Fugitive Pieces | Page 7

_shelf neglected laid;?Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame,?Of Avon's bard, remembering scarce the name.
Such is the youth, whose scientific pate,?Class honours, medals, fellowships await;?Or even perhaps the declamation prize,?If to such glorious height, he lifts his eyes.?But lo! no common orator can hope?The envied silver cup within his scope;?Not that our heads much eloquence require,?The ATHENIAN's glowing style, or TULLY's fire.?The manner of the speech is nothing, since?We do not try by speaking_ to _convince;?Be other orators_ of pleasing _proud,?We speak to please_ ourselves, not _move the crowd.?Our gravity prefers the muttering tone,?A proper mixture of the squeak and groan;?No borrow'd grace_ of _action, must be seen,?The slightest motion would displease the dean.?Whilst every staring graduate would prate,?Against what, he could never imitate.
The man, who hopes t' obtain the promis'd cup,?Must in one posture_ stand, and _ne'er look up,?Nor stop_, but rattle over _every word,?No matter what_, so it can _not be heard;?Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest,?Who speaks the fastest_, 's sure to speak the _best;?Who utters most within the shortest space,?May safely hope to win the wordy race.
The sons of Science these, who thus repaid,?Linger in ease, in Granta's sluggish shade;?Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they lie,?Unknown, unhonour'd live, unwept for, die.?Dull as the pictures, which adorn their halls,?They think all learning fix'd within their walls:?In manners rude, in foolish forms precise,?All modern arts, affecting to despise.?Yet prizing _Bentley's[6] Brunck's[6]_ or Porson's[7] note, More than the verse, on which the critic wrote;?With eager haste, they court the tool of power,?(Whether 'tis PITT or PETTY rules the hour:)?To him, with suppliant smiles they bend the head,?Whilst mitres, prebends, to their eyes are spread.?But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace,?They'd fly to seek the next, who fill'd his place;?Such are the men who learning's treasures guard,?Such_ is their _practice_, such is their _reward;?This much at least we may presume to say,?Th' reward's_ scarce equal, to the _price_ they _pay.
1806.
[Footnote 6: Celebrated Critics.]
[Footnote 7: The present Greek Professor at Cambridge.]

TO MARY, ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE.
1.
This faint resemblance of thy charms,?(Though strong as mortal art could give)?My constant heart of fear disarms,?Revives my hopes, and bids me live.
2.
Here I can trace the locks of gold,?Which round thy snowy forehead wave,?The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould,?The lips which made me Beauty's slave.
3.
Here I can trace--ah no! that eye,?Whose azure floats in liquid fire,?Must all the painter's art defy,?And bid him from the task retire.
4.
Here I behold, its beauteous hue,?But where's the beam of soft desire??Which gave a lustre to its blue,?Love, only love, could e'er inspire.
5.
Sweet copy! far more dear to me,?Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,?Than all the living forms could be,?Save her, who plac'd thee next my heart.
6.
She plac'd it, sad with needless fear,?Lest time might shake my wavering soul,?Unconscious that her image there,?Held every sense in fast controul.
7.
Through hours, through years, through time 'twill cheer,?My hope in gloomy moments raise;?In life's last conflict 't'will appear,?And meet my fond, expiring gaze.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX, THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN THE MORNING POST.
"Our Nation's foes, lament on Fox's death,?"But bless the hour, when PITT resign'd his breath;?"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,?"We give the palm, where Justice points its due."
_To which the Author of these Pieces, sent the subjoined Reply, for Insertion in the_ MORNING CHRONICLE.--
Oh! factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth,?Would mangle still the dead, in spite of truth,?What though our "nation's foes" lament the fate,?With generous feeling, of the good and great;?Shall therefore dastard tongues assail the name?Of him whose virtues claim eternal fame??When PITT expired in plenitude of power,?Though ill success obscur'd his dying hour,?Pity her dewy wings before him spread,?For noble spirits "war not with the dead;"?His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave,?And all his errors slumber'd in the grave.?He died an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight,?Of cares oppressing our unhappy state;?But lo! another Hercules appear'd,?Who for a time, the ruined fabric rear'd;?He too is dead! who still our England propp'd,?With him our fast reviving hopes have dropp'd;?Not one great people only raise his urn,?All Europe's far extended regions mourn.?"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,?"And give the palm where Justice points it due;"?But let not canker'd calumny assail,?And round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.?Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,?Whose dear remains in honoured marble sleep;?For whom at last, even hostile nations groan,?And friends and foes alike his talents own;?Fox! shall in Britain's future annals shine,?Nor e'en to Pitt_, the patriot's _palm resign;?Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,?For PITT, and PITT alone, would dare to ask.

TO A LADY, WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR, BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER, TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN.
These locks which fondly thus entwine,?In firmer chains our hearts