On watery colums capitals to rear,
That mix their flowing curls with upper air?
Or doft thou, weary grown, thefe works neglect,
No temples, ftatues, obelisks, erect;
But meet the morning breeze from fragrant meads,
Or fhun the noon-tide ray in wholesome shades,
Or flowly walk along the mazy wood,
To meditate on all that's wife and good;
For Nature, bountiful, in thee has join'd
A perfon pleafing with a worthy mind;
Not given the form alone, but means and art,
To draw the eye, or to allure the heart.
Poor were the praise in fortune to excel,
Yet want the means to use that fortune well.
While thus adorn'd, while thus with virtue crown'd,
At home in peace, abroad in arms renown'd;
Graceful in form, and winning in address,
While well you think what aptly you exprefs;
With health, with honour, with a fair eftate,
A table free, and elegantly neat;
What can be added more to mortal blifs?
What can he want who ftands poffeft of this?
What can the fondeft wishing mother more
Of Heav'n attentive for her fon implore?
And yet a happinefs remains unknown,
Or to philofophy reveal'd alone,
A precept which, unpractis'd, renders vain
Thy flowing hopes, and pleasure turns to pain.
Should hope, or fear, thy heart alternate tear,
Or love, or hate, or rage, or anxious care,
Whatever paffions may thy mind infest,
(Where is that mind that paffions ne'er moleft?)
Amidst the pangs of fuch inteftine ftrife,
Still think the prefent day the laft of life;
Defer not 'till to-morrow to be wife,
To-morrow's fun to thee may never rife;
Or fhould to-morrow chance to chear the fight
With her enliv'ning and unlook'd for light,
How grateful will appear her dawning rays!
As favours unexpected doubly please.
Who thus can think, and who fuch thoughts purfues,
Content may keep his life, or calmly lofe:
All proof of this thou may'st thyfelf receive,
When leifure from affairs will give thee leave;
Come, fee thy friend retir'd without regret,
Forgetting care, or trying to forget;
In eafy contemplation foothing time
With morals much, and now and then with rhime :
Not fo robuft in body as in mind,
And always undejected, though declin'd;
Not wond'ring at the world's new wicked ways,
Compar'd with those of our forefathers days;
For virtue now is neither more or lefs,
And vice is only varied in the dress.
Believe it, men have ever been the fame,
And all the golden age is but a dream.
PROLOGUE to the ROMAN FATHER, acted at the Theatre at Bristol, on Friday, July 14, 1769.
For the FAMILY of the late Mr. POWELL.
Written by Mr. COLMAN. Spoken by Mr. HOLLAND.
WHEN fancied forrows wake the play'rs' art,
A short-liv'd anguish feizes on the heart :
Tears, real tears he fheds, feels real pain,
But the dream vanish'd, he's himself again.
No fuch relief, alas! his bofom knows,
When the fad tear from home-felt forrow flows:
Paffions cling round the foul, do all we can-
He plays no part, and can't shake off the man.
Where'er I tread, where'er I turn my eyes,
Of my loft friend new images arise.
Can I forget that from our earliest age,
His talents known, I led him to the stage?
Can I forget, this circle in my view,
His firft great pride-to be approv'd by you?
His foul, with ev'ry tender feeling bleft,
The holy flame of gratitude poffeft.
Soft as the ftream yon facred fprings impart,
The milk of human kindness warm'd his heart.
Peace, peace be with him!-May the prefent ftage
Contend, like him, your favour to engage!
May we, like him, deferve your kindness shown,
Like him, with gratitude that kindness own!
So fhall our art pursue the nobleft plan,
And each good actor prove an honest man.
By Dr. CLANCY, of Durrow, in Ireland.
Cui flavant religas comam.
m. HORAT.
The meanest Mopfey has ten thousand charms.
On her black head if fable horrors ftare;
Or deadly palenefs damps her languid hair;
Shrewd fimilies from jet and pearl are fought,
In all the wild extravagance of thought.
Not fo when fair Rubrilla's radiance bright
Shines to the eye, and cheers the ravish'd fight.
Her lovely hue a genial heat infpires,
And kindles love by ftrong refulgent fires.
Ting'd with ætherial light her treffes flow;
With lively bloom and fprightly vigour glow.
High on her lofty front has nature spread
A pleafing garland of delightful red:
Illuftrious red! magnificently bright,
By Newton found the firongeft beam of light;
Prime of all colours!—on the monarch's throne
In robes majestic is it's luftre fhown.
