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Elfe I would fay, and as I fpake bid fly
A captive bird into the boundlefs fky,
This triple realm adores thee-thou art come
From Sparta hither, and art here at home ;
We feel thy force ftill active, at this hour
Enjoy immunity from prieftly pow'r ;

While confcience, happier than in ancient years,
Owns no fuperior but the God fhe fears,
Propitious Spirit! yet expunge a wrong
Thy rites have fuffer'd, and our land, too long ;
Teach mercy to ten thousand hearts that share
The fears and hopes of a commercial care :
Prifons expect the wicked, and were built
To bind the lawless and to punish guilt,
But fhipwreck, earthquake, battle, fire, and flood,
Are mighty mifchiefs not to be withstood;
And honeft merit ftands on flipp'ry ground,
Where cover guile and artifice abound:
Let juft reftraint, for public peace defign'd,
Chain up the wolves and tigers of mankind;
The foe of virtue has no claim to thee,
But let infolvent innocence go free,

Patron of else the most defpis'd of men,
Accept the tribute of a ftranger's pen;
Verfe, like the laurel its immortal meed,
Should be the guerdon of a noble deed :

I

may alarm thee, but I fear the fha me (Charity chofen as my theme and aim)

I muft incur, forgetting Howard's name.

Bleft

Bleft with all wealth can give thee—to resign
Joys doubly fweet to feelings quick as thine;
To quit the blifs thy rural fcenes bestow,
To feek a nobler amidft fcenes of woe;

To traverfe feas, range kingdoms, and bring home,
Not the proud monumeuts of Greece or Rome,
But knowledge fuch, as only dungeons teach,
And only fympathy like thine could reach;
That grief, fequefter'd from the public flage,
Might smooth her feathers, and enjoy her cage-
Speaks a divine ambition, and a zeal
The boldeft patriot might be proud to feel.
Oh that the voice of clamour and debate,
That pleads for peace till it diflurbs the flate,
Were hufh'd in favour of thy gen'rous plea,

The

poor thy clients, and Heaven's fmile thy fee!

Epiftolary Verfes to George Colman, Efq. written in

the Year, 1756.

By Mr. ROBERT LLOYD.

"OU know, dear George, I'm none of those

You

That condefcend to write in profe :

Infpir'd with pathos and fublime,
I always foar-in doggrel rhyme :
And scarce can afk you how you do,
Without a jingling line or two.

Befides,

Befides, I always took delight in
What bears the name of eafy writing;
Perhaps the reafon makes it please
Is, that I find 'tis writ with eafe.
I vent a notion here in private,
Which public taste can ne'er connive at,
Which thinks no wit or judgment greater
Than Addifon and his Spectator;
Whe fays (it is no matter where,

But that he fays it I can fwear)
With eafy verfe moft bards are fmitten,
Because they think it's eafy written;
Whereas the eafter it appears,
The greater marks of care it wears;
Of which to give an explanation,
Take this by way of illuftration,
The fam'd Mat. Prior, it is faid,
Oft bit his nails, and fcratch'd his head,
And chang'd a thought a hundred times,
Because he did not like the rhymes:

To make my meaning clear, and please ye,
In fhort, he labour'd to write easy.

And yet no Critic e'er defines

His poems

into labour'd lines.

I have a fimile will hit him;

His verfe, like clothes, was made to fit him;

Which (as no taylor e'er denied)

The better fit the more they're tried.

Though

Though I have mention'd Prior's name, Think not I aim at Prior's fame,

'Tis the refult of admiration

To fpend itfelf in imitation
If imitation may be faid,

Which is in me by nature bred,

And you have better proofs than thefe,
That I'm idolater of Eafe.

Who but a madman would

A Poet in the present age?

engage

Write what we will, our works befpeak us
Imitatores, fervum Pecus.

Tale, Elegy, or lofty Ode,

We travel in the beaten road.

The proverb ftill flicks clofely by us,

Nil dictum, quod non dictum prius.
The only comfort that I know
Is, that 'twas faid an age ago,
Ere Milton foar'd in thought fublime,
Ere Pope refin'd the chink of rhyme,
Ere Colman wrote in ftyle fo pure,
Or the great Two the Connoiffeur ;
Ere I burlefqu'd the rural cit,
Proud to hedge in my fcraps of wit;
And, happy in the clofe connection,
T' acquire fome name from their reflection;
So (the fimilitude is trite)

The moon ftill fhines with borrow'd light;
Vol. VI, 22.

And,

And, like the race of modern beaux,
Ticks with the fun for her lac'd clothes.
Methinks there is no better time

To fhew the ufe I make of rhyme,
Than now, when I, who from beginning
Was always fond of couplet-finning.
Prefuming on good-nature's score,
Thus lay my bantling at your door.
The first advantage which I fee,
Is, that I ramble loofe and free :
The bard indeed full oft complains
That rhymes are fetters, links, and chains;
And, when he wants to leap the fence,
Still keeps him pris'ner to the sense.
Howe'er in common-place he rage,
Rhyme's like your fetters on the ftage,
Which when the player once hath wore,
It makes him only ftrut the more,
While, raving in pathetic ftrains,
He fhakes his legs to clank his chains.
From rhyme, as from a handsome face,
Nonfenfe acquires a kind of grace;
I therefore give it all its fcope,
That fenfe may unperceiv'd elope.
So Mrs of bafeft tricks

(I love a fling at politics)

Amufe the nation, court, and king,

With breaking F-kes, and hanging Byng;

And

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