Adieu to thofe, who with melodious ftrain Have skill to waken joy, or foften pain! Thee, Kennedy! above the tricks of art, And with true pathos melting every heart; The warbling Wilkinson, and sprightly Brown, And Martyr, captivating half the town; And Billington, whofe execution charms, Delights with wonder, and with rapture warms; And Crouch, endued with every gentle grace, A voice celestial, and an angel face: Sweet Harmonift! whofe filver tones impart The foothing melody that charms the heart; No more fhall I, with the admiring throng, Enraptur'd liften to thy magic fong; Nor fhall I, but by Fancy's powerful aid, Behold thee as the gentle Adelaide, Or as Ophelia claim the tender tear,
While, unadorn'd, thy voice shall footh the ear :--- But the prophetic muse with joy reveals What merit, ever diffident, conceals ; Delighted, fees thee join the tragic ftrain, And in foft numbers penfively complain. Thine is the skill, and thine the happy art, With facred founds to elevate the heart: When Handel's harmony divinely flows, With holy rapture every bofom glows : Aided by thee, we feel th' angelic ftrain, And find, well pleas'd, a new Cecilia reign. No more, Thalia! shall thy sportive band Excite my pity, or my fmile command:~ Farewell to favourite Palmer, useful Dodd, In Belch and Ague-cheek fupremely odd! 14
To Macklin, Neftor of the spouting crew, The "Scotchman's friend," and the unrival'd Jew! To Edwin's irresistible grimace;
To matchlefs Parfons, with his comic face; Men that 'gainft Chesterfield do highly fin, By making ladies laugh, and coxcombs grin! To Quick the humorous, and to King the chafte, To Smith and Lewis, "Gentlemen"-fans tafte! To far-fam'd Farren, chief of comic belles, To romping Jordan, and to ruftic Wells; Farewell to all whom playful minds adore,
That ftrut their hour, and then are feen no more; A long farewell to those tremendous players So much "at home" in lions, wolves, and bears! Parts that—in time-great Barrymore may claim, Or which may add to lofty Fawcett's fame! Williams and Phillimore, in goats and swine, Could not but prove themselves immensely fine! "Nay, do not think I flatter!”—for 'tis plain These four, as brutes, unrival'd would remain : For who is quick enough of fight to ken That they resemble "christians, pagans, men, In gait or accent?" Then 'tis fit they reign The mighty quadrupeds of Drury-lane!
AN ADDRESS TO THE REVIEWERS.
E fage Reviewers !-ye whose monthly toil Spreads twilight knowledge over all the isle ;
Who, Luna-like, your borrow'd beams beftow On those that seldom to the fountain go: Ye fage Reviewers !—who with skill condense In narrow limits every author's sense;
Who bring all Europe's learning in a page, And all the wit of all this witty age; Who bind huge quartos in a little cell, Like Homer's Iliad in a walnut-shell; Who ftrip the goose-quill hero of renown, By puffing purchas'd from a tasteless Town : Ye, who as literary monarchs fit,
Waving your fceptres o'er the realms of wit; Who fhew each obvious and each latent fault, Each venial error, and each brilliant thought; Forbear! forbear! nor your dread wrath dispense On this my first, and this my last offence! Surely, 'tis no fuch mighty heinous crime To take one's last farewell in harmless rhyme! Though often prompted by the love I bear Some names of worth, and one accomplish'd fair, Yet, unambitious of a wit's renown,
I ne'er disturb'd the ever-patient Town: Me can no printed pamphlet e'er accuse Of holding daring commerce with the muse: To charm the mind with verfe I never ftrove, Save when my half-ftrung lyre was wak'd by love; Imperial love, that bids the bosom glow With tender fighs, will prompt the verse to flow. I call'd not, to adorn a claffic song, Unheard-of forrow and fictitious wrong ;
Nor have I, twisting Hudibrastic wire
With the bold ftrings of Pindar's founding lyre,
Like Peter, whom a random muse attends, With mirth convuls'd my laughter-loving friends. Nor is this all: I never did expose
The ramblings of my mind in humble profe; No tempting letter-box by me was fed With libels on the living or the dead: Diurnal prints I wifely let alone, O'erwhelm'd with rapid nonsense of their own; Nor did I ever paint lafcivious scenes, Or lying tête-à-tête for magazines:
To please the vicious, or amuse the vain, No luscious novel iffued from my brain: Scorning that strongest band of Virtue's foes, I ne'er destroy'd her innocent repose. Thus having paft my inoffenfive days, Deaf to the lure of literary praise ; If now I trespass, mitigate the crime, By ftill remembering-'tis the only time; Nor let me find myself, for this ADIEU,
Hung, drawn, and quarter'd in the next Review. Yet what avails it ?—I were much to blame Idly to dream of wild poetic fame.
The happy hermit, in his cell retir'd, Forgets the world, nor feeks to be admir'd ; Yet, favour'd by the mufe, his pensive strain Shall fometimes footh the melancholy plain; His harp with harmony the vallies fill, And fimple fhepherds bless his tuneful skill. Hence let me hafte; and, led by powers divine, Find the calm transports of his bofom mine!
THE FINAL FAREWELL.
TO AVARICIOUS LADIES.2.
ADIEU to thofe of the attractive fair,
Whom avarice teaches to prefer the prayer; Whofe harden'd hearts ne'er beat with love or joy, But blunt the arrows of the Paphian boy; Whom modest merit fupplicates in vain,
Whofe fame is prudence, and whofe god is gain. Hafte, man the fhip! to India let them fail; Intereft the chart, and fordid sighs the gale.. O'er feas of riches fee the veffel go, Pride at the helm, and Plutus at the prow! Go, foolish fair! go venture fame and life, Go, and be call'd some knavish nabob's wife ! Command thy vaffals; view thy fplendid ftore;. What now is wanting ?-Only ten times more! Add ten times more, and ten times that be thine, Content and riches thou shalt never join. The female heart that throbs with luft of gold, Shall fafter throb the more her eyes behold. Strange that in lovely bofoms there fhould rage. The most detefted vice of grasping age! So vernal bloffoms all their fweets impart, But hide the hateful canker at the heart..
Shield me, O fhield me from the female mind
That, warp'd by wealth, no chains but gold can bind ! . Though form'd by Beauty with angelic mien,
"She looks a goddess, and she moves a queen,"
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