Spurn'd the rich

gem,

thou gav'st him. Wherefore,

ah!

Why not on me that favour, (worthier sure!)

Conferr'dst thou, Goddess! Thou art blind, thou

say'st:

Enough!-thy blindness shall excuse the deed.
Nor does my Muse no benefit exhale

From this thy scant indulgence!—even here,
Hints, worthy sage philosophy, are found;
Illustrious hints, to moralise my song!

This pond'rous heel of perforated hide
Compact, with pegs indented, many a row,
Haply (for such its massy form bespeaks),

The weighty tread of some rude peasant clown
Upbore: on this supported oft, he stretch'd,

With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe,
Flatt'ning the stubborn clod, till cruel time
(What will not cruel time), on a wry step,
Sever'd the strict cohesion; when, alas!

He, who could erst, with even, equal pace,

Pursue his destin'd way with symmetry,

And some proportion form'd, now, on one side,
Curtail'd and maim'd, the sport of vagrant boys,
Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop!
With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on:
Thus fares it oft with other than the feet

Of humble villager-the statesman thus,
Up the steep road, where proud ambition leads,
Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds

His prosp'rous way; nor fears miscarriage foul,
While policy prevails, and friends prove true:
But that support soon failing, by him left,
On whom he most depended, basely left,
Betray'd, deserted; from his airy height
Headlong he falls; and thro' the rest of life,
Drags the dull load of disappointment on.

STANZAS

SELECTED FROM AN OCCASIONAL ODE ON THE FIRST

PUBLICATION OF

SIR CHARLES GRANDISON,

IN 1753.

To rescue from the tyrant's sword

Th' oppress'd;-unseen and unimplor'd, To cheer the face of wo;

From lawless insult to defend

An orphan's right—a fallen friend,

And a forgiven foe;

These, these distinguish from the crowd, And these alone, the great and good,

The guardians of mankind;

Whose bosoms with these virtues heave,

O, with what matchless speed, they leave

The multitude behind!

Then ask ye, from what cause on earth

Virtues like these derive their birth,

Deriv'd from Heaven alone,

Full on that favour'd breast they shine, Where faith and resignation join

To call the blessing down.

Such is that heart:-but while the Muse

Thy theme, O RICHARDSON, pursues,

Her feeble spirits faint:

She cannot reach, and would not wrong, That subject for an angel's song,

The hero, and the saint!

AN EPISTLE

TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ.

1754.

'Tis not that I design to rob

Thee of thy birth-right, gentle Bob,
For thou art born sole heir, and single,
Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle;

Not that I mean, while thus I knit
My threadbare sentiments together,

To shew my genius or my wit,

When God and you know, I have neither;

Or such, as might be better shown

By letting poetry alone.

'Tis not with either of these views,

That I presum❜d t' address the Muse:

But to divert a fierce banditti,

(Sworn foes to every thing that's witty!) That, with a black, infernal train,

Make cruel inroads in my brain,