Quaint Gleanings from Ancient Poetry | Page 9

mounts the pad behind,?Or with the postboy drives.
He would happy live to-day?Must laugh the present ills away,?Nor think of woes to come,?For come they will or soon or late,?Since mix'd at best is man's estate,?By Heaven's eternal doom.
To ripen'd age Clive liv'd renown'd,?With lacks enrich'd, with honours crown'd,?His valour's well-earn'd meed;?Too long, alas! he lived to hate?His envied lot, and died [22] too late,?From life's oppression freed.
An early death was Elliott's [23] doom;?I saw his opening virtues bloom,?And manly sense unfold,?Too soon to fade! I bade the stone?Record his name 'midst Hordes unknown,?Unknowing what it told.
To thee, perhaps, the fates may give--?I wish they may--in health to live,?Herds, flocks, and fruitful fields,?Thy vacant hours in mirth to shine;?With these, the muse already thine?Her present bounties yields.
For me, O Shore! I only claim?To merit, not to seek for fame,?The good and just to please,?A state above the fear of want,?Domestic love, Heaven's choicest grant,?Health, leisure, peace, and ease.
[Footnote 22: Lord Clive committed suicide 1774.]
[Footnote 23: Mr. Elliott died in October, 1778, on his way to Nangpore, the capital of Moodagees Boofla's dominions, being deputed on an embassy to that prince by the Governor-General and Council; a monument was erected to his memory on the spot where he was buried, and the Marattas have since built a town there, called Elliott Gunge, or Elliott's Town.]
EPITAPH ON DR. JOHNSON.
Here lies poor Johnson. Reader, have a care,?Tread lightly, lest you rouse a sleeping bear:?Religious, moral, generous, and humane?He was, but self-sufficient, rude, and vain;?Ill-bred and overbearing in dispute,?A scholar and a Christian--yet a brute.?Would you know all his wisdom and his folly,?His actions, sayings, mirth, and melancholy??Boswell and Thrale, retailers of his wit,?Will tell you how he wrote, and talked, and cough'd, and spit.
VERSES UPON THE ROAD.?FACIT INDIGNATIO.
AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, BY DAVID GARRICK,?TO LORD JOHN CAVENDISH.
Whilst all with sighs their way pursue?From Chatsworth's blest abode,?My mind still fires, my Lord, at you,?And thus bursts out in ode.
Forgive my phrenzy, good Lord John,?For passion's my Apollo:?Sweet Hebe says, when sense is gone,?That nonsense needs must follow.
Like Indian knife, or Highland sword,?Your words have hewn and hack'd me;?Whilst Quin, a rebel to his lord,?Like his own Falstaff back'd me.
In vain I bounce, and fume, and fret,?Swear Shakespeare is divine;?Fitzherbert [24] can a while forget?His pains to laugh at mine.
Lord Frederick, George, and eke his Grace,?My honest zeal deride;?Nay, Hubert's melancholy face?Smirks on your Lordship's side.
With passion, zeal, and punch misled,?Why goad me on to strife??Why send me to a restless bed?And disappointed wife?
This my reward! and this from you!?Is't thus you Bowman [25] treat,?Who eats more toads than you know who?Each night did strawberries eat?
Did I not mount the dun-drawn chaise,?And sweat for many a mile??And gave his Grace's skill much praise,?Grinning a ghastly smile!
Did I not elsewhere risk my bones,?My Lord-Duke's freaks took pride in??Did I not trot down hills of Stones,?And call it pleasant riding?
Did I not all your feats proclaim,?Nor once from duty shrink??In flattery I sunk my fame,?A Bowman e'en in drink.
Did I not oft my conscience force,?Against its dictates swear??Have I not prais'd Lord Georg's horse??Nay, e'en your Lordship's mare?
Did I not oft, in rain and wind,?O'er hills, thro' vallies roam,?When wiser folk would lag behind,?And Spaniels staid at home?
Have I not with your natives fed,?The worst of all my labours;?And ventur'd both my ears and head?Amongst your scalping neighbours?
Not Quin's more blest with Calipee,?Fitzherbert in his puns,?Lord John in contradicting me,?Lord Frederick with his nuns,
Than I am blest in Shakespear's muse!?Each drop within my standish,?Each drop of blood for him I'll lose,?As firm as any Ca'ndish.
As Whig you gain the world's applause,?For once a Tory shine,?A Tory once in Shakespeare's cause,?And feel his right divine!
Attack my wife, my patent tear,?Do deeds without a name!?Burn, kill, or ravish, Lord! but spare,?Oh, spare my Shakespeare's fame!
Did not Dean Barker [26] wisely preach,?Opinion may be sin??Did not his sermon wisely teach?To cleanse ourselves within?
From infidelity awake!?Oh, melt your heart of stone;?Conceal your errors for my sake,?Or mend them for your own.
[Footnote 24: William Fitzherbert, Esq., of Tissington, M.P. for Derby.]
[Footnote 25: The name of a character in "Lethe."]
[Footnote 26: The Rev. William Barker, M.A., Dean of Raphoi He died about 1777.]
SATYR ON THE SCOTS.
BY MR. CLEVELAND.
Come, keen Iambicks, with your Badgers' Feet,?And Badger-like bite till your Teeth do meet;?Help ye, Tart Satyrists, to imp my Rage,?With all the Scorpions that should whip this Age.?But that there's Charm in Verse, I would not quote?The Name of Scot without an Antidote,?Unless my Head were red, that I might brew?Invention there that might be Poison too.?Were I a drowzy Judge, whose dismal Note?Disgorges Halters, as a Juggler's Throat?Does Ribbons; could I in Sir Empyrick's Tone?Speak Pills in Phrase, and quack Destruction;?Or roar like Marshal_, that _Geneva Bull,?Hell and Damnation a Pulpit full:?Yet to express a Scot,