« AnteriorContinuar »
From antient models these exalted few
Their fairest forms and bright ideas drew;
We know the fountain whence the waters came,
Nor wonder at the clearness of the stream.
Yet still fair Greece, we see thy garlands torn,
We see thee still thy widow'd altars mourn ;
On us thy heroes still superior frown,
Or look with awful indignation down;
The tears of Rome for injur'd learning flow,
And Athens grieves that Britain is her foe.
Will you not rise then, O! ye sons of fame,
To vindicate the Greek and Roman name?
On friends oppress'd your gen'rous aid bestow,
the debt of gratitude you owe?
Or can you still their wrongs unpitying see,
* Nor social join with Warton and with Me?
Whilst round his brows the Mantuan ivy twine,
Cautions to tread in Attic paths be mine;
To fame unknown, but emulous to please,
Trembling I seek th' immortal Sophocles.
Genius of Greece do thou
With some warm portion of thy poet's fire,
From hands profane defend his much lov'd name;
+ From cruel Tibbald wrest his mangled fame;
Give him once more to bid the heart o'erflow
In graceful tears, and sympathizing woe;
A father's death with soft Electra mourn,
Or shed her sorrows o'er a brother's urn;
Or fair Antigone her griefs relate;
Or poor Tecmessa weep her hapless state;
Or Edipus revolve the dark decrees of fate.
* Mr. Warton has lately published a new translation of the Eclogues and Georgics of Virgil, and joined it to Mr. Pitt's excelBent translation of the Eneid.
† Tibbald (or Theobald) translated two or three plays of Sophocles, and to aten'd the public with more.
Cou'd I like him the various passions move,
Granville wou'd smile, and Chesterfield approve;
Each letter'd son of science wou'd commend,
Each gentle muse wou'd mark me for her friend;
Isis well-pleas'd wou'd join a sister's praise,
And Cam applauding consecrate the lays.
How sadly from the wither'd spray
The falling leaves bestrew the vale;
Whilst Nature, as she dies away,
Is heard to groan in every gale!
Winter, hark! that
Proclaims thy tyrant footsteps near,
Yet I with joy can see thee scowl,
And meet thy brow austere.
If mov'd in one unvaried round,
How soon, alas! this life would cloy!
In every age some charms are found,
And every season has its joy.
Let Summer boast her choice delights,
The cooling shade, the flowery plain;
But friendship, love, and social nights,
Are Winter in thy train,
TO THE MINIATURE PICTURE *.
BY THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN.
CHILL'D by rude gales, while yet reluctant May
Withholds the beauties of the vernal day,
As some fond maid, whom matron frowns reprove,
Suspends the smile her heart devotes to love,
The Season's pleasures too delay their hour,
And Winter revels with protracted power;
Then blame not, Critics, if thus late we bring
A Winter's Drama, but reproach the Spring.
What prudent Cit dares yet the season trust,
Bask in his whiskey, and enjoy the dust?
Hors’d in Cheapside, scarce yet the gayer Spark
Achieves the Sụnday triumph of the Park ;
Scarce yet you see him, dreading to be late,
Scour the New Road, and dash thro'Grosvenor-gate;
Anxious—yet timorous too-his steed to shew,
The hack Bucephalus of Rotten-row!
Careless he seems, yet vigilantly sly,
Wooes the stray glance of ladies passing by,
While his off heel, insidiously aside,
Provokes the caper which he seems to chide.
Scarce rural Kensington due honour gains,
The vulgar verdure of her walks remains !
Where white-rob’d Misses amble two by two,
Nodding to booted Beaux-“How' do, how do in
With gen'rous questions that no answer wait-
“ How vastly full! A’n't you come vastly late ?
“ I'n't it quite charming? When do you leave town?
“ A’n't you quite tir’d? Pray can we set you down?"
These suburb pleasures of a London May,
Imperfect yet, we hail the cold delay.-
Should our Play please--and you're indulgent ever-
Kindly decree—« 'Tis better late than never.”
OF A LATIN POEM OF POLITIAN TO LORENZO DE
While burning with poetic fire,
To you I tune th' applausive lyre;
The jeering rabble slyly note
(And well they may) my threadbare coat,
My shoes, that, gall’d by constant wearing,
Threaten to give my toes an airing.
The rogues but ill conceal their smirking,
When they remark my ragged jerkin ;
They cry, I'm but a scurvy poet,
And swear my shabby tatters show it:
While you, LORENZO, so bepraise me.
Your flatt'ry's sure, enough to craze me,
But prove your eulogies sincere;
Have mercy on my character,
And (no great boon your bard beseeches)
Send me at least, a pair of breeches.
Sullen and slow from * Cawood's lessening spires,
Unheeded now, the mournful train retires.
Ah where's the thronging crowd, the long array?
Could one keen blast sweep all so soon away?
Power makes no friends that humble need can claim,
The wretch who meanly sought, will spurn the name.
The slaves whom fortune with a nod hath sway'd
Distress in vain shall beckon to her aid.
Ah wretched Wolsey! these no more remain,
But fancy still perceives another train:
Remorse, and shame, the tyrants of the mind,
And hated malice, thronging press behind.
And see where hooting envy claps her hands ;
High on the distant castle's height she stands,
And gladly beck’ning round her muffled train,
Points to the conquest, which they help'd to gain.
O thou, reflected in whose starting tears,
The image of a melting heart appears,
From whence the dews of silent sorrow flow,
Whose locks so oft have dry'd the cheeks of woe,
Cawood in Yorkshire, to which sey had retired, and where he was arrested, in order to be carried to London,