LEAVE, Garrick, the rich landscape, proudly gay,
Docks, forts, and navies, brightening all the bay:
To my plain roof repair, primaeval seat!
Yet there no wonders your quick eye can meet,
Save, should you deem it wonderful to find
Ambition cur'd, and an unpassion'd mind;
A statesman without power, and without gall,
Hating no courtiers, happier than them all;
Bow'd to no yoke, nor crouching for applause,
Votary alone to freedom and the laws.
Herds, flocks, and smiling Ceres deck our plain,
And, interspers'd, an heart-enlivening train
Of sportive children frolic o'er the green;
Meantime pure Love looks on, and consecrates the
Come, then, immortal Spirit of the stage,
Great Nature's proxy, glass of every age!
Come, taste the simple life of Patriarchs old,
Who, rich in rural peace, ne'er thought of pomp or gold.
WHEN Peleus' son, untaught to yield,
Wrathful forsook the hostile field,
His breast still warm with heavenly fire,
He tun'd the lay, and swept the lyre.
So Chatham, whose exalted soul
Pervaded and inspir'd the whole,
Where far, by martial glory led,
Britain her sails and banners spread,
Retires (though Wisdom's God dissuades)
And seeks repose in rural shades:
Yet thither comes the God confess'd;
Celestial form! a well-known guest.
Nor slow he moves with solemn air,
Not on his brow hangs pensive care;
Nor in his hand th' historic page
Gives lessons to experienc'd age,
As when in vengeful ire he rose,
And plann'd the fate of Britain's foes,
While the wing'd Hours obedient stand, And instant speed the dread command.
Chearful he came, all blythe and gay, Fair blooming like the son of May ; Adown his radiant shoulder hung A harp, by all the Muses strung: Smiling he to his friend resign'd This soother of the human mind.
To Holdernesse, the Muses three,
Of Painting, Music, Poetry,
To him, their long-lov'd patron, friend,
In grievous pet this letter send-
Give ear, my Lord, while we complain,
Our sex to you ne'er sigh'd in vain.
'Tis said-A youth by you befriended,
Whom to your smiles we recommended;
Seduc'd by you, abjures our charms,
And flies for ever from our arms!
Could D'Arcy, whom we lov'd, caress'd,
In whose protection we were bless'd,
Could he, to whom our Sire imparts
That secret rare to taste our arts,
Could he, ungrateful, and unkind!
From us estrange our Mason's mind?
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