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"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,
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,
"Yet know that this thou can'st not do,
"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
But tho' his body changed its place,
He bus'ness hates, forgets the post,
And what made people stare at most,
Since then he sullen is, or sad,
Of great affairs makes light;
Talks much of being what he was,
Now God preserve our glorious King,
Keeping all Lords for evermore,
From Bath's unhappy case
MR. PEARCE OF BATH.
A GRATEFUL ODE,
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,
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,
O'er death's approaches you prevail,
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,