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Farewell!-Farewell !"-A while, his hands he wrung,
And, o'er his crook, in filent forrow, hung:
Then, cafting many a ling'ring look behind,
Down the steep mountain's brow began to wind.
In fhape and gefture proudly eminent,
His form had, yet, not loft
All her original brightnefs; nor appear'd
Lefs than arch-angel ruin'd, and th' excess
Of glory obfcur'd. As when the fun, new rifen,
Looks through the horizontal mifty air
Shorn of his beams; or, from behind the moon,
In dim eclipfe, difaftrous twillight sheds
On half the nations, and with fear of change
Perplexes monarchs; darken'd fo, yet fhone
Above them all, th' arch-angel. But his face
Deep fears of thunder had entrench'd: and care
Sat on his faded cheek; but, under Brows
Of dauntless courage, and confiderate pride,
HUT, fhut the door, good John! fatigued, I faid:
Tie up the knocker; fay, I'm fick, I'm dead.
The dog-ftar rages! nay, 'tis paft a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnaffus, is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
WHAT walls can guard me, or what fhades can hide?
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide:
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They ftop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is facred; not the church is free;
Even Sunday fhines no Sabbath-day to me:
Then, from the mint, walks forth the man of rhyme,
"Happy, to catch me-just at dinner-time."
FRIEND to my life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted-many an idle song)
What drop, or noftrum, can this plague remove?
Or, which muft end me, a fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm fped:
If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seiz'd and tied down to judge, how wretched I!
Who can't be filent, and who will not lie.
To laugh, were want of goodness, and of grace:
And, to be grave, exceeds all pow'r of face.
I fit, with fad civility: I read,
With ferious anguish, and an aking head:
Then, drop, at laft, but in unwilling ears,
This faving counfel" Keep your piece nine years."
"Nine years!" (cries he, who, high in Drury-lane,
Lull'd by foft zephyrs through the broken pane,
Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends,
Obliged by hunger-and request of friends);
"The piece, you think, is incorrect. Why, take it.
I'm all fubmiffion: what you'd have it, make it."
THREE things, another's modeft wishes bound-
My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.
Pitholeon fends to me ;- "You know his grace.
"I want a patron-ask him for a place."
"Pitholeon libell'd me"-" But here's a letter
"Informs you, fir, 'twas when he knew no better."
BLESS me! a packet !" "Tis a stranger fues;
"A virgin tragedy; an orphan mufe."
If I diflike it" Furies! death, and rage!"
If I approve" Commend it to the stage."
There, thank my ftars! my whole commiffion ends:
The play'rs, and I, are luckily, no friends.
Fir'd, that the house reject bim-"'Sdeath! I'll print it,
"And shame the fools-your int'reft, Sir, with Lintot.”
"Lintot (dull rogue !) will think your price too much"-
"Not if you, Sir, revife it, and retouch."
All my demurs but double his attacks.
At laft, he whispers-" Do, and we go fnacks."
Glad of a quarrel, ftraight I clap the door
"Sir, let me fee you, and your works, no more,”
You think this cruel ?-take it for a rule,
No creature fmarts fo little as a fool.
Let peals of laughter, Codrus, round thee break,
Thou, unconcern'd, canft hear the mighty crack:
Pit, box, and gallery, in convulfions hurl'd,
Thou ftandft unfhook, amid'ft a burfting world.
Who fhames a fcribbler? Break one cobweb through-
He spins the flight felf-pleafing thread anew :
Destroy his fib or fophiftry-in vain-
The creature's at his dirty work again.
ONE dedicates in high heroic profe,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:
One, from all Grub-ftreet, will my fame defend
And, more abusive, calls himfelf my friend :
This, prints my letters; that, expects a bribe;
And others, roar aloud-" Subscribe, subscribe.”
THERE are, who, to my perfon, pay their court:
I cough like Horace! and, tho' lean, am short;
Ammon's great fon one shoulder had too high;
Such Ovid's nofe; and-" Sir, you have an eye-”
Go on, obliging creatures; make me fee
All that disgrac'd my betters met in me.
Say, for my comfort, languishing in bed,
Juft fo, immortal Maro held his head:
And, when I die, be fure you let me know,
Great Homer died-three thousand years ago:
HENRY IV.'S SOLILOQUY ON SLEEP
How many thoufands of my pooreft fubjects
Are at this hour afleep !O gentle fleep!
Nature's foft nurfe! how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eye-lids down,
And steep my fenfes in forgetfulness !
Why rather, fleep, lieft thou in fmoaky cribs,
Upon uneafy pallets ftretching thee,
And hufh'd with buzzing night-flies to thy flumber,
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of coftly ftate,
And lull'd with founds of fweetest melody?
O thou dull god! why lieft thou with the vile
In lothfome beds, and leav'ft the kingly couch
A watch-cafe to a common larum-bell?
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast,
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious furge,
And, in the vifitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monftrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning clamours in the flipp'ry shrouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?
Canft thou, O partial fleep! give thy repose
To the wet fea-boy in an hour fo rude,
And, in the calmeft and the ftilleft night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king ?-Then, happy lowly clown !-
Uneafy lies the head, that wears a crown.
THE wind and rain are over. Calm is the noon
the green hill, flies the inconftant fun. Red, thro' the ftony vale, comes down the ftream of the hill -Sweet are thy murmurs, O ftream! but more fweet is the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the fon of fong,