'd grave, but made it known
The right to vex me was her own.
Our landlord shook his sides and shoulders,
Both at the scolded and the scolders:
For that to him is always best,
Which raises and supports the jest.
No baited bear was e'er so worry'd;
I took my hat, and home I hurry'd,
Resolv'd, as well as I was able,
To ask your pardon in a Fable ;
The best excuse my prudence knows,
For answ❜ring your choice verse in prose.
A monkey of the sprightly kind
Could mock and mimic half mankind:
Cou'd twist him to a thousand shapes;
In short, a perfect jackanapes.
As once our mimic Pug display'd
His talents in the summer shade,