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If I must wish at all-Defires are free,

High, as the Higheft, I would wish to be!
Then might I, fole fupreme, act, unconfin'd,
And with unbounded influence blefs mankind.
Mean is that foul, whom its own good can fill!
A profperous world, alone, could feaft my will.
He 's poor, at best, who others mifery 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, lefs than all, is none!

This my first wifh :-But fince 'tis wild, and vaiņ, To grafp at glittering clouds, with fruitlefs pain, More fafely low, let my next prospect be,

And life's mild evening this fair fun-fet fee.

Far from a Lord's loath'd neighbourhood-a State! Whofe little greatness is a pride I hate!

On fome lone wild, fhould my large house be plac'd, Vaftly furrounded by a healthful wafte!

Steril, and coarfe, the untry'd foil fhould be,

Till forc'd to flourish, and subdued by me.

Seas, woods, meads, mountains, gardens, ftreams, and fkies,

Should, with a changeful grandeur, charm my eyes!
Where-e'er I walk'd, effects of my past pains
Should plume the mountain tops, and paint the plains,
Greatly obfcure, and fhunning courts, or name;
Widely befriended, but efcaping fame;
Peaceful, in studious quiet, would I live,
Lie hid, for leifure, and grow rich, to give!

Alas! what a folly, what wealth and domain
We heap up in fin and in forrow!
Immenfe 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 defcends to the grave,
And the spirit arises to heaven.

TO MR. DYER. BY CLIO*.

I

'VE done thy merit and my friendship wrong,
In holding back my gratitude fo long;
The foul is fure to equal transport rais'd,
That justly praifes, or is juftly prais'd:
The generous only can this pleasure know,
Who tafte the god-like virtue-to bestow!
I ev'n grow rich, methinks, while I commend;
And feel the very praises which I fend.
Nor jealousy nor female envy find,
Though all the Mufes are to Dyer kind.

Sing on, nor let your modest fears retard,
Whofe verfe and pencil join, to force reward:
Your claim demands the bays, in double wreath,
Your Poems lighten, and your pictures breathe.

I wish to praise you, but your beauties wrong; No theme looks green, in Clio's artless fong:

But

* Among the Poems of Mr. Savage, is an Epistle, occafioned by Mr. Dyer's Picture of this Lady.

But will an eternal verdure wear,

yours

For Dyer's fruitful foul will flourish there..
My humbler lot was in low distance laid;
I was, oh, hated thought! a woman made;
For houfhold cares, and empty trifles meant,
The Name does immortality prevent.
Yet let me stretch, beyond my sex, my mind,
And, rifing, leave the fluttering train behind;
Nor art, nor learning, wifh'd affiftance lends,
But nature, love, and music, are my friends.

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