View, like Loveday,* roses glow
'Mid my honour'd age's snow,
Ere arriv'd at Life's last beach,
Hope with him my port to reach,
Shew with him, ere hoary Age
Bend on me his utmost rage,
In my cot, all safe and calm,
Friendship's warmth, and Virtue's balm,
Whilst without my well-earn'd praise
Decks my roof with sun-bright rays—
Shall I then, with him, perceive
Finer forms in Life's last eve,
Than in Life's tumultuous noon
Glar'd beneath its blazing Sun-

Heav'n in prospect, and a tomb
Grac'd with wreaths that ever bloom,

Tears of fond remembrance shed

Less to mourn than praise the dead,
And a lasting meed to grace
Conquest in the noblest race?

*Arthur Loveday, Esq. of Caversham, near Reading, who died 1789, when these lines were introduced with sincerity and effect for public recitation before a respectable audience, many of whom had long witnessed the virtues of that incomparable man. This imperfect notice of him would have the more pathetic and useful effect, as his cast of character was as eminently pleasing, I may say pleasant and amiable, as it was respectable.They who knew the late Sir Walter Bagot, but might not have been personally acquainted with Mr. Loveday, will form a correct idea of the latter by the former.-It was, in truth, in both the beauty of holiness.

Fun, I do but jest with thee,

Thou shalt never govern me,

Taught by Truth, and forc'd to think
Thee more dev'lish than divine,
Cheating still thy fools with chink,

Whilst Wisdom pays with weightiest coin.

THE

GHOST OF MILTON,

A POEM.

Occasioned by the recent digging up and exposure of his bones.

PEACE, every bray discordant to my song,
Music that melts amiss, or Riot's tongue
Hell-bred, and foreign to the purged mind
In hymn angelic wont its joy to find,

And own it bliss, when the celestial sound,
From Cherubim in chorus echoed 'round,
The rapt heart draws towards the central throne,
Where sits, all light, the Holy One alone.
I come, once Milton (such on earth my name),
And bid you sons of Albion, of my fame
Studious, your hands of impious rapine stay,
Nor bare those relics to the garish day
Which once enclos'd the seraph soul of fire,
Whose unquench'd vigour struggling to aspire
From earth to Heav'n, and thro' the dread profound,
Spread with such conquering majesty of sound,
That ye might own (as fabling poets sing)
'Twas Jove's own eagle bore it on its wing.
Was mine the scrannel pipe of loose desire,
Was it the gusty wind which brush'd my lyre,
Call'd out the nerveless and uncultur'd chime,
And all the babblings of the chance-got rhyme?

Blush, Britons, blush, admonish'd, 'tis my praise
That "star-ypointed pyramid” to raise,

O'er wrought with characters of moral lore,
Which when the ages now unborn explore,
Your late posterity shall proudly own,
That on your manly worth I build my throne,
And other tribute scorn'd, exult in this alone.
Let then my ashes rest in awful night,
As his, on Avon's sedgy side, whose sprite
There oft descends, and, with benignant mind,
Joys in the growing rev'rence of mankind:
Who when he lately saw your Warton there,
And heard his doric lute, and mark'd his votive tear-
He secret touch'd the Bard's melodious string,
And, o'er him hovering with unnotic'd wing,
Govern'd the numbers of his pensive lyre,
All his own softness shed, and half his fire.
But now I leave your darkness, miscall'd day,
Enraptur'd Spencer beckoning me away

To hail our Warton,* at the bow'r arriv'd,
Which for his own our blended skill contriv'd,

}

* This exquisite poet and critic was just dead before I prepared this. feeble performance, and a preceding one (in which his name is introduced) for public recitation at the school of a friend, than whom no one sets a higher value on Mr. Warton's writings: but had not this good friend over-valued mine, he would not so often have stinted me in my time when he called for my poetical daisies and primroses to be interwoven with the Parnassian wreath which he annually exhibits. If these, &c. are, for the like reason, not worthy of publication, be it candidly recollected, that a few printed copies of them, which is the case at

P

He marvels at the work of heav'nly mind,
And feels his fancy by the scene refin'd,

Blessing the day, that day which comes no more,
When he before you spread our nectard store,
Adjur'd you Folly's light repast to flee,

And feast your British sense on Spencer and on me.

present, is not a publication. My friends, for whom they are printed, will regard the distinction, and, if I make not a slovenly appearance before them, will not account for disrespect this uncultivated plainness of attire. My probable duties of the coming time command me now and for ever deponere barbiton. I seem justified to myself in printing these poems for a small circle, and accompanying them with the copy of a fine drawing which precedes the title page, because the poems and the accompaniment were requested by the larger part of them who are to possess them; and as I must best know my own mind, I judged and felt that this my acquiescence in the wish of friendly partiality, would be the likeliest method of encouraging me in my resolution of bidding farewel to the muses as a practitioner. Having written four tragedies, versified Isaiah, &c. I may be supposed too poetical in my habits not to need such contrivances (to change the line) as were suited to me. Had I kept these poems, now printed, in manuscript, I might have been often tempted to revise them-that might have led to other compositions; I thought them (and will perhaps, too frankly, own) too good to be burnt; and I well knew that I never was, or probably ever should be, disposed to write any thing, gravely or smilingly, not as consistent with religion and virtue, as the most solemn sermon which I ever penned. The slight poem to which this note is appended, naturally suggested the chief matter of it, and I rather approved this by-corner of the book for its reception, than the usual antichamber, where the writer makes his bow to the public under the disadvantage of a new acquaintance; and the business of egotism, however necessary, is done with no small dis. advantage to his own feelings.