For him tho' wealth be blown on every wind,
Tho' Fame announce him mightiest of mankind,
Tho' twice ten nations crouch beneath his blade,
Virtue difowns him, and his glories fade.
For him no prayers are pour'd, no peans fung,
No bleffings chanted from a nation's tongue;
Blood marks the path to his untimely bier;
The curfe of Orphans, and the Widow's tear,
Cry to high Heaven for vengeance on his head,
Alive, deferted, and accurft, when dead.
Indignant of his deeds the Mufe, who fings
Undaunted truth, and scorns to flatter kings,
Shall fhew the monster in his hideous form,
And mark him as an earthquake or a storm.
Not fo the patriot Chief who dar'd withstand
The bafe invader of his native land,
Who made her weal his nobleft, only end,
Rul'd but to serve her, fought but to defend;
Her voice in council and in war her sword,
Lov'd as her father, as her God, ador'd;
Who firmly virtuous and feverely brave,
Sunk with the freedom that he could not fave;
On worth like his the Mufe delights to wait,
Reveres alike in triumph and defeat,
Crowns with true glory and with spotless fame,
And honours Paoli's more than Frederick's name.
Here let the Mufe withdraw the blood-ftain'd veil,
And fhew the boldest friend of public zeal.
Lo! Sydney pleading o'er the block-his mien,
His voice, his hand, unfhaken, clear, ferene:
Yet no harangue proudly declaim'd aloud,
To gain the plaudit of a wayward crowd:
No fpecious vaunt Death's terrors to defy,
Still Death deferring as afraid to die;
But fternly filent down he bows, to prove
How firm his virtuous, tho' mistaken, Love.
Unconquer'd Patriot! form'd by antient lore,
The love of antient Freedom to restore;
Who nobly acted what he boldly thought,
And feal'd by Death the leffon that he taught.
Dear is the tie that links the anxious Sire
To the fond Babe that prattles round his fire:
Dear is the love that prompts the generous youth,
His Sire's fond cares and drooping age to footh;
Dear is the brother, fifter, hufband, wife,
Dear all the charities of focial life:
Nor wants firm friendship holy wreaths to bind
In mutual fympathy the faithful mind:
But not th' endearing fprings that fondly move
To filial duty or parental love,
Nor all the ties that kindred bosoms bind,
Nor all in Friendship's holy wreaths entwin'd,
Are half fo dear, fo potent to controul
The generous working of the patriot foul,
As is that holy voice that cancels all
Those ties, that bids him for his country fall.
At this high fummons with undaunted zeal
He bares his breaft; invites th' impending steel:
Smiles at the hand that deals the fatal blow,
Nor heaves one figh for all he leaves below.
Nor yet doth Glory, though her port be bold,
Her afpect radiant and her treffes gold,
Guide thro' the walks of Death alone her car,
Attendant only on the din of war;
She ne'er difdains the gentle vale of peace,
Or olive fhades of philofophic ease;
Where Heaven-taught minds to woo the muse resort,
Create in colours or with founds transport;
More pleas'd on fis filent marge to roam,
Than bear in pomp the fpoils of Minden home.
To read with Newton's ken the ftarry sky,
And God the fame in all his orbs defcry;
To lead forth Merit from her humble fhade;.
Extend to rifing arts a patron's aid;
Build the nice ftructure of the generous law,
That holds the free-born mind in willing awe;
To fwell the fail of trade-the barren plain
To bid with fruitage blush, and wave with grain;
O'er pale Misfortune drop with anxious figh
Pity's mild balm, and wipe affliction's eye;
Thefe, thefe are deeds Britannia must approve,
Muft nurse their growth with all a parent's love;
These are the deeds that public virtue owns,
And, just to Public Virtue, Glory crowns.-
The following little Poem was wrote in a blank leaf before Thomson's Seasons, as a compliment to that ingenious Author, by his great admirer and namefuke, the Rev. Mr. William Thompfon, Jome time Fellow of Queen's College, in Oxford.
AIL, NATURE's Poet! whom he taught alone
To fing her Works in numbers like her own:
Sweet as the thrush that warbles in the dale,
And foft as Philomela's tender tale.
SHE lent her pencil too, of wond'rous power,
To catch the rainbow, and to form the flower,
Of many mingling hues; and, fmiling, faid,
(But first with laurel crown'd her Favourite's head)
"These beauteous children, tho' so fair they fhine,
"Fade in my SEASONS, let them live in thine."
And live they fhall the charm of every eye,
'Till NATURE fickens, and the SEASONS die.
The following beautiful Lines were written by a Lady on obferving some white Hairs on her Lover's Head.
HOU, to whofe power reluctantly we bend,
Foe to life's fairy dreams, relentless Time,
Alike the dread of lover, and of friend,
Why ftamp thy feal on manhood's rofy prime?
Already twining 'midft my Thyrfis' hair,
The fnowy wreaths of age, the monuments of care,
Thro' all her forms, tho' Nature own thy fway,
That boafted fway thou'lt here exert in vain ;
To the laft beam of life's declining day,
Thyrfis thall view, unmov'd, thy potent reign.
