While books, each morn, the lightsome soul invite,
And friends, with feafon'd mirth, improve the night.
IV.
In him do men no blemish see;
And factions in his praise agree,
When moft they vex the state:
Diftinguifh'd favourite of the fkies,
Belov'd he lives, lamented dies:
Yet, fhall he not to fate
Submit entire; the refcuing Muse shall fave
His precious name, and win him from the grave. 32
Too frail is brass and polish'd stone;
Perpetual fame the Mufe alone
On merit can bestow:
Yet, muft the time-enduring fong,
The verfe unrival'd by the throng,
From Nature's bounty flow:
Th' ungifted tribe in metre pafs away,
Oblivion's sport, the poets of a day.
What laws fhall o'er the Ode prefide?
In vain would art presume to guide
The chariot-wheels of praife,
When Fancy, driving, ranges free,
Fresh flowers felecting, like the bee,
While Nature does, disdaining aids of skill,
The mind with ho ght, the ears with numbers, fill. 48
As when the Theban hymns divine
Make proud Olympian victors fhine
In an eternal blaze,
The varying measures, ever new,
Unbeaten tracks of fame purfue,
While through the glorious maze
poet leads his heroes to renown,
And weaves in verse a never-fading crown.
To Mifs MARGARET PULTENEY, Daughter of DANIEL PULTENEY, Efq. in the Nursery.
DIMPLY damfel, fweetly smiling,
All careffing, none beguiling,
Bud of beauty, fairly blowing,
Every charm to Nature owing,
This and that new thing admiring,
Much of this and that enquiring,
Knowledge by degrees attaining,
Day by day fome virtue gaining,
Ten years hence, when I leave chiming,
Beardless poets, fondly rhyming,
(Fefcued now, perhaps, in fpelling,)
On thy riper beauties dwelling,
Shall accufe each killing feature
Of the cruel, charming, creature,
Whom I knew complying, willing,
Tender, and averfe from killing.
To Mifs CHARLOTTE PULTENEY,
IMELY bloffom, infant fair,
Fondling of a happy pair,
Every morn, and every night,
Their folicitous delight,
Sleeping, waking, ftill at eafe,
Pleafing, without skill to please,
Little goffip, blithe and hale,
Tattling many a broken tale,
Singing many a tuneless song,
Lavish of a heedless tongue,
Simple maiden, void of art,
Babbling out the very heart,
Yet abandon'd to thy will,
Yet imagining no ill,
Yet too innocent to blush,
Like the linnet in the bush.
To the mother-linnet's note
Moduling her flender throat,
Chirping forth thy petty joys,
Wanton in the change of toys,
Like the linnet green, in May,
Flitting to each bloomy spray,
Wearied then, and glad of reft,
Like the linnet in the neft.
VOTARY to publick zeal,
Minister of England's weal,
Have you leifure for a fong,
Tripping lightly o'er the tongue,
Swift and fweet in every measure,
Tell me, Walpole, have you leisure ?
Nothing lofty will I fing,
Nothing of the favourite king,
Something, rather, fung with ease,
Simply elegant to please.
Fairy Virgin, British Muse,
Some unhear❜d-of story chuse :
Chufe the glory of the swain,
Gifted with a magic strain,
Swaging grief of every kind,
Healing, with a verse, the mind:
To him came a man of
To him, in a cheerless hour;
When the swain, by Druids taught,
Soon divin'd his irksome thought,
Soon the maple harp he ftrung,
Soon, with filver-accent, fung.
"Steerer of a mighty realm,
"Pilot, waking o'er the helm,
"Blefling of thy native foil,
Mortal, deftin'd to excel,
"Bear the blame of doing well, "Like the worthies great of old, "In the lift of fame enroll'd.
"What, though titles thou decline ? "Still the more thy virtues shine.
Envy, with her ferpent eye,
"Marks each praise that foars on high.
"See, the giver of the day
Urgeth on, through clouds, his way:
"Pleafing vifions, at command, "Answer to my voice and hand;
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