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SKETCH

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

Squire .f

• Written in 1761, and found in one of hi* pocket-books.
* V«U0« of lWJobu'» College, Cambridge, and. afterword*
T ^ BWw*ofSt.i>a?i4V

POEMS,

ADDRESSED TO, AND IN MEMORY OF

MR. GRAY.

UPON HIS ODES.
By David Garrick, Esq.
REPINE not, Gray, that our weak dazzled eyes

Thy daring heights and brightness shun;
How few can trace the eagle to the skies,

Or, like him, gaze upon the sun!
Each gentle reader loves the gentle Muse,

That little dares and little means;
Who humbly sips her learning from Reviews,

Or flutters in the Magazines.
"No longer now from Learning's sacred store

Our minds their health and vigour draw;
Homer and Pindar are revered no more,

No more the Stagy rite is law.
Though nursed by these, in vain thy Muse appears

To breathe her ardours in our souls;
In vain to sightless eyes and deaden'd ears

The lightning gle«ams, the thunder rolls:
Yet droop not, Gray, nor quit thy heaven-born art;

Again thy wond'rous powers reveal;
Wake slumb'ring Virtue in the Briton's heart,

And rouse us to reflect and feel!
With ancient Jeeds our long-chill'd bosoms fire,

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,
Recall the Zephyrs from the west;
Restore the sun, revive the skies,
At mine, and Nature's call, arise!
Great Nature's self upbraids thy stay,
And misses her accustom'd May.
See! all her works demand thy aid>
The labours of Pomona fade:
A plaint is heard from ev'ry tree;
Each budding flow'ret calls for thee;
The birds forget to love and sing;
With storms alone the forests ring.

Come, then, with Pleasure at thy side,
Diffuse thy vernal spirit wide;
Create, where'er thou turn'st thine eye.
Peace, Plenty, Love, and Harmony:
Till ev'ry being share its part,
And Heaven and Earth be glad at heart.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. GRAY.

Me quoque Mtisaratn sturliiim sub nocte silenti
Artibus assuetis solicitare solct. Claudia*.

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,
Till sable Night resumed her ebon throne,
And taught us, in his melancholic mood,
To scorn the great, and love the wise and good;
Told us, 'twas virtue never dies,
And to what ills frail mankind open lies;
How safe through life's tempestuous sea to steer,
Where dang'rous rocks, and shelves and whirlpools, oft
appear.

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

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