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OF HIS OWN CHARACTER.•
Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune;
He had not the method of making a fortune:
Could love and could hate, so was thought somewhat
odd; No very great Wit, he believed in a God. A post or a pension he did not desire, But left church and state to Charles Townshend and
• Written in 1761, and found in one of hi* pocket-books.
ADDRESSED TO, AND IN MEMORY OF
UPON HIS ODES.
Thy daring heights and brightness shun;
Or, like him, gaze upon the sun!
That little dares and little means;
Or flutters in the Magazines.
Our minds their health and vigour draw;
No more the Stagy rite is law.
To breathe her ardours in our souls;
The lightning gle«ams, the thunder rolls:
Again thy wond'rous powers reveal;
And rouse us to reflect and feel!
Those deeds that mark Eiiza's reign? Make Britons Greeks again, then strike the lyre.
And Pindar shall not sing in vain.
ON THE BACKWARDNESS OF SPRING, By the late Mr. Richard West.
DEAR Gray, that always in my heart
Possessest far the better part,
What mean these sudden blasts that rise
And drive the Zephyrs from the skies?
O join with mine thy tuneful lay,
And invocate the tardy May.
Come, fairest Nymph, resume thy reign!
Bring all the Graces in thy train!
With balmy breath and flowery tread,
Rise from thy soft ambrosial bed;
Where, in Elysian slumber bound,
Embow'ring myrtles veil thee round.
Awake, in all thy glories drest,
Come, then, with Pleasure at thy side,
ON THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY.
Me quoque Mtisaratn sturliiim sub nocte silenti
ENOUGH of fabling, and th' unhallow'd haunts
Of Dian' and of Delia, names profane,
Since not Diana nor all Delia's train
Are subjects that befit a serious song;
For who the bards among
May but compare with thee, lamented Gray!
Whose pensive, solemn lay,
Drew all the list'ning shepherds in a ring,
Well pleased to hear thee sing
Thy moving notes, on sunny hill or plain,
And catch new grace from thy immortal strain.
O wood-hung Menai, and ye sacred groves
Of Delphi, we still venerate your names,
Whose awful shades inspired the Druids* dreams.
Your recess, though imagined, Fancy loves,
And through these long-lost scenes delighted roves:
So future bards perhaps shall sing of Thames,
And as they sing shall say,
'Twas there of old where mused illustrious Gray!
By Isis' banks his tuneful lays would suit,
To Pindar's lofty lyre, or Sappho's Lesbian lute
Oft would he sing, when the still Eve came on,
And when fair Morn arose again to view,
A fairer landscape still he drew,
That blooms like Eden in his charming lays,
The hills and dales, and HeavVs cerulean blue,
Brighten'd o'er all by Sol's resplendent ray*.
The musky gale, in rosy vale,
And gilded clouds on azure hills,
The fragrant bow'rs, and painted flow'rs,
And tinklings of the silver rills;
The very insects, that in sunbeams play,
Turn useful monitors in his grave moral lay.
But ah! sad Melancholy intervenes,
And draws a cloud o'er all these shining scenes
'Tis her, alas! we often find
The troublcr of each great unbounded mind,
And, leagued with her associate Fsar
Will tremble lest the turning sphere,
And sinking earth, and reeling planets ran
In dire disorder with the falling sun.
But now, great Bard, thy life of pain is o'er;
'Tis we must weep, though thou shalt grieve no monk
Through other scenes thou now dost rove,
And clothed with gladness walk'st the courts above
And listen'st to the heavenly choir,
Hymning their God, while seraphs strike the lyrs.
Safe with th°m in those radiant climes of bliss.
Thou uov enjoy'st eternal happiness