From hence, my Lord, Wit took a tour about, Residing in few countries on his rout, Appear'd in places, but ne'er took his seat in One spot of earth, except Greece, France, and Britain. The rest a single trophy only bear, And just enough to show he had been there. As Nature's ideot never fails to hit, Once in his life, on some sheer strokes of Wit; Then stoops ten thousand fathoms down behind, A like excursion never to repeat To the warm regions of aetherial heat. Yet when we look at home, my Lord, at best, But then the boasted days of Charles the Second, In the next reigns how could it flourish much? And the glad stars responsive tun'd their choirs; To follow those who lighted her to church. Then Halifax, my Lord, as you do yet, Stood forth the friend of Poetry and Wit; Sought silent Merit in its secret cell, And Heav'n, nay even man repaid him well. Man, in the praise of every grateful quill, And Heav'n in him, who bears his title still; Who, on a kingdom to his virtues won, Reflects the glories of our British Sun. EPISTLE VI. ΤΟ Α 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, Thus unregarded Fenton pass'd away! 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 rage Of wasting Envy, and devouring Age: One mingled heap of ruin now we see ; Thus Chaucer is, and Fenton thus shall be ! |