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The sprightly court that wander up and down
* Sir Samuel Moreland.
Crosses attend the man who dares to flinch,
The author of Phædra and Hippolitus. He has left but
two poems in English.
TO THE MEMORY OF MR. JOHN PHILIPS.
To a Friend SIR, Since our Isis silently deplores The bard who spread her fame to distant shores : Since nobler pens their mournful lays suspend, My honest zeal, if not my verse, commend, Forgive the poet, and approve the friend. Your care had long his feeting life restrained, One table fed you, and one bed contained ; For his dear sake long restless nights you bore, While rattling coughs his heaving vessels tore ; Much was his pain, but your affliction more.
Oh! had no summons from the noisy gown
Oh! might I paint himn in Miltonian verse, With strains like those he sung on Glo'sters herse; But with the meaner tribe I'm forc'd to chime, And wanting strength to rise, descend to rhyme.
With other fire his glorious Blenheim shines, And all the battle thunders in his lines : His nervous verse great Boileau's strength transcends, And France to Philips, as to Churchill, bends..
Oh! various bard, you all our powers controul, You now disturb, and now divert the soul : Milton and Butler in thy muse combine; Above the last thy manly beauties shine ; For, as I've seen, when rival wits contend, One gaily charge, one gravely wise defend ; This on quick turns and points in vain relies, This with a look demure, and steady eyes, With dry rebukes, or sneering praise, replies.
So thy grave lines extort a juster smile,
What sounding lines his abject themes express! What shining words the pompous shilling dress! There, there my cell, immortal made, outvies The frailer piles which o'er its ruins rise. In her best light the Comic Muse appears, When she, with borrowed pride, the buskin wears.
So when nurse Nokes, to act young Ammon tries, With shambling legs, long chin, and foolish eyes, With dangling hands he strokes the imperial robe, And, with a cuckold's air, commands the globe; The pomp and sound the whole buffoon display'd, And Ammon's son more mirth than Gomez made.
Forgive, dear shade, the scene my folly draws; Thy strains divert the grief thy ashes cause : When Orpheus sings, the ghosts no more complain, But, in his lulling music, lose their pain : So charm the sallies of thy Georgic Muse, So calm our sorrows, and our joys infuse :