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If I must with at all-Desires are free,
will. He 's poor, at best, who others misery fees, And wants the wish’d-for power to give them ease! A glory this, unreach'd, but on a throne ! All were enough-and, less than all, is none ! This my
first with :-But since 'tis wild, and vain, To grasp at glittering clouds, with fruitless pain, More fafely low, let my next prospect be, And life's mild evening this fair fun-set see. 'Far from a Lord's loath'd neighbourhood a State! Whose little greatness is a pride I hate! On some lone wild, should my large house be placid, Vastly surrounded by a healthful waste! Steril, and coarse, the untry'd foil should be, Till forc'd to flourish, and subdued by me. Seas, woods, meads, mountains, gardens, streams, and
skies, Should, with a changefül grandeur, charm my eyes.! Where-e’er I walk'd, effects of my past pains Should plume the mountain tops, and paint the plainse Greatly obscure, and thunning courts, or. name; Widely befriended, but escaping fame ; Peaceful, in studious quiet, would I live, Lie hid, for leisure, and grow rich, to give!
TO MR. SA V A G E,
SON of the late EARL RIVER S.
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 glittering 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 crowds, 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 nanie how would'st thou shine? Thy verse, how sweet ! thy fancy, how divine ! Critics and Bards would, by their worth, be aw'd, . And all would think it merit to applaud. But thou has nought to please the vulgar eye, No title haft, nor what might titles buy. Thou wilt small praise, but much ill-nature find, Clear to thy errors, to thy beauties blind; And if, though few, they any faults can fee, How meanly bitter will cold censure be! But, since we all, the wisest of us, err, Sure, 'tis the greatest fault to be severe.
A few, however, yet expect to find,
Thee, Savage, these (the justly great) admire,
An EPISTLE to a FRIEND in TOWN *.
Whose bosom no pageantries fire ?
(Contented ? - why every thing charms me)
Till hence rigid virtue alarms me.
The swift, the intrepid avenger;
Alas! * Among the Poems of Mr. Savage, there is one to Mr. Dyer, in answer to his from the country.
Alas! what a folly, what wealth and domain
We heap up. in fin 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-fhaded, and quiet, and even ; While gently the body descends to the grave,
And the spirit arises to heaven.
TO MR. DYER. BY CLIO*,
VE done thy merit and my friendship wrong,
In holding back my gratitude fo long;
find, Though all the Muses are to Dyer kind.
Sing on, nor let your modeft fears retard,
wrong ; „No theme looks green, in:Clio's artless song :
But * Among the Poems of Mr. Savage, is an Epistle, occasioned by Mr. Dyer's Picture of this Lady.
will an eternal verdure wear,