Here I renounce thee-fly thy outstretch'd arms,
And own the Muse's more prevailing charms.
And why not own them? can't her power remove
The curse of poverty, the pangs of love,

Blunt pain's keen edge, unload the weight of care,
Hush loud distress, and mitigate despair?

Have not her smiles, when sunk in private grief,
Tun'd my disordered mind and brought relief;
Bid agonizing thought at distance wait,
Nor dare approach the Muse's sacred seat?
Nor can she only give affliction ease;
Pleasure is hers, and hers the power to please:
She can amuse a friend's unbended hour,
And every fair one owns the Muse's power.
Have not my lays made Ilchester attend,
Berkeley approve, and Harrington commend?
Has not my verse o'er Celia's frown prevail'd?
The poet triumph'd where the poet fail'd.

But further still her wide command is shewn,
Immortal fame attends on her alone.
In vain, without her cares, without her smiles,
The hero conquers, and the statesman toils;
Their names would soon in dark oblivion lie,
But that the Muse forbids the good to die:
She bids them live, and, from the silent tomb,
Draws forth examples for the time to come.

'Tis by her influence too, her sons survive, And more than share the vast renown they give; Still round the goddess different laurels grow, To crown the hero and the poet too : And while posterity with rapture reads Eneas' labours, and Achilles' deeds; Beyond all piety, all feats of arms,

'Tis Virgil pleases, and 'tis Homer charms.

Tho' more inclin'd to give desert its praise,
Yet keenest satire waits upon her lays.

Virtue and vice are both within her view;
She can reward; but she can punish too:
And from her just revenge and slighted power,
No abject state can hide, no height secure.
She from the kennel rakes up Chartre's shame,
She plucks down Bath's exalted dirty name;
Her arrows fly thro' every rank of men:-
Pelham, read this, and dread the lifted pen.
The chosen few, whose praise I strive to gain,
Still urge my song, and still approve my strain;
I dread their censure, but th' applause they give
I feel; for they can judge, but not deceive.

Has my young Walpole, blest with truest taste,
Adorn'd with learning, with politeness grac'd,
When I repeated, thought the moments long,
Friend to the poet, partial to his song?
When Winnington, fatigued with public cares,
With me the social hours of friendship shares,
He too awakes the Muse, and bids me write,
Points out the quarry, and directs my flight.
But while I mention him, all flattery hence :-
"Twould wrong our friendship, and 'twould wrong his

sense.

In him we find unite what rarely meet,
Parts join'd to application, sense with wit;
A piercing eye, a countenance erect,
Quick to invent, judicious to correct;
Warm to attack, but warmer to defend,
The fairest foe, and the sincerest friend:
Above the intrigues and windings of a court,
Acknowledged merit is his one support.

His converse, new and just delight affords,
Rich in the brightest thoughts and aptest words;
Whene'er he speaks, his audience still is charm'd,
Taught by his sense, and by his spirit warm'd.

[* But Orford's self I've seen whilst I have read,
Laugh the heart's laugh, and nod the approving head.
Pardon, great shade, if duteous on thy hearse
I hang my grateful tributary verse;

If I, who follow'd thro' thy various day,
Thy glorious zenith and thy bright decay,

Now strew thy tomb with flowers, and o'er thy urn
With England, Liberty, and Envy, mourn.
His soul was great, and dar'd not but do well,
His noble pride still urg'd him to excel:
Above the thirst of gold, if in his heart
Ambition govern'd, Av'rice had no part.
A genius to explore untrodden ways,

Where Prudence sees no track, nor ever strays,
Which books and schools in vain attempt to teach,
And which laborious Art can never reach;
Falsehood and flattery, and the tricks of court,
He left to statesmen of a meaner sort;

Their cloaks and smiles were offer'd him in vain,
His acts were justice, which he dar'd maintain,
His words were truth, that held them in disdain,
Open to friends, but e'en to foes sincere,
Alike remote from jealousy and fear:

Tho' Envy's howl, tho' Faction's hiss he heard ;
Tho' senates frown'd, tho' death itself appear'd;

These lines, the only part of the poem ever published, are quoted by the Rev. Mr. Coxe, in his Memoirs of the Life and Administration of Sir Robert Walpole.

Calmly he view'd them, conscious that his ends
Were right, and truth and innocence his friends.
Thus was he form'd to govern and to please:
Familiar greatness, dignity with ease,
Compos'd his frame: admir'd in every state;
In private amiable, in public great;
Gentle in power, but daring in disgrace,
His love was liberty, his wish was peace.
Such was the man that smil'd upon my lays:`
And what can heighten thought or genius raise,
Like praise from him, whom all mankind must praise?
Whose knowledge, courage, temper, all surprised;
Whom many lov'd, few hated, none despised.]
Here then I rest and since it is decreed
The pleasing paths of poetry to tread,
Hear me, O Muse; receive one poet more,
Consenting bend, and pour down all thy store;
No longer constant round Parnassus rove,

But change the scene and smile on Coldbrook's grove.
Here too are limpid streams, here oaks their shade
O'er mossy turf more soft than slumbers spread.
Expression, thought, and numbers, bring along;
But, above all, let Truth attend my song.
So shall my verse still please the man I love,
Make Winnington commend, and my own Fox ap-
prove.'

THE

WANDERING SAVOYARD'S SONG.

BY MR. DIMOND, JUN.

WITHIN a silent, shelter'd spot,
Is rear'd my lov'd paternal cot:
Behind, the Alps their shadows throw,
Here crown'd with pine, and there with snow:

In front, delightful vineyards blush,

With thymy dales (where browse the flock)
Just bounded by some granite rock,
Whence water-falls in murmurs gush.

Ah! how I sorrow'd when farewell
I bade unto my native dell!

The wild-bee there gallanting roves,
And sucks the sweet-lipp'd flower he loves;
The pigeon weaves her downy nest,
And murmurs o'er her young at rest;

While little birds of blythest lay,

With shining wings and trilling airs,
O'ersweep the woods in love-link'd pairs,
And warble all the live-long day.

Ah faint of phrase is tongue to tell
The pleasures of my native dell!