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Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault?
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?
Here Douglas retires from bis toils to relax, Who mixt reason with pleasure, and wisdom with The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks: mirth:
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines, If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reAt least, in six weeks, I could not find 'em out;
Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture;
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can,
Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, And beplaster'd with rouge, his own natural red. While the owner ne'er kvew half the good that was On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; in't;
'Twas only that, when he was off, he was acting. The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along,
With no reason on earth to go out of his way, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day: Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick, The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home; If they were not his own by finessing and trick: Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none; He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave,
you gave? As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
rais'd, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts ; While he was be-Roscius'd,and you were be-prais'd? A flattering painter, who made it his care
peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
To act as an angel, and mix with the skies: His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, And comedy wonders at being so fine;
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will; Like a tragedy queen he has dizen’d her out,
Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
love, His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud,
Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant cresAnd coxcombs alike in their failings alone,
ture, Adopting his portraits are pleas'd with their own.
And slander itself must allow him good-nature: Say, where has our poet this malady caught?
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumperi
Yet one fault he had, and that was a thumper. He has not left a wiser or better behind; Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser: His pencil was striking, resistless and grand; 1 answer, no, no, for he always was wiser:
His manners were gentle, complying and bland; Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
Still born to improve us in every part,
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, And so was too foolishly honest? ah no!
When they judg'd without skill he was still hard of Then what was his failing ? come tell it, and burn hearing: ye,
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios and He was, could he help it? a special attorney.
stuff, Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He shifted his trumpet, and only took souff.
THE ART OF PRESERVING HEALTH.
Daughter of Pæon, queen of every joy, Hygeia ; whose indulgent smile sustains The various race luxuriant nature pours, And on th' immortal essences bestows Immortal youth ; auspicious, O descend! Thou cheerful guardian of the rolling year, Whether thou wanton’st on the western gale, Or shak’st the rigid pinions of the north, Diffusest life and vigour through the tracts Of air, through earth, and ocean's deep domain.When through the blue serenity of heaven Thy power approaches, all the wasteful host Of pain and sickness, squalid and deform’d, Confounded sink into the lothesome gloom, Where in deep Erebus involv'd the fiends Grow more profane. Whatever shapes of death, Shook from the hideous chambers of the globe, Swarm through the shudd'ring air: whatever
Without thy cheerful active energy
Harder in clear and animated song
Nor should I wander doubtful of my way,
Ye who amid this feverish world would wear
That fans the ever undulating sky;
Skin ill-perspiring, and the purple flood
Yet not alone from humid skies we pine;
Bare and extended wide without a stream,
Which, by the surface, from the blood exhales.
The lungs grow rigid, and with toil essay
Their flexible vibrations; or, inflam'd,
That slow as Lethe wanders through the veins:
The secret mazy channels of the brain.
The melancholic fiend (that worst despair
So sudden tumults seize the trembling nerves,
Fly, if you can, these violent extremes
Of air: the wholesome is nor moist nor dry.
To half mankind, a further task ensues ;
How best to mitigate these fell extremes,
How breathe, unhurt, the withering element,
Or hazy atmosphere: though custom moulds
To ev'ry clime the soft Promethean clay;
And he who first the fogs of Essex breath'd
Of Essex from inveterate ills revive,
At pure Montpelier or Bermuda caught,
Correct the soil, and dry the sources up
Conduct your trenches through the quaking bog;
Solicitous, with all your winding arts,
Betray th' unwilling lake into the stream;
And weed the forest, and invoke the winds
To break the toils where strangled vapours lie;
Or through the thickets send the crackling flames. And oft the sorceress, in her sated wrath,
Meantime, at home, with cheerful fires dispel
The humid air: and let your table smoke
With solid roast or bak’d; or what the herds
Of tamer breed supply; or what the wilds
But frugal be your cups: the languid frame,
Vapid and sunk from yesterday's debauch,
Shrinks from the cold embrace of watery heavens.
But neither these, nor all Apollo's arts,
Disarm the dangers of the drooping sky,
Unless with exercise and manly toil
You brace your nerves, and spur the lagging blood.
The fatt’ning clime let all the sons of ease
Avoid ; if indolence would wish to live,
Go, yawn and loiter out the long slow year
In fairer skies. If droughty regions parch
The skin and lungs, and bake the thickening blood;
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vais; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue; And his long nights of revelry and ease.
And even in penance planning sins anew. The naked negro, panting at the line,
All evils here contaminate the mind, Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
That opulence departed leaves behind; Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,
For wealth was theirs, not far remov'd the date, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave.
When commerce proudly flourish'd through the Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,
At her command the palace learn'd to rise, (state; His first best country, ever is at home;
Again the long-fall’n column sought the skies; And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
The canvas glow'd beyond ev'n nature warm, And estimate the blessings which they share, The pregnant quarry teem'd with human form. Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, An equal portion dealt to all mankind;
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail; As different good, by art or nature given
While nought remain’d of all that riches gave, To different nations, makes their blessings even.
But towns unmann'd, and lords without a slave: Nature, a mother kind alike to all,
And late the nation found with fruitless skill,
Yet, still the loss of wealth is here supplied
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride; And though the rocky-crested summits frown, From these the feeble heart and long-fall'a mind These rocks, by custom, turn to beds of down. An easy compensation seem to find. From art more various are the blessings sent; Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, Wealth, commerce, honour, liberty, content. The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade; Yet these each other's power so strong contest, Processions form'd for piety and love, That either seems destructive of the rest.
A mistress or a saint in every grove. Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment fails; By sports like these are all their cares beguil', And honour sinks where commerce long prevails. The sports of children satisfy the child. Hence every state to one lov'd blessing prone,
Each nobler aim, represt by long controul, Conforms and models life to that alone.
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul;
While low delights, succeeding fast behind,
As in those domes, where Cæsars once bore sway, This favorite good begets peculiar pain.
Defac'd by time and tott'ring in decay, But let us try these truths with closer eyes, There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, And trace them through the prospect as it lies: The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed; Here, for a while my proper cares resign'd, And, wondering man could want the larger pile, Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind;
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. Like yon neglected shrub at random cast,
My soul turn from them, turn we to survey That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast. Where rougher climes a nobler race display,
Far to the right where Apennine ascends, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion treed. Bright as the summer, Italy extends;
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread; Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, No product here the barren hills afford, Woods over woods in gay theatric pride;
But man and steel, the soldier and his sword. While oft some temple's mould'ring tops between No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, With venerable grandeur mark the scene.
But winter lingering chills the lap of May: Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast,
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, The sons of Italy were surely blest.
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest. Whatever fruits in different climes are found,
Yet still, even here, content can spread a chars, That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground; Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts that Whose bright succession decks the varied year;, He sees his little lot the lot of all; Whatever sweets salute the northern sky
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head With vernal lives, that blossom but to die;
To shame the meanness of his humble shed; These here disporting own the kindred soil, No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil:
To make him loathe his vegetable meal; While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand, But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, To winnow fragrance round the smiling land. Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil.
But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose, And sensual bliss is all the nation knows.
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes; In florid beauty groves and fields appear,
With patient angle trolls the finny deep, Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Or drives his vent'rous ploughshare to the sect; Contrasted faults through all his manners reign: Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the say,