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CLXXIV. PAUL WHITEHEAD, 1710-1774.
MANNERS MAKE THE MAN.
Bishops and kings may consecrate, 'tis true,
Manners alone claim homage as their due.
Without, the court and church are both profane,
Whatever prelate preach or monarch reign:
Religion's rostrum virtue's scaffold grows,
And crowns and mitres are mere raree-shows.
In vain behold yon reverend turrets rise,
And Sarum's sacred spire salute the skies!
If the lawn'd levite's earthly vote be sold,
And God's free gift retail'd for mammon gold;
No reverence can the proud cathedral claim,
But Henley's shop and Sherlock's are the same.
Whence have S't Stephen's walls so hallow'd been?
Whence? From the virtue of his sons within.
But, should some guileful serpent, void of grace,
Glide in its bounds, and poison all the place;
Should e'er the sacred voice be set to sale,
And o'er the heart the golden fruit prevail;
The place is alter'd, sir; nor think it strange
To see the senate sink into a 'change.
Or court, or church, or senate-house, or hall,
Manners alone beam dignity on all.
Without their influence, palaces are cells
Crane-court, a magazine of cockle-shells,
The solemn bench no bosom strikes with awe,
But Westminster's a warehouse of the law.
These honest truths, my lord, deny you can;
Since all allow that " Manners make the man.'
Hence only glories to the great belong,
Or peers must mingle with the peasant throng.
Though strung with ribbons, yet behold his Grace
Shines but a lacquey in a higher place!
Strip the gay livery from the courtier's back,
What marks the difference 'twixt my lord and Jack ?
The same mean, supple, mercenary knave,
The tool of power, and of state the slave:
Alike the vassal heart in each prevails,
And all his lordship boasts is larger vails.
Wealth, manors, titles, may descend, 'tis true,
But every heir must merit's claim renew.
CLXXV. WILLIAM MELMOTH, 1710–1799.
Far as the Almighty stretched his utmost line,
He pierced in thought, and view'd the vast design
Too long had darker ages sought in vain
The secret scheme of nature to explain :
Too long had truth escaped each sage's eye,
Or faintly shone through vain philosophy.
Each shapely offspring of her feeble thought
A darker veil o'er genuine science brought;
Still stubborn facts o'erthrew their fruitless toil;
For truth and fiction who shall reconcile ?
But Britain's sons a surer guide pursue :
Tread safe the maze, since Newton gave the clue,
Where'er he turned, true science reared her head,
While far before her puzzled ignorance fled.
From each blest truth these noble ends he draws,
Use to mankind, and to their God applause.
Taught by his rules secure the merchant rides,
When threatening seas roll high their dreadful tides,
And either India speeds her precious stores,
'Midst various dangers, safe to Britain's shores.
Long as those orbs he weighed shall shed their rays,
His truth shall guide us, and shall last his praise.
CLXXVI. EDWARD MOORE, 1712—1757.
1. THE PENITENT.
Little trembler! fear no more,
Thou hast plenteous crops in store,
Seed by genial sorrows sown,
More than all thy scorners own.
What though hostile earth despise ?
Heaven beholds with gentler eyes;
Heaven thy friendless steps shall guide,
Cheer thy hours, and guard thy side.
When the fatal trump shall sound,
When the immortals pour around,
Heaven shall thy return attest,
Hail'd by myriads of the blest.
Little native of the skies!
Lovely Penitent, arise!
Calm thy bosom, clear thy brow,
Virtue is thy sister now.
More delightful are thy woes
Than the rapture pleasure knows ;
Richer far the weeds I bring,
Than the robes that grace a king.
On my wars of shortest date,
Crowns of endless triumph wait;
On my cares, a period blest,
On my toils, eternal rest.
The maid who modestly conceals
Her beauties, while she hides, reveals :
Give but a glimpse, and fancy draws
Whate'er the Grecian Venus was.
Can't I another's face commend,
And to her virtues prove a friend,
But instantly your forehead lours,
As if her merit lessen'd yours.
CLXXVII. RICHARD GLOVER, 1712-1785.
Remains unshaken. Rising, he displays
His godlike presence. Dignity and grace
Adorn his frame, and manly beauty, joined
With strength Herculean. On his aspect shines
Sublimest virtue and desire of fame,
Where justice gives the laurel; in his eye
The inextinguishable spark, which fires
The souls of patriots; while his brow supports
Undaunted valour, and contempt of death.
Serene he rose, and thus addressed the throng:
"Why this astonishment on every face,
Ye men of Sparta? Does the name of death
Create this fear and wonder? O my friends!
Why do we labour through the arduous paths
Which lead to virtue? Fruitless were the toil.
Above the reach of human feet were placed
The distant summit, if the fear of death
Could intercept our passage. But in vain
His blackest frowns and terrors he assumes
To shake the firmness of the mind which knows
That, wanting virtue, life is pain and woe;
That, wanting liberty, e'en virtue mourns,
And looks around for happiness in vain.
Then speak, O Sparta! and demand my life;
My heart, exulting, answers to thy call,
And smiles on glorious fate. To live with fame
The gods allow to many; but to die
With equal lustre is a blessing Heaven
Selects from all the choicest boons of fate,
And with a sparing hand on few bestows.'
Salvation thus to Sparta he proclaimed.
Joy, wrapt awhile in admiration, paused,
Suspending praise; nor praise at last resounds
In high acclaim to rend the arch of heaven;
A reverential murmur breathes applause.
2. ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST.
As near Portobello lying
On the gentle-swelling flood,
At midnight, with streamers flying,
Our triumphant navy rode;
There while Vernon sat all glorious
From the Spaniards' late defeat,
And his crews, with shouts victorious,
Drank success to England's fleet :
On a sudden, shrilly sounding,
Hideous yells and shrieks were heard;
Then, each heart with fear confounding,
A sad troop of ghosts appeared;
All in dreary hammocks shrouded,
Which for winding-sheets they wore,
And, with looks by sorrow clouded,
Frowning on that hostile shore.
On them gleamed the moon's wan lustre,
When the shade of Hosier brave
His pale bands were seen to muster,
Rising from their watery grave:
O'er the glimmering wave he hied him,
Where the Burford reared her sail,
With three thousand ghosts beside him,
And in groans did Vernon hail.
"Heed, oh, heed our fatal story!
I am Hosier's injured ghost;
You who now have purchased glory
At this place where I was lost:
Though in Portobello's ruin,
You now triumph free from fears,
you think on my undoing,
You will mix your joys with tears.
See these mournful spectres sweeping
Ghastly o'er this hated wave,
Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping;
These were English captains brave.
Mark those numbers, pale and horrid,
Who were once my sailors bold;
Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead,
While his dismal tale is told.
I, by twenty sail attended,
Did this Spanish town affright;
Nothing then its wealth defended
But my orders-not to fight!
Oh! that in this rolling ocean
I had cast them with disdain,
And obeyed my heart's warm motion,
To have quelled the pride of Spain !
For resistance I could fear none;
But with twenty ships had done