Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, Then first she calls the useful many forth; Plain plodding industry and sober worth: Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth, And merchandise' whole genus take their birth: Each prudent cit a warm existence finds, The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, Law, physics, politics, and deep divines: The little fate allows, they share as soon, Unlike sage, proverb'd Wisdom's hard-wrung boon. The world were blest did bless on them depend, Ah, that "the friendly e'er should want a friend!" Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye! race: Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace; Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes! Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid? Heavens! should the branded character be mine! Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. I trust meantime my boon is in thy gift: *This is our Poet's first epistle to Graham of Fin try. It is not equal to the second; but it contains too much of the characteristic vigour of its author to be sup pressed. A little more knowledge of natural history, or of chemistry, was wanted to enable him to execute the original conception correctly. Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit, Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, To you the dotard has a deal to say, In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way! He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, That the first blow is ever half the battle; That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him; Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him; That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing You may do miracles by persevering. Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair, Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care! To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow, And humbly begs you'll mind the important— now! To crown your happiness he asks your leave, And offers, bliss to give and to receive. For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours, With grateful pride we own your many favours; And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it, Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. "You're one year older this important day," If wiser too-he hinted some suggestion, But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question; LIFE ne'er exulted in so rich a prize, Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves; Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves, Ye cease to charm-Eliza is no more! Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens: And with a would-be-roguish leer and wink. "think!" To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their | Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy worth, Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail? And thou, sweet excellence! forsake our earth, And not a muse in honest grief bewail? We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres ; But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide, Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee, That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care! So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, foe, Go, frighten the coward and slave; Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know, No terrors hast thou to the brave! Thou strik'st the dull peasant-he sinks in the dark, Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name; Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark! He falls in the blaze of his fame! In the field of proud honour-our swords in our hands, Our King and our country to saveWhile victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, O who would not rest with the brave! Most humbly own-'tis dear, dear admiration! In that blest sphere alone we live and move; There taste that life of life-immortal love.Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, I also think-so may I be a bride! Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye; Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive 'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares-To make three guineas do the work of five: Say, you'll be merry, though you can't be rich. Laugh in Misfortune's face-the beldam witch: When awful Beauty joins with all her charms, Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms? |