THE LARK...TO THE HONOURABLE CHARLES TOWNSEND. And, doubt not, thy polluted taste Along the morn or evening dew, Nymph, Satyr, Faun, shall vindicate their grove, Robb'd of its genuine charms, and hospitable Jove. I see, all arm'd with dews unblest, The Genius of the wood appear! This you observ'd, and ask'd from me, My gentle friend, a simile. So take in homely verse, but true, That larks are poets' birds, is known, Or lay aside for once grimace, And make it, yours, the parson's case; Who, leaving curate's humble roof, Looks down on crape, and sits aloof. Tho' no vain wish his breast enthral To swell in pomp pontifical, But pure contentment seated there, Nor finds a want, nor feels a care, Yet are there not to stain the cloth (O may'st thou live secure from both!) A city pride, or country sloth? And may not man, if touch'd with these, Resign his duty for his ease? But I forbear; for well I ween Such likenings suit with other men. For never can my humble verse The cautious ear of patron pierce; Nor ever can thy breast admit Degrading sloth, or self-conceit. Then let the birds or sing or fly, To nurse thy saplings tall, and heal the harms of As Hector says, and what care I? night. With ringlets quaint to curl thy shade, To bid the insect tribes retire, To guard thy walks, and not invade O wherefore then provoke his ire? Alas! with prayers, with tears, his rage repel, While yet the red'ning shoots with embryo-blos soms swell. Too late thou 'It weep, when blights deform "Thus, thus the green-hair'd deities maintain Their own eternal rights, and Nature's injur'd reign." THE LARK. A SIMILE. TO THE REVEREND MR. SEE how the Lark, the bird of day, They hurt not me, nor eke my friend; TO THE 221 HONOURABLE CHARLES TOWNSEND. O CHARLES, in absence hear a friend complain, Who knows thou lov'st him wheresoe'er he goes, Yet feels uneasy starts of idle pain, And often would be told the thing he knows. Why then, thou loiterer, fleets the silent year, How dar'st thou give a friend unnecessary fear? We are not now beside that osier'd stream, And cheat in converse half the ling'ring day; Yet why complain? thou feel'st no want like these, From me, 'tis true, but me alone debar'd, Thou still in Granta's shades enjoy'st at ease The books we reverene'd, and the friends we shar'd ; Nor see'st without such aids the day decline, Nor think how much their loss has added weight to thine. Truth's genuine voice, the freely-opening mind, Are thine, are friendship's and retirement's lot; To conversation is the world confin'd, Friends of an hour, who please and are forgot; And interest stains, and vanity controls, The pure unsullied thoughts, and sallies of our souls. OI remember, and with pride repeat, The rapid progress which our friendship knew! Even at the first with willing minds we met; And ere the root was fix'd, the branches grew. In vain had fortune plac'd her weak barrier: Clear was thy breast from pride, and mine from servile fear. I saw thee gen'rous, and with joy can say My education rose above my birth, Thanks to those parent shades, on whose cold clay Fall fast my tears, and lightly lie the earth! To them I owe whate'er I dare pretend [friend. Thou saw'st with partial eyes, and bade me call thee Let others meanly heap the treasur'd store, And awkward fondness cares on cares employ To leave a race more exquisitely poor, Possess'd of riches which they ne'er enjoy; He's only kind who takes the nobler way Tunbind the springs of thought, and give them power to play. His heirs shall bless him, and look down with Bade us bedew with tears the kindred urn, And for a brother lost like sad Maria mourn. He bids thee too, in whispers felt within, Grief's swelling tides which in her bosom roll, As the kind parent treats the wounded child With open smiles, and only weeps by stealth; Its wayward pain with condescension mild She charms to rest, and cheats it into health: So must we lightly urge th' afflicted fair, [bear. Probe the self-tortur'd breast, and teach it how to Improve each moment when th' elastic mind, Tir'd with its plaints, resumes the bent of mirth; Lead it to joys, not boistrous, but refin'd, [birth, Far from those scenes which gave its sorrows Thro' the smooth paths of fancy's flowery vale, And the long devious tracks of some well-woven tale. Tho' oft I've known a sorrow like to theirs, In well-devised story painted strong, Cheat the fond mourners of their real cares, And draw perforce the list'ning ear along; Till powerful fiction taught the tears to flow, And more than half their grief bewail'd another's woe. But she, alas, unfortunately wise, Will see thro' every scheme thy art can frame, Reject with honest scorn each mean disguise, And her full share of genuine anguish claim; Wild as the winds which ocean's face deform, Or silent as the deep ere rolls th' impetuous storm. Why had she talents given beyond her sex, Or why those talents did her care improve? Free from the follies which weak minds perplex, But most expos'd to all which most can move. Great souls alone are curs'd with grief's excess, That quicker finer sense of exquisite distress. Yet shall that power beyond her sex, at last, And reason triumph where thy counsels fail; Save when some well-known object ever dear Recalls th' untutor'd sigh, or sudden-starting tear. Such tender