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Do Gifts, like these, our Gratitude command?
Here Laurell’d Shade; thy own great Image see ; 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 Master-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?
with Wonder on thy Tamerlane ; Thro' every Scene pursue the Godlike Causez And give the Fav'rite Hero full Applause. When the thrill Trumpet summons him away, The warm’d Spectator Mhares 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 Distrering Sedate in Fight, and humble in Success? A Victor, yet without a Victor's Mind, He Conquers not t'enflaye, but free Mankind, To distant Times marks out th' unerring Way, Learns Kings to Rule, and Subjects to obey; Serikes every Bosom with a sacred Awe, And thews the happy Age a true NASSAU,
Or if some lowly Theme the Poet claim,
When some + fair Wanton mourns her past Desires, Love's foul Embraces, and unlawful Fires; So soft she 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 soon 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 finishid Scene is wrote so well? When thy vaft Works are in themselves repaid, And modeft Nature owns thy happier Aid.
# Jane Sbore,
* Lotbario in the Fair Penitent.
But now the Skill is lost, the Musick o’er,
Death of Mr. ROWE
By Mr. AMHURST.
TArewel, the Ĝenius of the British Stage,
Farwel, the Patriot of a madding Age ; O ROWE! unhappy deathless Bard, farewel, Whose Worth applauding Theatres Mall 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 shall raise, And clapping Crowds in Thunder speak thy Praise,
Too cruel Death ! that would no longer spare This great Recorder of the Brave and Fair ; That in one dreadful Instant snatch'd from hence The best good Nature, and the finest Sense :
Too cruel Death! that could refuse to save
Well has our Loyal Poet set to yiew