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But then this friendship if I would acquire,
On worthless altars Feeling must expire !

What can I do?-My tongue was never taught
To utter language foreign to my thought :
I, a mere dunce in Flattery's polith'd school,
Hardly forbear to call a fool, a fool.
When things are talk'd of, which do not appear,
I have not eyes to see, nor ears to hear :
When things are sworn to, which I can't conceive,
Is it not monstrous that I won't believe ?

Since, then, I cannot settled rules obey,
Where art and artifice bear sovereign sway ;
O let me fly from follies such as these,
Murd'rers of bliss, and antidotes to ease !
All that the busy and the vain adore
Shall waste my time, and charm my heart, no more.

No more of politics !—though Party rave,
And madd’ning Discontent her ensign wave ;
No more of politics !--though Burke should strive
To make us fancy Cicero alive :
Pythag'ras, hearing him, perhaps might fay,
The Roman foul gave life to Irish clay.
The same splenetic tale told o'er and o’er
Makes old men cough, while young men cry,

« A bore!"
Thou canst not make white black, nor yet black white;
And though we listen a whole winter's night
To the smooth rhetoric of thy polish'd tongue,
We're still convinc'd that what is wrong—is wrong:
Pleas'd with thy language, we could fit whole days
To hear such music in prosaic lays ;
Ev'n women read thy speeches with delight,
In Woodfall's morning paper, brought at night ;


And, but the rigid order * still prevails,
Would fit attentive to thy Indian Tales!

No more of politics!-though wit should flow
In useless simile and petty show;
Though Sheridan, who seldom aims at more,
Should set the gaping senate in a roar,
*And by his comic eloquence make clear,
Where'er he is, the “ School for Scandal's" there.
Thou “modern Congreve!" quit the fenate's jar,
Nor waste stage wit in whiggish wordy war.

See from the sacred hill the Muse defcend!
Why shun the Muse, thy best and earlieft friend?
Oblations bring to her neglected shrine,
And never-fading laurels shall be thine.

No more of politics!-thoPitt should show
How calmly Truth can conquer every foe;
What mighty magic in a good name lies,
And his leaft praise to be reputed wise;
How youth, well spent, the steepest heights may climb,
And join the sense of North with Burke's fublime ;
A mind unhackney'd in the tricks of state,
And aiming to be good as well as great.
Such once was Chatham! whose prophetic eye
Beheld a future statesman in his boy.
T'extend her conquests, and to fee unfurl'd
Britannia's colours in the western world;
To fee, triumphant, England's navy ride,
Was Chatham's happy lot, and Chatham's noble pride!
But Chatham's son more arduous cares employ ;
Tis his to save what Faction would destroy :

* The order excluding ladies from the gallery of the House of Commons,


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'Tis his-the hardest talk impos'd by fate,To save the glory of a finking state.

So, when autumnal fruits and summer flowers Submit to Boreas and the wintry powers, Nature seems dead: Time moves with frozen wing, Till circling hours bring on the youthful spring.

No more of politics—but let me quit The fophiftry of Charles, and Courtenay's wit; The Bible eloquence of holy Hill, And quoting Johnny, with his book-learn'd skill." Whatever wonder or contempt excites, The “human properties" of new-made knights, Speeches to clear, or speeches to oppose, No more shall interrupt my calm repose. The milky words of all the courtier Peers No more shall find a passage to my ears : Not subtle Shelburne's eloquence shall move, Nor well-skill'd Mansfield, whom the Graces love; Nor courtly Loughl'rough, elegantly great, Nor nervous Stormont, ftrength’ning the debate ; Nor yet new Norfolk, though he should engage To charm a fyren from the sportive stage; Nor Hawkesbury, by scribbling wits abhorr'd, For meriting the title of a Lord; Nor smooth-tongued Richmond, he who ftrove with fncers To combat Thurlow in the House of Peers; Nor Thurlow's self, who dignifies the helm, Th' Ulysses of the law, th' Achilles of the realm !


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ITH more regret I quit the British stage,

Fit school for youth, and haunt of cheerful age.
Aspiring Holman's academic fame
With early laurels grac'd his youthful name :
But Panegyric, with her trumpet tongue,
Instead of weak’ning made his foibles strong :
“ For Fame, impatient of extremes, decays,
“ Not more by envy, than excess of praise.”
When I behold him arm’d with Macbeth's Thield,
Or grasp the tyrant's sword, in Bosworth-field ;
In gentle Hamlet weep, in Romeo rave,
“ Taking the measure of an unmade grave;"
I pity Shakspeare, nor his scenes enjoy,
Condemn the actor,--but applaud the boy.

Pope's “happy voice and pleasing powers" may shine,
When judgment shall those pleasing powers combine :
We see him now, with Farren, sink and rise,
Like the moon labouring through the cloudy skies.

-When Kemble first appeard,
The actors trembled, and the critics (neer'd :
For rifing merit here has pow'rful foes,
These urg'd by envy, by ambition those.
In Hamlet he display'd enlighten'd taste,
In every scene was elegantly chafte;
Led on by judgment and by happy care,
The prince was ne'er forgotten in the player.
Alarm’d, the critics could not but admire;
But then they fancied that he wanted fire !
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In dauntless Richard he redeems his name,
And joins the critic's to the player's fame;
In Posthumus and Macbeth too we find
The lucid efforts of a vigorous mind.
His foes to scorn unbiass'd judgment dooms :
Their censure dies, while Kemble's genius bloonis.

Scanty the tragic merit on the stage :
Where are the rising Garricks of the age ?
Who boasts of Barry's sweetness, Powell's fire,
Or shall to fame with Henderson aspire ?
Join both the houses, and then tell me where
Shine lofty Wolsey, and the frantic Lear,
The gallant Antony, and Brutus bold,
Timon the good, and Lusignan the old ?
Preserv'd by Providence from chill despair,
You'll find them strolling to some country fair!

But still the tragic muse aspires to fame, And dwells with rapture on her Siddons' name. Her plaintive voice when listening Folly hears, Insensibility expires in tears ; With powers

refiftless in each arduous part, She melts, she rends, she petrifies the heart ! Through every breast the rapid paffion fies, Malice is mute, and even Envy dies !

With judgment polish'd, and with tafte refin'd, In Pope the rival muses seem combin'd:. So one choice ftem a double beauty bears, A smiling bloffom, and a bud in tears. Well pleas'd I fee, the tragic power to spread, А

younger heroine by genius led : If future bards record not Brunton's name, Time fhall inscribe it on the roll of Fame.

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