For sweet instructions her sweet sex bestows,
The graces teaching man but rudely knows.
Nor yet in home-stead will he meanly bind
Th' excursive vigour of his noble mind,
But wider spread his virtues, and extend
A portion of his heart to many a friend,
Bid his great heart with patriot ardours glow,
Death-daring proofs of fortitude bestow,
And all the family of human race
With one wide grasp of charity embrace:
The crown of Honour 'round his brow shall 'twine,
And God's true image in his actions shine;
A candid pupil Truth shall find his soul,
And Faith each erring impulse shall control,
All her scorn'd influence, influence dear, impart,
Teach, for she only can, the first desert,
And own in impious times her best defence his heart.
Should such a man exist, Clarissa, say-
Would'st thou not here the soul-felt rev'rence pay,
His worth deep-grave in thy applausive breast,
And deem him perfect by the purest test?
Say then, Clarissa—but thy blissful eye,
Thy heaving breast, and Rapture's genuine sigh,
'Thy hands clasp'd ardent, and uprais'd to Heaven-
Speak all this worth to thee in Sylvio given.
Yes, by the fountain of that bounteous grace
Which marks us favour'd most of human race,
By the dread searching eye of Truth divine,
Such is thy Sylvio's worth, and I will call him mine :
Mine I will call him, mine by Friendship's flame,
By friendship, theme select of hoary fame,
Nurs'd by the Muses in immortal lays
From Time's first dawn to these degenʼrate days.
Twelve years of Heav'n fore-tasted have I known,
Since first thy Sylvio deign'd my friendship own :
White years of sacred joy, too swiftly past;
Oh! the blest time when such shall ever last,
Death be no more, and Friendship bloom again,
Where Love eternal holds his blissful reign!
This poem was written in 1779.
Written impromptu in a blank leaf of my Sermons, when I took the liberty of presenting them to that gentleman.
YOUR works beheld, O West, the judging few
Pay you the praise to rarest merit due,
But this best shines where Genius and where Skill
Best Art's consummate circle form, and fill.
Tho' Nature strongly pointed you your aim,
Bade you the pencil snatch, and fed the flame
Whose light those images of Fancy shews,
Which only Genius on a few bestows-
The proud enthusiasm of your throbbing breast,
So much the love of purest Fame compress'd,
That when you started first for Glory's goal,
You check'd the madd'ning sallies of the soul,
And, the first meed presented to your eyes,
Bade Judgment point the course, and won the prize.
Hence are your works a legacy to Time,
Correct by learning, and by thought sublime,
Where, Taste arranging, all the graces shine
That blossom forth from Nature's warmth divine.
The grave Historian, and the moral Muse,
Your pencil proudly for their comment choose,
And, in your colours when their subjects glow,
Bless the bright aid which Arts on Arts bestow,
Whilst Time receives from Glory her command,
To guard your pictur'd store with fostʼring hand.
BLESS me, 'tis strange that Swift should say, Disporting in his easy way,
"We shall not find our fortune sink,
"By what men speak, or what men think."
Tush for their thoughts-they may not hurt-
But dirty words will dash some dirt.
When Susan twirls her mop, I fear
To pass the tuck'd-up hussy near.
Sure, Swift, you must yourself have found
That this opinion is not sound;
Or when you made the rash remark,
Did
you forget the bigot Sharpe,*
Whose pious whisper to the Queen
A little marr'd the rising dean?
For when, from persons prone to prate,
Soft steals the lie of envious hate-
The tale flies far; from hand to hand
The ball is bounded o'er the land,
In town, in country special sport,
And thence comes popping into court,
Swift's epithet for the good Archbishop.
As when old Sharpe, with sinewy fist,
Smote it at Anna's ear, nor miss'd.
Might I presume to speak my thought,
Scandal's a spark which, somewhere caught,
May blow up such a burst of woe
As few would wish their bitterest foe.
Nor let us lightly blame the deed,
"Tho' thence the finger may not bleed,"*
Since friend from friend the lie may part,
And give the blow that breaks the heart.
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