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Injurious meed! O'er him, whose eye,
As lightning keen, made Dulness fly,
Ere yet was broke life's golden chain,
(Bleft fav'rite in the Muses' train !)
Shall Dulness now presume to tread,
And Envy mark him out when dead!
Curst be the vain, false, coward save, Who thus aims vengeance on the grave; Thus breaks thro' Friendship’s facred laws; -What fatire, Pope, is thy applause !*
TO LADY BOYNTON, CUTTING HER NAME IN TH
BARK OF A TREE.
To penfive minds superior truth belong,
Whose facred precepts form the voice of fong:
They with soft Solitude sweet converse hold,
And love the whisper'd tale by Fancy told.
While on this stem, (now consecrate to Fame) Thou giv'st to future years the darling name, What crowding thoughts within my bofom move, Swell at my heart, and wake each sense of love!
* Alluding to the conclusion of his Essay on Man.
This plant thy Damon, in life's fragrant morn With foft'ring hand selected from the thorn; Fast, with his years, the shooting scion grewr. Nor mark'd the varied seasons as they flew Together pass'd with Time his ample round: (Hark! as you write, he gives the boding found) His * “ creeping hours,” in myftic days of yore, Tun'd the sweed reed on Avon's fairy shore: Then ill-rewarded worth, or fruitless love, Sought, and found folace in the lonely grove; From prying eyes a willing exile ran, And all th' obtrusive intercourse of man..
Revolve the past, we paint the coming years ; The garlands Fancy wove Reflection tears ; There roseate bloflom moans its balmy prime, Borne on the fleeting wing of ruthless Time: Beauty awaits its all-involving gloom, Nor chears the wintry frown that shades the tomb: Yet be it mine, by Truth and Beauty fir'd, To praise those charms which Lyttleton admir'd.
* Shakespeare. As You Like It.
WRITTIN IN A COTTAGE AT PARK-PLACE, THE
SEAT OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE GENERAL CONWAY.
BY THE REVEREND MR. POWYS.
THE works of Art let others praise,
Where Pride her waste of wealth betrays,
And Fashion, independent grown,
Usurps her parent Nature's throne,
Lays all her fair dominions waste,
And calls the devastation Taste.
But I-who ne'er, with servile awe,
Give Fanion's whims the force of law,
Scorn all the glitter of expence,
When destitute of use and senfe.
More pleas’d to see the wanton rill,
Which trickles from some craggy hill,
Free thro' the valley wind its way,
Than when, immur'd in walls of clay,
It strives in vain its bonds to break,
And ftagnates in a crooked lake.
With fighs I see the native oak
Bow to th' inexorable stroke,
Whilst an exotic puny race
Of upstart shrubs usurps its place,
Which, born beneath a milder fky,
Shrink at a wintry blast, and die.
I ne'er behold without a smile
The venerable Gothic pile,'
Which in our fathers' wiser age
Was shelter'd from the tempeft's rage,
Stand to the dreary north exposid,
Within a Chinese fence inclos'd.
For me, each leaden God may reign
In quiet o'er his old domain;
Their claim is good by Poet's laws,
And Poets must support their cause.
But when old Neptune's fish-tail'd train
Of Tritons, haunts an upland plain ;
When Dian seems to urge the chace,
In a snug garden's narrow space;
When Mars, with insult rude, invades
The virgin Muses' peaceful shades;
With light’ning arm’d, when angry Jove
Scares the poor tenants of the grove,
I cannot blindly league with those,
Who thus the Poet's creed oppose.
To Nature, in my earliest youth,
I vow'd my constancy and truth;
When in her * Hardwicke's much-lov'd shade
Enamour'd of her charms I Aray’d:
* The Seat of P. Powys, Esq. in Oxford'hie.
And as I rov'd the woods.
Her praise in lisping numbers sung:
Nor will I now refign my heart,
A captive to her rival art.
Far from the pageant scenes of pride,
She still my careless steps shall guide,
Whether by Contemplation led,
The rich romantic wilds I tread,
Where Nature, for her pupil mau,
Has sketch'd out inany a-noble plan
Or whether from yon wood crown'dbrow,
I view the lovely vale below.
For when, with more than common care,.
Nature had sketch'd her landscape tbore,
Her Conway caught the fair defign,
And soften'd ev'ry harsher line;
In pleasing lights each object plac'd,
And heighten'd all the piece with taste.
O Conway * ! whilst the public voice...
Applauds our Sov'reign's well weigh'd choice,
my patriot Muse proclaim
The Statesman's and the Soldier's fame:
And bind immortal on thy brow
The civic crown and laurel bough.
But tho' unskill'd to join the choir,
Who aptly túne the courtly lyre,
* General Conway was at this time Secretary of State.