Secure to pleafe, whilft goodness knows to charm,
Fancy and tafte delight, or fenfe and truth inform.
Tyrant, when from that lip of crimson glow,
Swept by thy chilling wing, the rofe ball fly;
When thy rude fcythe indents his polish'd brow,
And quench'd is all the luftre of his eye;
When ruthless age difperfes ev'ry grace,
Each fmile that beams from that ingenuous face-
Then, thro' her ftores, fhall active Mem❜ry rove,
Teaching each various charm to bloom anew,
And ftill the raptur'd eye of faithful love
Shall bend on Thyrfis its delighted view;
Still fhall he triumph, with refiltless power,
Still rule the conquer'd heart to life's remotest hour.
VERSES by Lady CRAVEN, on dreaming be faw her Heart at her
HEN Nature, tir'd with thought, was funk to reft,
And all my fenfes were by fleep poffeft;
Sweet fleep, that foft and balmy comfort brings
Alike to beggars and defpotic kings;
I dreamt of peace I never felt before,
I dreamt my heart was lying on the floor.
I view'd it, ftrange to tell! with joyful eyes,
And. ftranger still, without the least surprise!
Elated with the fight, I fmiling fat,
Exulting o'er the victim at my feet;
But foon with words of anguish thus addrest
This painful sweet difturber of my breast:-
Say, bufy, lively, trembling, hoping thing,
What new difafter haft thou now to bring,
To torture with thy fears my tender frame,
Who must for all her ills thee only blame?
Speak now, and tell me why, ungrateful gueft,
For ten years past haft thou deny'd me rest?
That in my bofom thou waft nurs'd, 'tis true,
And with my life and with my ftature grew,
At first fo fmall were all thy wants, that I
Vainly imagin'd I could ne'er deny
Whate'er thy fancy afk'd.-Alas! but now
I find thy wants my ev'ry fense outgrow;
And ever having, ever wanting more,
A power to pleafe, to give, or to adore.
Say, why, like other hearts, thou dost not bear
With callous apathy each worldly care?
Why doft thou fhrink at Envy's horrid cries?
In thee Compaffion Hatred's place fupplies.
Why not with malice treat malicious men ?
Why ever pity, where thou fhould'ft condemn ?
Why, at the hearing of a difmal tale,
Doft thou with forrow turn my beauty pale?
Why, when diftrefs in any fhape appears,
Dott thou diffolve my very foul in tears?
Why in thy fecret folds is Friendship bred?
In other hearts its very name is dead.
Why, if keen Wit and learned Senfe draw nigh,
Doft thou with emulation beat fo high?
And while approving, wifh to be approv'd,
And when you love, with more to be belov'd?
Why not, in cold indifference ever clad,
Alike unmov'd, regard the good and bad?
Why doft thou waste my youthful bloom with care,
And facrifice myself, that I may share
Distress in others? Why wilt thou adorn
Their days with rofes, and leave me a thorn?'
But here I faw it heave a heavy figh,
And thus in fweeteft founds it did reply:
Ah! cease, ELIZA! ceafe thy fpeech unjust;
Thy Heart has e'er fulfill'd its facred trust;
And ever will its tender manhion ferve,
Nor can it from thee this reproach deferve:
Against my dictates murm'ring have I found,
Which thus has laid me bleeding on the ground.
Compare thyself in this fame hour depriv'd
Of this foft Heart, from whence are all deriv'd
The fame bewitching graces which adorn
And make thy face appear like beauteous morn:
With me its brilliant ornaments are fled,
And all thy features, like thy foul, are dead.
'Tis I that make thee other's pleasures share,
And in a fifter's joy forget thy care.
'Tis by my dictates thou art taught to find
A godlike pleasure in a godlike mind;
That makes thee oft relieve a stranger's woes,
And often fix those friends that would be foes.
'Tis I that tremblingly have taught thine ear
To cherish Mufic; and 'tis I appear
In all its fofteft drefs, when to the hearts
Of all beholders my dear voice imparts
Harmonic ftrains: 'tis not because 'tis fine,
For every note that's felt is furely mine.
In fmoothest numbers all that I indite,
For 'tis I taught thy fearful hand to write:
My genius has with watchful care fupply'd
What Education to thy fex deny'd;
Made Sentiment and Nature all combine
To melt the Reader in each flowing line,
Till they in words this feeling truth impart,
She needs no more, who will confult the Heart;
And own in reading what is writ by thee,
No ftudy ever could improve like me.
And when thy bloom is gone, thy beauty flown,
And laughing youth to wrinkled age is grown,
Thy actions, writings, friendship, which I gave,
Still fhall remain an age beyond the grave.
Then do not thus difplac'd let me remain,
But take me to thy tender breaft again.'
Yes, foft perfuader (I return'd) I will;
And if I am deceiv'd, deceive me still!'
Seduc'd I was in hafte; then stooping low,
Soon re-inflated my fweet, pleafing foe;
And waking, found it had not lefs nor more
Than all the joys, the pangs it had before!
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