TO MR. CAMBRIDGE;

In Imitation of SHAKESPEARE.

WE do commend your " Barbary *:"—the words Domestic to thee serve thy will-as 't please Thyself, pronounce their office. Oh, the pearl That I in thee possess !-A jewel 'tis

Of such a lustre as if twenty seas

Had all their sands of pearl, and rocks of gold:
Rain blessings on thee! for the kindest man
The best conditioned, most unweary'd spirit
In doing courtesies!-a friend to keep
Under one's own life's-key!—no comrade thou
New-hatch'd-unfledg'd-but thy adoption tried,
And I will grapple thee with hoops of steel
Ev'n to my soul. In prodigality

Of Nature thou art form'd; and the wide world
Hath not thy fellow :-thou art learn'd, a Poet,
A most rare speaker, and thy training such
That thou may'st furnish others; never seek
For aid but in thyself!-The mind's best graces
Are in that inventory. Never yet

(But in their warp for me) have thy affections
More sway'd than reason, or thy Satire's play
Made any fear thee. But Report's false

eyes Are stuck upon thee; and his volumes run With idle scent and with disordered gust Upon thy treadings:-thousand scapes of wit Are father'd upon thee, &c. &c.

* Some wit upon that word.

I used very often to ask Mr. CAMBRIDGE the News of the Town, when I came directly from thence, and passed his Twickenham door in the way to my Villa. This habit arose from a very just impression, that he knew more of such topicks than I did, having more avidity for them, and living so near the Gossip's Fairyland, which is Richmond. We often bantered one another upon this habit; and I made four Latin verses upon it, attempting (however imperfectly) to make them resemble the Epigrams of Martial, and acquainting him that I had found them in that celebrated Poet, with a reference to the book and the number. He was deceived, and said at first that he remembered them; but afterwards detected and forgave the deceit. I had sent the following as an English version of the Latin by me. There again I was fortunate, as he commended me for being so much like the Original.

IMITATION OF MARTIAL." Deciano salutem."

VIX Roma egressus villæ novus advena, ruris
Vicini Dominum, te "quid in urbe ?" rogo.
Tu, novitatis amans, Romá, si Tibura mutes,
Per nos, " de villâ quæ nova," disce, “tuâ.”

To Mr. CAMBridge.

WHEN the mare to your villa has just brought me down, I interrogate you, 'What's the news of the town?' To my chambers* if you for variety go,

Learn of me 'how your peas and your cucumbers grow!'

THE VALE OF YEARS.

To Mr. CAMBRIDGE, who dated "Vale of Years."

THE "Vale of Years"-no date for you:
Which is the eldest of the two?

Repuls'd and baffled in my scent,
Ev'n I can play with my descent:

* I had then chambers at Lincoln's Inn.

But you, with spirit, grace, and skill,
Can fly across and round the Hill;
No precipice with toil assail,

But ever distant from THE Vale.
Your intellect as bright and clear
As Murray's in his eightieth✶ year;
You are the Titian† of the mind,
Whose colours never have declin'd;
In Saint Evremond‡ appears,

you

Whom sense adorns, and wit endears;
A Fontenelle in grace of youth,
Poetic taste, and moral truth;
As ready and as debonnaire,

Though a good Christian, as Voltaire;
But, older still than all of these,
You interest, reform, and please
A Bard, a Moralist, and Sage,
As old-as the Augustan age.

ON A GIFT OF SHEEP TO MR. CAMBRIDGE,
My little flock, your Shepherd hail !
Feed in his consecrated vale!
Admetus's fam'd sheep you follow,

And are to pass before Apollo.

* Mr. Cambridge was then full 80 years of age (Lord Mansfield at the same age), and three or four years after, it was unimpaired.

Here there is a double coincidence. The colours of Titian are still fresh, and seem as if Time could never touch them. Some of his best pictures were painted after he was 90 years of age. * He died at 96.

§ This prodigy of talents and virtue reached a full century, and was never more brilliant than a few moments before his death." Voila," said he, "la premiere mort que je vois;" and, when asked if he suffered, he answered, "Je ne sens qu'une difficulté d'étre."

ON RICHARD OWEN CAMBRIDGE, ESQ.

BLUSH, ribald Wit, and Folly's wasted life,
In guilty revels, or envenom'd strife!

Ye Hypocrites, and Pedants, disappear!
Ye vain and selfish beasts-oh, come not here!
The mind that once inform'd this hallow'd clay,
With Attic wreaths of social wit could play :
But moral Wisdom gave the Satire birth -
'Twas Plato's fancy, and Socratic mirth.
Still by the decent Graces * un-reprov'd,
It was their smile that all the Muses lov'd:
It was their spirit that was Friendship's right,
The judgment's prompter, and the heart's delight.

TO A CELEBRATED WIT,

WHO HAD CHALKSTONES IN HIS FEET.

You love a simile;-why then have at you: You are in Scripture the Assyrian Statue;

Of

you, with equal truth, it may be said, The feet are clay, but golden is the head.

TO RICHARD CUMBERLAND †, ESQ.
Colonel of a Legion at Tunbridge Wells.

"WAKE from its rest the comic lyre!
Put breath into its dormant fire!
Call into life Menander's vein!

And Britain's Terence crown again!

* Horace.

+ This is a copy, with some variations, of a Poem printed in the "Illustrations of Literary History," vol. III. p. 831.

"Resign the amorous myrtle's hue!
No more the rose of youth renew!
Though evergreen thy age appears,
And smiles avert the destin'd years!

Thee, ever sure of public fame,
Her gales invite, her transports claim;
The Muses to their Lover blest
Allow no interval of rest."

When Britain's Genius thus complain'd,
Mars th' ill-tim'd appeal disdain'd:
The nodding crest his plume arrays,
A sword the Veteran's thigh displays.

With sanguine flame the vesture glows,
The arts of Peace their lustre close:
Thalia's playful notes are dumb,
Scar'd at the fulminating drum.

Thy Patriot Bands their Leader boast,
And thou art lov'd of all the host;
The Hero in thy form appears,
Unfetter'd by the chain of years.

'Tis past;-the Victor's wreath is ours:
With Peace return the laughing hours;
And Cumberland's dramatic page,
The mirrour of a living Stage.

With Satire-from the Muse a theft
(Whose rifled stores have nothing left)
His fertile wit's enchanting strain
Has built an Athens here again.