Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind, Too nice for a statesman, to proud for a wit ; Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks: Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines: I feared for your safety, I feared for my own: But now he is gone, and we want a detector, 2 3 Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture; Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile; And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark. An abridgment of all that is pleasant in man; 1 Mr. T. Townshend, member for Whitchurch. 2 Rev. Dr. Dodd. 3 Dr. Kenrick. James Macpherson, Esq., who from the mere force of his style wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, For he knew, when he pleased, he could whistle them back. 2 What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave! How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised While he was be-Rosciused, and you were bepraised! But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel and mix with the skies: Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will : Old Shakespere receive him with praise and with love, Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, 1 Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of 'False Delicacy.' 2 Mr. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.' L Still born to improve us in every part, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing; When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet,1 and only took snuff. 1 Sir Joshua Reynolds was so deaf that he was obliged to use an eartrumpet in company. WILLIAM COWPER. Born 1731. Died 1800. LINES ON RECEIVING HIS MOTHER'S PICTURE. THAT those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 'Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!' The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalise, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here shines on me still the same. O welcome guest, though unexpected here! I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own: A momentary dream that thou art she. My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; I learned at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced. Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit, or confectionary plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed! |