Enough!-thy blindnefs fhall excufe the deed.
Nor does my Mufe no benefit exhale
From this thy fcant indulgence!—even here
Hints worthy fage philosophy are found;
Illuftrious hints, to moralize my fong!
This ponderous Heel of perforated hide
Compact, with pegs indented, many a row,
Haply (for fuch its maffy form bespeaks)
The weighty tread of fome rude peasant clown
Upbore on this supported oft, he stretch'd,
With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe,
Flattening the ftubborn clod, till cruel time
(What will not cruel time?) on a wry step
Sever'd the ftrict cohefion; when, alas!
He, who could erst, with even, equal pace,
Pursue his destined way with fymmetry,
And some proportion form'd, now on one fide,
Curtail'd and maim'd, the fport of vagrant boys,
Curfing his frail fupporter, treacherous prop!
With toilfome fteps, and difficult, moves on:
Thus fares it oft with other than the feet
Of humble villager-the statesman thus,
Up the steep road where proud ambition leads,
Afpiring, firft uninterrupted winds
His profperous way; nor fears miscarriage foul,
While policy prevails, and friends prove true:
But that support foon failing, by him left,
On whom he most depended,-bafely left,
Betray'd, deferted,—from his airy height
Headlong he falls; and through the rest of life
Drags the dull load of disappointment on.
On reading Richardfon's Hiftory of Sir Charles
AY, ye apoftate and profane,
Wretches, who blush not to difdain
Allegiance to your God,—
Did e'er your idly-wafted love
Of virtue for her fake remove,
And lift you from the crowd?
Would you the race of glory run,
Know, the devout, and they alone,
Are equal to the task:
The labours of the illuftrious course
Far other than the unaided force
Of human vigour ask.
To arm against repeated ill
The patient heart too brave to feel
The tortures of despair :
Nor fafer yet high-crested Pride,
When wealth flows in with every
To gain admittance there.
To rescue from the tyrant's fword
The oppreff'd ;-unfeen and unimplored,
To cheer the face of woe; .
From lawless infult to defend
An orphan's right, a fallen friend,
And a forgiven foe;
These, these distinguish from the crowd, And these alone, the great and good, The guardians of mankind;
Whose bofoms with these virtues heave, O, with what matchless speed they leave The multitude behind!
Then ask ye, from what cause on earth
Virtues like these derive their birth?
Derived from Heaven alone,
Full on that favour'd breast they shine,
Where faith and refignation join
To call the bleffing down.
Such is that heart :-but while the Muse
Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues,
Her feeble spirits faint:
She cannot reach, and would not wrong,
That fubject for an angel's fong,
The hero, and the faint!
AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT LLOYD,
IS not that I defign to rob
Thee of thy birthright, gentle Bob,
For thou art born fole heir, and fingle,
Of dear Mat Prior's eafy jingle;
Not that I mean, while thus I knit
My threadbare fentiments together,
To show my genius or my wit,
When God and you know I have neither;
Or fuch as might be better shown
By letting poetry alone.
'Tis not with either of these views
That I prefumed to address the Muse:
But to divert a fierce banditti,
(Sworn foes to every thing that's witty!)
That, with a black, infernal train,
Make cruel inroads in my brain,
And daily threaten to drive thence
My little garrison of sense;
The fierce banditti which I mean
Are gloomy thoughts, led on by Spleen.
Then there's another reason yet,
Which is, that I may fairly quit
The debt, which juftly became due
The moment when I heard from
you might grumble, crony mine, If paid in any other coin;
Since twenty fheets of lead, God knows,
(I would fay twenty fheets of profe)
Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so much
As one of gold, and yours was fuch.
Thus the preliminaries settled,
I fairly find myself pitch-kettled,*
And cannot fee, though few fee better,
How I fhall hammer out a letter.
First, for a thought-fince all agree-
A thought I have it-let me see-
gone again—plague on't! I thought I had it but I have it not.
Dame Gurton thus, and Hodge her fon,
That useful thing, her needle, gone!
Rake well the cinders, fweep the floor,
And fift the duft behind the door;
While eager Hodge beholds the prize
In old grimalkin's glaring eyes;
And Gammer finds it on her knees
In every fhining ftraw fhe fees.
This fimile were apt enough;
But I've another, critic-proof!
The virtuofo thus, at noon,
Broiling beneath a July fun,
The gilded butterfly pursues,
O'er hedge and ditch, through gaps and mews;
• Pitch-kettled, a favourite phrase at the time when this Epiftle was written, expreffive of being puzzled, or what in the Spectator's time would have been called bamboozled.-HAYLEY.
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