Red are thofe blushes which ferenely grace
The modeft beauties of the virgin's face;
Intrinfic particles of red compofe
The fanguine clove, and aromatic rofe:
The ruby lip invites to balmy love,
And fportive Nereïds haunt the coral grove.
Couch'd in red locks delighted Cupids lie:
Thence their keen darts and pointed arrows fly,
Such was the golden fleece which Jason bore
In joyful triumph from the Colchian fhore.
Britain's red flag commands the fubject main;
In ev'ry heart Kubrilla's ftreamers reign.
Through feas of blood undaunted heroes fly,
And steep their laurels in that glorious die.
Young Ammon redden'd at the Granic flood,
And bath'd in red victorious Granby stood.
A fiery beard foreboding comets trail,
And fine court ladies drag a fiery tail :
Tranflated to the ftarry realms on high,
Rubrilla's hair fhall future Flamsteads spy:
There fhall the ram, and staring bull, admire
To fee that blaze which set the world on fire.
HILE the bottle to humour, and focial delight,
The smallest affiftance can lend;
While it happily keeps up the laugh of the night,
Or enlivens the mind of a friend;
O let me enjoy it, ye bountiful powers,
That time may deliciously pafs,
And fhould Care ever think to intrude on my hours,
Scare the haggard away with the glass.
But, instead of a rational feast of the sense,
Should Difcord prefide o'er the bowl,
And folly, debate, or contention commence,
From too great an expansion of foul:
Should the man I efteem, or the friend of my breast,
In the ivy feel nought but the rod :
Should I make fweet religion a profligate jeft,
And daringly fport with my God.
From my lips dafh the poifon, O merciful fate,
Where the madnefs of blafphemy hung,
And let every accent, which virtue fhould hate,
Parch quick on my infamous tongue.
From my fight let the curfe be eternally driven,
Where my reafon fo fatally stray'd,
That no more I may offer an infult to heaven,
Or give man a cause to upbraid.
The TEA-SPOON, Occafioned by Dr. HILL's prefcribing a TeaSpoonful of every Medicine to every Patient indifcriminately.
HAPPY Tea-fpoon,, which can hit
Dr. Hill's unequall'd wit.
Patients young, and patients old,
Patients hot, and patients cold,
Patients tender, patients tough,
A Tea-fpoon full is juft enough.
If with tea you fhake your frame,
Or with drams your head inflame,
Or with beef your paunch o'er-ftuff,
A Tea-fpoon full is just enough.
If in court, with brief ir. hand,
Or at bar, you trembling ftand,
Take the dofe, fear no rebuff,
A Tea-fpoon full is just enough.
What is ftranger still than all,
Be the Tea-fpoon large or fmall,
Be it batter'd, broken, rough,
Still a Tea-fpoon's just enough.
Order Drops, ye Medic Dunces,
Order Scruples, Drams, and Ounces,
Hill afferts, and ftands it bluff,
That a Tea-fpoon's just enough.
Happy Tea-fpoon, thus to hit
Dr. Hill's unequall'd wit!
A Quibbling EPITAPH, on W. LOWNDES, Efq. Secretary to the Trea fury in the Reign of Queen Anne.
ways or means, against the tyrant Death Could raife supplies to aid thy fund of breath,
O Lowndes! it is enacted, foon or late,
Each branch of nature muft fubmit to fate;
Each member of that houfe where thou didft stand
Intent on credit, with thy bill in hand,
Shall equally this impofition bear,
And in his turn be found deficient here:
But truft in heav'n, where furpluffes of joy,
And endless produce, will all cares destroy :
And may'st thou there, when thy accounts are past,
Gain a quietus which shall ever laft!
Tranflation of an Ancient ROMAN INSCRIPTION.
THOU, to whofe eye thefe domes of death fucceed,
Here ftay thy steps, and my infcription read:
Grav'd on the ftone a parent's love complains,
Beneath it lie a daughter's cold remains.
Renown'd for graceful arts in early prime,
I tower'd to glory on the wings of time,
When ah! my fad, my fatal hour drew near,
Deny'd me life, and stopp'd my bold career.
Who, form'd and polifh'd by the Mufe's hand,
Late in the chorus charm'd the listening band;
Who first at Rome in Grecian fcenes could please,
Lo! Fate her ashes to this tomb decrees,
My patron's care, delight, love, praife, and pride,
(The body burnt) in filence now fubfide:
To my fond parent fighs and tears I leave,
And, youngest, firft the ftroke of death receive.
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