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In blotted stanzas scraps of odes expire,
And fustian mounts in pyramids of fire.

Ladies ! to you I next inscrib'd my lay,
And writ a letter in familiar way :
For, still impatient till the Princess came,
You from description wifh'd to know the dame,
Each day my pleasing labour larger grew,
For still new graces open’d to my view.
Twelve lines ran on to introduce the theme;
And then I thus pursued the growing scheme:

“ Beauty and wit were sure by nature join’d, 66 And charms are einanations of the mind; «* The foul, tranfpiercing through the fining frame, “ Forms all the graces of the Princely Dame: “ Benevolence her conversation guides, 6. Smiles on her cheek, and in her eye resides. 6. Such harmony upon her tongue is found, 6. As softens English to Italian sound: 6. Yet in those sounds such sentiments appear, .6As charm the judgement, while they footh the ear.

“ Religion's chearsul flame her bosom warms, • Calms all her hours, and brightens all her charms. .“ Henceforth, ye Fair, at chapel mind your prayers, 6 Nor catch your lover's eyes with artful airs ; “ Restrain your looks, kneel more, and whisper less, “ Nor most devoutly criticize on dress.

“ From her form all your characters of life, “ The tender mother, and the faithful wife. « Ofľ have I seen her little infant-train, .66 The lovely promise of a future reign; VOL, I.

« Obsery'd


“ Observ'd with pleasure every dawning grace,
And all the mother opening in their face.
" The fon shall add new honours to the line,
“ And early with paternal virtues shine ;
“ When he the tale of Audenard repeats,
“ His little heart with emulation beats;
“ With conquests yet to come his bosom glows,
“ He dreams of triumphs, and of vanquilh'd foes;
" Each year with arts shall store his ripening brain,
“ And from his grandfire he shall learn to reign.”

Thus far I'd gone : l'ropitious riting gales
Now bid the failor hoist the swelling fails.
Fair Carolina lands; the cannons roar;
White Albion's cliffs resound from shore to fhore.
Behold the bright original appear,
All faint when Carolina 's near.
Thus to the nation's joy, but poct's cost,
The Princess came, and my new plan was lost.

Since all my schemes were baulk'd.(my last resort),
I left the Muses, to frequent the Court;
Pensive each night from room to room I walk d,
To one I bow'd, and with another talk'd;
Enquir'd what news, or such a Lady's name,
And did the next day, and the next, the same.
Places, I found, were daily given away,
And yet no friendly Gazette mention'd Gay.
I ask'd a friend what method to pursue ;
He cry'd, I want a place as well as you.
Another ask'd me, why I had not writ;
poet owes his fortune to his wit.


Straight I reply'd, With what a courtly grace
Flows easy verse from him that has a place !
Had Virgil ne'er at court improv’d his srains,
He still had sung of flocks and homely swains ;
And, had not Horace sweet preferment found,
The Roman lyre had never learnt to sound.

Once Ladies fair in homely guise I sung,
And with their names wild woods and mountains rung.
O teach me now to strike a sofrer strain !
The Court refines the language of the plain.

You must, cries one, the Ministry rebearse,
And with each Patriot's name prolong your verse:
But sure this truth to Poets should be known,
That praising all alike, is praising none.

Another, if I wilh'd success,
To some distinguish'd Lord I must address;
One whose high virtues speak his noble blood,
One always zealous for his country's good ;
Where valour and strong eloquence unite,
In council cautious, resoiute in fight;
Whose generous temper prompts him to defend,
And patronize the man that wants a friend.
You have, 'tis true, the noble patron

shown; But I, alas ! am to Argyll unknown.

Still every one I met in this agreed,
That writing was my method to succeed;
But now preferments so poffess’d my brain,
That scarce I could produce a single strain :
Indeed I sometimes hamıner'd out a line,
Without connection, as without design.

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One morn upon the Princess this I writ,
An Epigram that boasts more truth than wit.

The pomp of titles easy faith might shake,
“ She scorn'd an empire for religion's fake :
" For this on earth the British crown was given,
“ And an immortal crown decreed in heaven.”
Again, while George's virtues rais'd my thought,
The following lines prophetic fancy wrought.

• Methinks I fee fome Bard, whose heavenly rage “ Shall rise in song, and warm a future age ; “ Look back through time, and, wrapt in wonder, trace “ The glorious series of the Brunswick race.

“ From the first George these godlike kings descend, “ A line which only with the world shall end. * The next a generous Prince renown'd in arms, “ And bless’d, long bless’d, in Carolina's charms; « From these the rest. 'Tis thus, secure in peace, “ We plow the fields, and reap the year's increase: « Now Commerce, wealthy Goddess, rears her head, “ And bids. Britannia's fleets their canvass spread; “ Unnumber'd ships the peopled ocean hide, “ And wealth returns with each revolving tide."

Here paus'd the sullen Muse; in haste I dress’d,
And through the croud of needy courtiers press’d;
Though unsuccessful, happy whilst I see
Those eyes, that glad a nation, shine on me.


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WHILE you, my Lord, bid ftately piles afcend,

Or in your Chiswick bowers enjoy your friend ;
Where Pope unloads the boughs within his reach,
The purple vine, blue pluinb, and blushing peach ;
I journey far. You knew fat Bards might tire,
And, mounted, fent me forth your trusty Squire.

"I was on the day when city-dames repair
To take their weekly dose of Hyde-park air;
When forth we trot : no carts the road infeft,
For still on Sundays country horses rest.
Thy gardens, Kensington, we leave unseen ;
Through Hammersmith jog on to Turnham-green :
That Turnham-green, which dainty pigeons fed,
But feeds no more : for * Solomon is dead.
Three dusty miles reach Brentford's tedious town,
For dirty streets and white-legg'd chickens known :

* A man once fainous for feeding pigeons.


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