Imatges de pÓgina



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SINK not my, Friend! beneath misfortune's weight,
Pleas'd to be found intrinsically great,
Shame on the dull! who think the soul looks less
Because the body wants a glitt'ring dress.
It is the mind's for ever bright attire,

The mind's embroidery, that the wise admire.
That which looks rich to the gross vulgar eyes
Is the fop's tinsel, which the grave despise.
Wealth dims the eyes of crouds, and while they gaze
The coxcomb's ne'er discover'd in the blaze.
As few the vices of the wealthy see,
So virtues are conceal’d by poverty.

Earl Rivers ! In that name how wouldst thou
Thy verse how sweet ! thy fancy how divine ![shine ?
Critics and bards would, by their worth, he aw'd, 15
And all would think it merit to applaud.
But thou has nought to please the vulgar eye,
No title hast, nor what might titles buy.
Thou wilt small praise but much ill-nature find,
Clear to thy errors, to thy beauties blind;
And if tho' few, they any faults can see,
How meanly bitter will cold censure be !
But since we all, the wisest of us, err,

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A few, however, yet expect to find

Among the misty millions of mankind,
Who proudly stoop to aid an injur'd cause,
And o'er the sneer of coxcombs force applause ;
Who with felt pleasure see fair Virtue rise,
And lift her upwards to the beckoning prize; 30
Or mark her labouring in the modest breast,
And honour her the more the more deprest.

Thee, Savage! these (the justly great) admire ;
Thee, quick'ning judgment's phlegm with fancy's
Thee, slow to censure, earnest to commend, [ fire ;
An able critic, but a willing friend.


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Have my friends in the Town, in the gay busy
Forgot such a man as John Dyer ? (Town
Or heedless despise they, or pity the clown,
Whose bosom no pageantries fire ?

No matter, no matter_content in the shades 5
(Contented !-why every thing charms me)
Fall in tunes all adown the green steep, ye Cascades!
Till hence rigid virtue alarms me.

* Among the poems of Mr. Savage there is one to Mr. Dyer, in 20swer to

Till Outrage arises, or Misery needs
The swift, the intrepid avenger ;
Till sacred Religion or Liberty bleeds,
Then nine be the deed and the danger.


Alas! what a folly, what wealth and domain
We heap up in sin and in sorrow !
Immense is the toil, yet the labour how vain!
Is not life to be over to-morrow?


Then glide on my moments, the few that I have,
Smooth-shaded, and quiet, and ev’n,
While gently the body descends to the grave,
And the spirit arises to heav'n.


The Life of the Author,
Poems to the Author,


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An Epistle to a famous painter,
To Aaron Hill, Esq.on his poem called Gideon, 147
To Mr. Savage, son of the late Earl Rivers,

150 An Epistle to a friend in Town,


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