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"Then in their feasts thy name shall Grecians join, Shall pour the sparkling juice to Jove's and thine: Thine, us'd in war, shall raise their native fire; Thine, us'd in peace, their mutual faith inspire. Dulness, perhaps, through want of sight, may blame, And Spleen, with odious industry, defame; And that the honours giv'n with wonder view, And this in secret sadness own them due. Contempt and Envy were by Fate design'd The rival tyrants which divide mankind; Contempt, which none but who deserve can bear, While Envy's wounds the smiles of Fame repair: For know, the generous thine exploits shall fire, Thine every friend it suits thee to require; Lov'd by the gods, and, till their seats I show, Lov'd by the good, their images below.'

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Cease, lovely maid! fair daughter of the skies:
My guide! my queen!' the' ecstatic youth replies!
In thee I trace a form design'd for sway,
Which chiefs may court, and kings with pride obey;
And by thy bright immortal friends I swear,
Thy fair idea shall no toils impair.

Lead me, O lead me where whole hosts of foes
Thy form depreciate, and thy friends oppose.
Welcome all toils the' inequal Fates decree,
While toils endear thy faithful charge to thee.
Such be my cares, to bind the' oppressive hand,
And crush the fetters of an injur'd land;
To see the monster's noxious life resign'd,
And tyrants quell'd, the monsters of mankind!
Nature shall smile to view the vanquish'd brood,
And none but Envy riot unsubdued.

In cloister'd state let selfish sages dwell,

Proud that their heart is narrow as their cell!

And boast their mazy labyrinth of rules,
Far less the friends of Virtue than the fools;
Yet such in vain thy favouring smiles pretend,
For he is thine who proves his country's friend.
Thus when my life, well-spent, the good enjoy,
And the mean envious labour to destroy;
When, strongly lur'd by Fame's contiguous shrine,
I yet devote my choicer vows to thine;
If all my toils thy promis'd favour claim,
O lead thy favourite through the gates of Fame!'
He ceas'd his vows, and, with disdainful air,
He turn'd to blast the late exulting fair:
But vanish'd, fled to some more friendly shore,
The conscious phantom's beauty pleas'd no more;
Convinc'd her spurious charms of dress and face
Claim'd a quick conquest or a sure disgrace.
Fantastic pow'r! whose transient charms allur'd,
While Error's mist the reasoning mind obscur'd ;
Not such the victress, Virtue's constant queen,
Endur'd the test of truth, and dar'd be seen;
Her brightening form and features seem'd to own
'Twas all her wish, her interest, to be known;
And when his longing view the fair declin'd,
Left a full image of her charms behind.

Thus reigns the moon, with furtive splendour
crown'd,

While glooms oppress us, and thick shades surround;
But let the source of light its beams display,
Languid and faint the mimic flames decay,
And all the sickening splendour fades away.

THE PROGRESS OF TASTE:

OR,

THE FATE OF DELICACY.

A POEM ON THE TEMPER AND STUDIES OF THE AUTHOR ; AND HOW GREAT A MISFORTUNE IT IS FOR A MAN OF SMALL FORTUNE TO HAVE MUCH TASTE.

PART THE FIRST.

PERHAPS Some cloud eclips'd the day,
When thus I tun'd my pensive lay :-

-

"The ship is launch'd—we catch the gale→
On life's extended ocean sail;

For happiness our course we bend,
Our ardent cry, our general end!

Yet, ah! the scenes which tempt our care
Are, like the forms dispers'd in air,
Still dancing near disorder'd eyes,
And weakest his who best descries!'

Yet let me not my birthright barter,

(For wishing is the poet's charter;

All bards have leave to wish what's wanted,
Though few e'er found their wishes granted;
Extensive field! where poets pride them
In singing all that is denied them.)

For humble ease, ye Pow'rs! I pray;
That plain warm suit for every day:
And pleasure, and brocade, bestow,
To flaunt it-once a month, or so.
The first for constant wear we want;
The first, ye Pow'rs! for ever grant ;

;

But constant wear the last bespatters,
And turns the tissue into tatters.
Where'er my vagrant course I bend,
Let me secure one faithful friend.
Let me, in public scenes, request
A friend of wit and taste, well dress'd
And if I must not hope such favour,
A friend of wit and taste, however.
Alas! that Wisdom ever shuns
To congregate her scatter'd sons,
Whose nervous forces, well combin'd,
Would win the field, and sway mankind.
The fool will squeeze, from morn to night,
To fix his follies full in sight;

The note he strikes, the plume he shows,
Attract whole flights of fops and beaux,
And kindred-fools, who ne'er had known him,
Flock at the sight, caress, and own him;
But ill-starr'd Sense, nor gay nor loud,
Steals soft on tiptoe through the crowd;
Conveys his meagre form between,
And slides, like pervious air, unseen;
Contracts his known tenuity,

As though 'twere ev'n a crime to be;
Nor ev'n permits his eyes to stray,
And win acquaintance in their way.
In company, so mean his air,

You scarce are conscious he is there,
Till from some nook, like sharpen'd steel,
Occurs his face's thin profile,

Still seeming from the gazer's eye,
Like Venus, newly bathed, to fly :
Yet while reluctant he displays
His real gems before the blaze,

The fool hath, in its centre, plac'd
His tawdry stock of painted paste.
Disus'd to speak, he tries his skill,
Speaks coldly, and succeeds but ill;
His pensive manner dulness deem'd,
His modesty reserve esteem'd ;
His wit unknown, his learning vain,
He wins not one of all the train:
And those who, mutually known,
In friendship's fairest list had shone,
Less prone than pebbles to unite,
Retire to shades from public sight,
Grow savage, quit their social nature,
And starve to study mutual satire.

But friends and favourites, to chagrin them, Find counties, countries, seas between them ; Meet once a-year, then part, and then Retiring, wish to meet again.

Sick of the thought, let me provide
Some human form to grace my side;
At hand, where'er I shape my course,
An useful, pliant, stalking-horse.

No gesture free from some grimace,
No seam without its share of lace,
But, mark'd with gold or silver either,
Hint where his coat was piec'd together.
His legs be lengthen'd, I advise,
And stockings roll'd abridge his thighs.
What, though Vandyck had other rules,
What had Vandyck to do with fools?
Be nothing wanting but his mind;
Before a solitaire, behind

A twisted ribbon, like the track
Which Nature gives an ass's back.

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