no prospect of ever making a return, is the severest pain.
My master, who sought none, attempted often "to give the conversation another turn; but finding that they could speak or think of nothing else as yet, he took his leave, promising to come the next "day, when their minds should be better settled, to "consult what more was in his power to serve “them, having first privately taken an opportunity "to slip a couple of guineas into the daughter's “hand, to avoid putting the delicacy of her fa"ther and mother to farther pain."
HEALTH to great Glo`ster-from a man unknown,
Who holds thy health as dearly as his own.
Accept this greeting-nor let modest fear
Call up one maiden blush.-I mean not here
To wound with flatt'ry-'tis a villain's art,
And suits not with the frankness of my heart..
Truth best becomes an orthodox divine,
And spite of hell that character is mine:
To speak even bitter truths I cannot fear;
But truth, my Lord, is panegyrick here.
Health to great Glo'ster-nor thro' love of ease,
Which all priests love, let this address displease.
I ask no favour-not one note I crave,
And when this busy brain rests in the grave,
(For till that time it never can have rest)
I will not trouble you with one bequest.
Some humbler friend, my mortal journey done,
More near in blood, a nephew or a son,
In that dread hour executor I'll leave,
For I, alas! have many to receive,
To give but little. To great Glo'ster health;
Nor let thy true and proper love of wealth
Here take a false alarm-In purse tho' pour,
In spirit I'm right proud, nor can endure
The mention of a bribe-Thy pocket's free :
1, tho' a Dedicator, scorn a fee.
Let thy own offspring all thy fortunes share ;
I would not Allen rob, nor Allen's heir.
Think not a thought unworthy thy great soul, Which pomps of this world never could control, 30 Which never offer'd up at Pow'r's vain shrine. Think not that pomp and pow'r can work on mine, 'Tis not thy name-tho' that indeed is great, 'Tis not the tinsel trumpery of state, 'Tis not thy title-Doctor tho' thou art, 'Tis not thy mitre, which hath won my heart. State is a farce, names are but empty things, Degrees are bought, and by mistaken kings Titles are oft misplac'd; mitres, which shine So bright in other eyes, are dull in mine, Unless set off by virtue; who deceives Under the sacred sanction of lawn sleeves Enhances guilt, commits a double sin, So fair without and yet so foul within. 'Tis not thy outward form, thy easy mien, Thy sweet complacency, thy brow serene, Thy open front, thy love-commanding eye, Where fifty Cupids as in ambush lie, Which can from sixty to sixteen impart
The force of Love and point his blunted dart; 50 'Tis not thy face, tho' that by Nature's made
An index to thy soul, tho' there display'd
We see thy mind at large, and thro' thy skin
Peeps out that courtesy which dwells within ;
'Tis not thy birth, for that is low as mine,
Around our heads no lineal glories shine-
But what is birth-when to delight mankind
Heralds can make those arms they cannot find,
When thou art to thyself, thy sire unknown,
A whole Welch genealogy alone?
No; 'tis thy inward man, thy proper worth,
Thy right just estimation here on earth,
Thy life and doctrine uniformly join'd,
And flowing from that wholesome source thy mind,
Thy known contempt of Persecution's rod,
Thy charity for man, thy love of God,
Thy faith in Christ, so well approv'd 'mongst men,
Which now give life and utt'rance to my pen.
Thy virtue not thy rank demands my lays;
'Tis not the Bishop but the Saint I praise :
Rais'd by that theme I soar on wings more strong,
And burst forth into praise withheld too long.
Much did I wish, ev'n whilst I kept those sheep
Which for my curse I was ordain'd to keep,
Ordain'd, alas! to keep thro' need not choice,
Those sheep which never heard their shepherd's voice,
Which did not know yet would not learn their way,
Which stray'd themselves yet griev'd that I should
Those sheep which my good father (on his bier
Let filial duty drop the pious tear)
Kept well, yet starv'd himself, ev'n at that time
Whilst I was pure and innocent of rhyme,
Whilst sacred dulness ever in my view,
Sleep at my bidding crept from pew to pew,
Much did I wish, tho' little could I hope,
A friend to him who was the friend of Pope.
His hand, said I, my youthful steps shall guide,
And lead me safe where thousands fall beside;
His temper, his experience, shall control,
And hush to peace the tempest of my soul;
His judgment teach me, from the critic school,
How not to err, and how to err by rule;
Instruct me, mingle profit with delight,
Where Pope was wrong, where Shakspere was not right;
Where they are justly prais'd, and where thro' whim
How little's due to them, how much to him. 96
Rais'd 'bove the slavery of common rules,
Of common sense, of modern, ancient, schools,
Those feelings banish'd which mislead us all,
Fools as we are, and which we Nature call,
He by his great example might impart
A better something. and baptize it Art;
He, all the feelings of my youth forgot,
Might shew me what is taste by what is not ;
By him supported with a proper pride,
I might hold all mankind as fools beside;
He (should a world, perverse and peevish grown,
Explode his maxims and assert their own)
|