Abbildungen der Seite

"How sprightly Stanhope* could you quit, "Deceive the great Argyle?

"How cheat the generous-hearted Pitt; "Sir William+ how beguile?

"How slight thy faith, how break thy word,

[ocr errors]

Thy country how undo?

"Who'd from a Briton this expect?

"Of Britons all from you.

"Ah! foolish man, to barter fame,

"For titles' tinsel grace!

"And poorly sell thy own desert,
"To dignify thy race.

"Yet know that this thou can'st not do,
" "Tis Virtue gives a name';
"For titles if they 're basely got,

"Are but entails of shame."

The cock had crow'd, the morning dawn'd, And clowns began to wake;

Before the chief could from his view,

This dreadful Vision shake.

Earl of Chesterfield.

+ Sir Wm. Stanhope.

Then up he started from his bed,

And hurried back to town;

Where his return made as much noise
As did his going down.

But tho' his body changed its place,
Yet, as arch Horace writes,
His mind was just, still where it was,
He could not sleep at nights.

He bus'ness hates, forgets the post,
From council stays away;

And what made people stare at most,
He miss'd the King's birth-day.

Since then he sullen is, or sad,

Of great affairs makes light;

Talks much of being what he was,
And setting all things right.

Now God preserve our glorious King,
And send his Bishops grace;

Keeping all Lords for evermore,

From Bath's unhappy case







In return for the extraordinary kindness and humanity they shewed to me and my eldest daughter, now Lady Essex,* 1753.


WHAT glorious verse from Love has sprung? How well has Indignation sung?

* Mother of George Capel Coningsby, the 5th and present Earl of Essex, and of Elizabeth Lady Monson, widow of John, the third Lord. Her Ladyship died 19th July, 1759, in childbed.-Isaac Reed.

And can the gentle Muse, Whilst in her once-belov'd abode

I stray, and suppliant kneel, an ode

To Gratitude refuse?


Garnier, my friend, accept this verse,

And thou receive, well-natur'd Pearce, All I can give of Fame:

Let others other subjects sing,

Some murd'rous chief, some tyrant king,

Humanity's my theme.


Whilst arts like yours, employ'd by you, Make verse on such a theme your due,

To whom indulgent heav'n

Its fav'rite pow'r of doing good,
By you so rightly understood,

Judiciously has giv'n.


Behold, obedient to your pow'r,

Consuming fevers rage no more,

Nor chilling agues freeze;

The cripple dances, freed from pain,

The deaf in raptures hear again,

The blind, transported, sees.


Health, at your call, extends her wing,
Each healing plant, each friendly spring,
Its various pow'r discloses ;

O'er death's approaches you prevail,
See Chloe's cheek, of late so pale,

Blooms with returning roses.


These gifts, my friends, which shine in you, Are rare, yet to some chosen few

Heav'n has the same assign'd;

Health waits on Mead's prescription still, And Hawkins' hand, and Ranby's skill,

Are blessings to mankind.


But hearts like yours are rare indeed,

Which for another's wounds can bleed,

« ZurückWeiter »