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But lo ! yon bark, that rich with India spoils,
Oh! to BRITANNIA's shore
'Tis HASTINGS, of the prostrate EAST Despotic arbiter ; whose * bounty gave
My MARKHAM's delegated rule To riot in the plunder of BENARES,
How yet affrigbted GANGES, oft distain'd With Gentoo carnage, quakes thro' all his branches ?
Soon may I greet the morn, When, HASTINGS screen’d, DUNDAS and GEORGE'S
One of the many frivolous charges brought against Mr. Hastings by facrious men, is the removal of a Mr. Fowke, contrary to the orders of the Directors, that he might make room for his own appointment of my son ta the Residentship of Benares. I have ever thought it my duty to support the late Governor-General, both at Leadenhall and in the House of Peers, against all uch vexatious accusations.
IMITATIONS OF MYSEL.F.
Or trace her navy, where in towering pride
Thro’ BISHOPTHORP's * glad roofs shall sound,
Or in thy chosen PLACE, ST. JAMES,
When wealthy Innocence, pursued
Mean gifts of vulgar cost, alike
Not thus shall HASTINGS sav’d,
• As many of my Competitors have complained of Signor Delpini's ignorance, I cannot help remarking here, that he did not know Bishopthorp to be the name of my palace, in Yorkshire ; he did not know Mr. Hastings's house to be in St. James's-place; he did not know Mrs. Hastings to have two sons by Mynheer Imhoff, her former husband, still living. And what is more shameful than all in a Critical Assessor, he had never heard of the poetical figure, by which I clegantly say, thy place, St. James's, instead of St. James'splace.
IMITATIONS OF MYSELF.
How headlong Rhone and Ebro, erst distain's
Soon shall I greet the morn,
Shall soon o'er FLANDRIA's level field,
Or by the jolly mariner
* O may thy blooming Heir,
Till a new race of little GUELPs,
* Signor Delpini wanted to strike out all that follows, because truly it had no connection with the rest. The transition, like some others in this and my former Ode to Arthur Onslow, Esq. may be too fine for vulgar apprehensions, but it is therefore the more Pindaric.
IMITATIONS OF MYSELF.
O may your rising hope,
'Till a fresh-springing flock implore,
By the Rev. THOMAS WARTON, B.D. Fellow of the Trinity College, in Oxford, la:e Professor
of Poetry in that University, and now Poet Laureat to his Majesty.
Amid the thunder of the war,
No plumed host her tranquil triumphs own:
And deck her chosen throne.
With the flowering olive twin'd,
Her unpolluted hands the milder trophy rear.
The Muse a blameless homage pays;
She wishes honour'd length of days,
His tutclary sceptre's sway
'Tis his to judgment's steady line
And yet expand their wing :
Sculpture, licentious now no more,
And spurns the toys of modern lore:
Corinth, thy tufted shafts ascend;
Amid the proud display,
That shed a softer ray:
He wafts his favour's universal gale,
That bloom in Virtue's humble vale. With rich munificence, the nuptial tye,
Unbroken he combines :
The sacred patern shines !
Be this the monarch's aim ;
The monarch's meed to claim.