tribute to departed friends Thro' life alas must sad remembrance pay; And such, O Charles, when kinder fate extends Thy stronger thread beyond my fatal day, Such shall I hope from thee, till thou resign That last sure pledge of love to some poor friend of thine. TO MR. GARRICK. ON old Parnassus, t'other day, The Muses met to sing and play; Apart from all the rest were seen The tragic and the comic queen, Engag'd, perhaps, in deep debate On Rich's, or on Fleetwood's fate. "Pugh, you're a wag," the buskin'd prude If things succeed as they are meant ; ? Shall he, whose all-expressive powers Can reach the heights which Shakspeare soars, And tickle ears with poetry; -O thou, whom Nature taught the art But surely mine's her proper dress; With all Maria's charms engage, Or Milwood's arts, or Touchwood's rage, 'Mrs. Cibber, in the character of Lady Constance, in Shakespear's King John. Thro' every foible trace the fair, The wilder notes of Rosalind. "O thou, where'er thou fix thy praise, Brute, Drugger, Fribble, Ranger, Bays? O join with her in my behalf, And teach an audience when to laugh. If possible, be perfect quite; Nor e'er descend from reason's laws NATURE TO DR. HOADLY, ON HIS COMEDY OF THE SUSPICIOUS HUSBAND. SLY hypocrite! was this your aim? Mr. Quin, inimitable in that character, who was then leaving the stage. Nor was't enough, you thought, to write; But you must impiously unite With Garrick too, who long before Had stol'n my whole expressive pow'r. That changeful Proteus of the stage, Usurps my mirth, my grief, my rage; And as his different parts incline, Gives joys or pains, sincere as mine. Yet you shall find (howe'er elate Your triumph in your former cheat) "Tis not so easy to escape In Nature's, as in Pæon's shape. Nay more, to chafe, and tease your spleen, TO RICHARD OWEN CAMBRIDGE, ESQ. DEAR Cambridge, teach your friend the art Had Virgil been from coast to coast, Had Horace too, from day to day, Nay he, whose Greek is out of date Nor hurt by noise, nor cramp'd by rhymes, The middle line's a line of rest; And, let the sides fly how they will, That Cæsar did three things at once, (Though each alone in humbler station That quick conception without pain. Sure Nature cast, indulgent dame, Or does Thalia court your arms If that's the case, I'll soon be free, I've learn'd to scorn a forc'd embrace. It must be on another score- TO MR. MASON. BELIEVE me, Mason, 'tis in vain Thy fortitude the torrent braves; Which early fancy loves to form, But ah! how few has fortune given The choice, to take or to refuse; To fewer still indulgent Heav'n Allots the very will to choose, 'Middleton Park, Oxfordshire. And why are varying schemes prefer'd ? Or wealth, or honours, fame, or ease, Prefer'd to Heaven thy fav'rite vow: Nor all those vain connections know Yet sure, my friend, th' eternal plan But man himself for all mankind. That bird, thy fancy frees from care, From field to field, from tree to tree, Alarm by turns his anxious breast; And tell me, has not Nature made Some stated void for thee to fill, Some spring, some wheel, which asks thy aid Thou quit thy darling schemes of ease; Expect the night of peace. From the same fount, with reverence let me boast, The classic streams with early thirst I caught; What time, they say, the Muses revel'❜d most, When Bigg presided, and when Burton taught. But the same fate, which led me to the spring, Forbad me further to pursue the stream: Perhaps as kindly; for, as sages sing, Of chance and fate full idly do we deem. And sure in Granta's philosophic shade Truth's genuine image beam'd upon my sight; And slow-ey'd reason lent his sober aid To form, deduce, compare, and judge aright. Yes, ye sweet fields, beside your osier'd stream Full many an Attic hour my youth enjoy'd; Full many a friendship form'd, life's happiest dream, And treasur'd many a bliss which never cloy'd. Yet may the pilgrim, o'er his temperate fare At eve, with pleasing recollection say, 'T was the fresh morn which strung his nerves to The piercing beam, and useful toils of day. So let me still with filial love pursue [bear The nurse and parent of my infant thought, From whence the colour of my life I drew, When Bigg presided, and when Burton taught. O, names by me rever'd !-till memory die, Till my deaf ear forget th' enchanting flow Of verse harmonious, shall my mental eye Trace back old time, and teach my breast to glow. Peace to that honour'd shade, whose mortal frame Sleeps in the bosom of its parent earth, While his freed soul, which boasts celestial flame, Perhaps now triumphs in a nobler birth: Perhaps with Wykeham, from some blissful bower, Applauds thy labours, or prepares the wreath For Burton's generous toil.-Th' insatiate power Extends his deathful sway o'er all that breathe; Nor aught avails it, that the virtuous sage Forms future bards, or Wykehams yet to come; And thou, O Lowth, shalt own the grateful strain, Thou know'st, is gratitude for good bestow'd. TO THE REVEREND DR. LOWTH ', ON HIS LIFE OF WILLIAM OF WYKEHAM. O Lowrн, while Wykeham's various worth you And bid to distant times his annals shine, [trace, Indulge another bard of Wykeham's face In the fond wish to add his name to thine. 'Afterward bishop of London. VOL. XVII. TO THE REVEREND MR. WRIGHT. 1751. You say I'm dependent; what then?—if I make |