With not one offering vow'd to Virtue's shrine
With not one pure unprostituted line;
Alike debauched in body, soul, and lays ;-
For pension'd censure, and for pension'd praise,
For ribaldry, for libels, lewdness, lies,
For blasphemy of all the good and wise;
Coarse virulence in coarser doggerel writ,
Which bawling blackguards speil'd, and took for wit
For conscience, honour, slighted, spurn'd, o'erthrown
Lo, Bufo shines the minion of renown!
Is this the land that boasts a Milton's fire,
And magic Spenser's wildly-warbling lyre?
The land that owns the omnipotence of song,
When Shakspeare whirls the throbbing heart along
The land where Pope, with energy divine,
In one strong blaze bade wit and fancy shine;
Whose verse, by Truth in Virtue's triumph borne,
Gave knaves to infamy, and fools to scorn;
Yet pure in manners, and in thought refined,
Whose life and lays adorn'd and bless'd mankind?
Is this the land where Gray's unlabour'd art
Soothes, melts, alarms, and ravishes the heart;
While the lone wanderer's sweet complainings flow
In simple majesty of manly woe;
Or while, sublime, on eagle-pinion driven,
He soars Pindaric heights, and sails the waste of heave
Is this the land, o'er Shenstone's recent urn
Where all the Loves and gentler Graces mourn?
And where, to crown the hoary bard of night,*
The Muses and the Virtues all unite?
Is this the land where Akenside displays
The bold yet temperate flame of ancient days?
Like the rapt sage,† in genius as in theme,
Whose hallow'd strain renown'd Ilissus' stream;
Or him, th' indignant bard, whose patriot ire,
Gulp'd down the tasteless throat, the mess abhorr'd
Shot fiery influence round the maddening board.
Oh, had thy verse been impotent as dull,
Nor spoke thy rancorous heart, but lumpish skull;
Had mobs distinguish'd, they who howl'd thy fame,
The icicle from the pure diamond's flame,
From fancy's soul thy gross imbruted sense,
From dauntless truth thy shameless insolence,
From elegance confusion's monstrous mass,
And from the lion's spoils the skulking ass,
From rapture's strain the drawling doggerel line,
From warbling seraphim the grunting swine;-
With gluttons, dunces, rakes, thy name had slept,
Nor o'er her sullied fame Britannia wept ;
Nor had the Muse, with honest zeal possess'd,
Tavenge her country by thy name disgraced,
Raised this bold strain for virtue, truth, mankind,
And thy fell shade to infamy resign'd.
When Frailty leads astray the soul sincere,
Let Mercy shed the soft and manly tear.
When to the grave descends the sensual sot,
Unnamed, unnoticed, let his carrion rot.
When paltry rogues, by stealth, deceit, or force,
Hazard their necks, ambitious of your purse;
For such the hangman wreathes his trusty gin,
And let the gallows expiate their sin.
But when a ruffian, whose portentous crimes
Like plagues and earthquakes terrify the times,
Triumphs through life, from legal judgment free,
For hell may hatch what law could ne'er foresee;
Sacred from vengeance shall his memory rest?—
Judas though dead, though damn'd, we still detest.
IN IMITATION OF SHAKESPEARE'S "BLOW,
BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND."
BLOW, blow, thou vernal gale!
Thy balm will not avail
To ease my aching breast;
Though thou the billows smooth,
Thy murmurs cannot soothe
My weary soul to rest.
Flow, flow, thou tuneful stream!
Infuse the easy dream
Into the peaceful soul;
But thou canst not compose
The tumult of my woes,
Though soft thy waters roll.
Blush, blush, ye fairest flowers!
Beauties surpassing yours
My Rosalind adorn;
Nor is the winter's blast,
That lays your glories waste,
So killing as her scorn.
Breathe, breathe, ye tender lays,
That linger down the maze
Of yonder winding grove;
Oh, let your soft control
Bend her relenting soul
To pity and to love.
Fade, fade, ye flow'rets fair!
Gales, fan no more the air!
Ye streams, forget to glide!
Be hush'd, each vernal strain;
Since naught can soothe my pain,
Nor mitigate her pride.
ON TWO YOUNG MEN OF THE NAME OF LEITCH, WHO
WERE DROWNED IN CROSSING THE
RIVER SOUTHESK, 1757.
O THOU! whose steps in sacred reverence tread
These lone dominions of the silent dead;
On this sad stone a pious look bestow,
Nor uninstructed read this tale of woe;
And while the sigh of sorrow heaves thy breast,
Let each rebellious murmur be supprest;
Heaven's hidden ways to trace, for us, how vain!
Heaven's wise degrees, how impious, to arraign!
Pure from the stains of a polluted age,
In early bloom of life, they left the stage:
Not doom'd in lingering woe to waste their breath, One moment snatch'd them from the power of Death : They lived united, and united died;
Happy the friends whom Death cannot divide
ESCAPED the gloom of mortal life, a soul
Here leaves its mould'ring tenement of clay, Safe, where no cares their whelming billows roll, No doubts bewilder, and no hopes betray.
Like thee, I once have stemm'd the sea of life;
Like thee, have languish'd after empty joys;
Like thee, have labour'd in the stormy strife;
Been grieved for trifles, and amused with toys.
Yet, for a while, 'gainst passion's threatful blast
Let steady reason urge the struggling oar;
Shot through the dreary gloom, the morn at last
Gives to thy longing eye the blissful shore.
Forget my frailties, thou art also frail;
Forgive my lapses, for thyself mayst fall; Nor read, unmoved, my artless tender tale, I was a friend, O man! to thee, to all.
VERSES WRITTEN BY MR BLACKLOCK
ON A BLANK LEAF OF HIS POEMS, SENT TO THE AUTHOR.
"Si quis tamen hæc quoque, si quis
"O THOU! whose bosom inspiration fires!
For whom the Muses string their favourite lyres!
Though with superior genius blest, yet deign
A kind reception to my humbler strain.
"When florid youth impell'd, and fortune smiled,
The vocal art my languid hours beguiled.
Severer studies now my life engage,
Researches dull, that quench poetic rage.
"From morn to evening destined to explore
The verbal critic, and the scholiast's lore,
Alas! what beam of heavenly ardour shines
In musty lexicons and school-divines !
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