Do Gifts, like thefe, our Gratitude command?
What Debtors are we to the Poet's Hand?
Whose nobler Streams in larger Currents roul ;
Those but inform the Ground, and thefe the Soul.
Here Laurell❜d Shade; thy own great Image fee; To draw the Poet is to Picture Thee:
Th' extenfive Thought, the Energy divine,
The Flame, the Genius, and the Soul was Thine;
Each various Note declares thy Mafter-Skill,
How form'd to write, how worthy to excel,
To Virtue fteddy, to thy Country true,
We read the Poet, and the Patriot too.
Does Liberty demand thy loftier Strain?
We gaze with Wonder on thy Tamerlane ;
Thro' every Scene purfue the Godlike Cause,
And give the Fav'rite Hero full Applaufe.
When the fhrill Trumpet fummons him away,
The warm'd Spectator shares the bloody Fray;
In anxious Wishs, feels a Soldier's Pride,
Lifts in the War, and combats on his Side.
How does he charm, when bounteous to Diftres,
Sedate in Fight, and humble in Success?
A Victor, yet without a Victor's Mind,
He Conquers not t'enflave, but free Mankind,
To diftant Times marks out th' unerring Way,
Learns Kings to Rule, and Subjects to obey;
Strikes every Bofom with a facred Awe,
And shews the happy Age a true NASSAU,
Or if fome lowly Theme the Poet claim,
Some banish'd Lover, or neglected Dame,
Love's thousand Paffions all his Skill employ,
The quick alternate Tides of Grief and Joy:
How well he paints the fad Extremes of Fate!
How well defcribes th' unhappy-happy State?
Each confcious Sinner does his Guilt confefs,
And awful Silence fpeaks the Bard's Success;
So well th' expreffive Miferies are shown,
Some tender Breaft ftill makes the Woe its own:
The Virgin's Cheek the moving Scene approves,
And artless Sighs betray how well the loves.
The fcornful Nymph condemns her long Difdain,
And to her Arms invites her injur'd Swain.
When fome fair Wanton mourns her past Defires, Love's foul Embraces, and unlawful Fires; So foft the pleads, the pitying Audience melt, And clear the Sinner, tho' they damn the Guilt. The Libertine in Love exults a-while On violated Charms and ravish'd Spoil, But foon his Triumphs find a timely Date; The Villan's Crimes receive the Villian's Fate. But why on fingle Beauties do I dwell, When ev'ry finish'd Scene is wrote fo well? When thy vaft Works are in themselves repaid, And modeft Nature owns thy happier Aid.
Lothario in the Fair Penitent.
But now the Skill is loft, the Mufick o'er,
And he who charm'd us once, can charm no more."
Envy at last repents her canker'd Hate,
And feels her Error in her Lofs too late.
To native Duft now waftes the mortal Frame,
And nought furvives the Poet, but his Fame.
Brave then in that, or Time, or Envy's Rage,
And be a LUCAN to a diftant Age.
Yes, facred Shade, thy Writings shall be read,
'Till even Arts are with their Founders dead:
Whilft Friendship burns within a faithful Breft,
Thy Name be cherish'd, and thy Worth confeft.
Oblivion is the common Mortal Doom:
But thou shalt Live when Dead, and Florish in the Tomb.
Arewel, the Genius of the British Stage,
Farwel, the Patriot of a madding Age; O ROWE! unhappy deathlefs Bard, farewel, Whofe Worth applauding Theatres shall tell; Oft as thy Heroes on the Stage appear,
Each Eye to Thee shall drop a grateful Tear: Shouts to thy Name each grateful Voice fhall raife, And clapping Crowds in Thunder fpeak thy Praise.
Too cruel Death! that would no longer spare
This great Recorder of the Brave and Fair;
That in one dreadful Inftant fnatch'd from hence
The beft good Nature, and the finest Sense:
Too cruel Death! that could refufe to fave
Him, that has refçu'd Thousands from the Grave;
Him that to latest Worlds conveys the Fame
Of TAMERLANE and great ULYSSES' Name;
At whofe Command departed Saints revive,
And in his moving Scenes for ever live,
Paft Times return, and from the moulder'd Tomb
Rife up the mighty Chiefs of Greece and Rome:
Their ancient Legions rally on the Plain,
And act their fromer Triumphs o'er again.
Touch'd with his powerful Magick, we deplore
The Beautious Penitent, and Guilty SHORE.
GRAT, to appease the Wrath of human Laws,
Bleeds, a Fair Martyr, in her SAVIOUR'S Caufe;
Undaunted bleeds, and by his matchless Art,
The fatal Blow wounds ev'ry British Heart.
We mourn with beating Breafts the greedy Stroke,
And yield reluctant to the Romish Yoke :
Of Idols now fucceeds a motly Band,
And Popery pours in upon the Land ;
Rage, Superftition, Maffacre and Blood,
Come arm'd from Hell against the Publick Good:
Zeal fets on Fire the Holy Smithfield Pile,
And Priecraft rages thro' the trembling Ifle.
Well has our Loyal Poet fet to view
This direful Scene, this wonder-working Crew,
A bloody Tribe of perfecuting Elves,
That weakly damn all Christians but themfelves!
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