Quaint Gleanings from Ancient Poetry | Page 9

Edmund Goldsmid
for France the
English East India Company appointed Mr. Hastings governor of
Bengal." And Monsieur Suffrien, in a letter to Hastings, relative to his
treatment of English prisoners, says that he wishes to explain the
motives of his conduct to one "of whom all the world speaks well,"-and
surely a compliment of this kind was never paid with more justice to
any individual than to Warren Hastings. Throughout India and Europe,
the character of no man was more generally known or more universally
respected.]
AN IMITATION OF HORACE
BOOK II., ODE 16.
WRITTEN BY WARREN HASTINGS
ON HIS PASSAGE
FROM BENGAL TO ENGLAND IN 1785.
ADDRESSED TO
JOHN SHORE, ESQ.
For ease the harass'd seaman prays,
When Equinoctial tempests raise

The Cape's surrounding wave;
When hanging o'er the reef, he hears

The cracking mast, and sees or fears,
Beneath, his wat'ry grave.
For ease the slow Maratta spoils,
And hardier Sic erratic toils,

While both their ease forego;
For ease, which neither gold can buy,

Nor robes, nor gems, which oft belie,
The cover'd heart bestow;

For neither gold nor gems combin'd
Can heal the soul, or suffering
mind;
Lo! where their owner lies,
Perch'd on his couch Distemper
breathes,
And Care like smoke, in turbid wreathes,
Round the gay
cieling flies.
He who enjoys, nor covets more,
The lands his father held before,

Is of true bliss possess'd:
Let but his mind unfetter'd tread
Far as the
paths of knowledge lead,
And wise as well as blest.
No fears his peace of mind annoy
Lest printed lies his fame destroy,

Which labour'd years have won,
Nor pack'd committees break his
rest,
Nor avarice sends him forth in quest
Of climes beneath the
sun.
Short is our span; then why engage
In schemes, for which man's
transient age
Was ne'er by Fate designed?
Why slight the gifts of
Nature's hand?
What wanderer from his native land
E'er left himself
behind?
The restless thought, and wayward will,
And discontent attend him
still,
Nor quit him while he lives;
At sea care follows in the wind,

At land it 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
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