TO THE AUTHOR OF A PANEGYRIC ON MRS. GRACE BUTLER, WHO DIED AGED LXXXVI. SUPPOSED FROM HER SPIRIT. By the Same. STRIPT to the naked soul, escap'd from clay, No, 'tis a spirit's nobler taste of bliss! That feels the worth it left, in proofs like this; That not its own applause, but thine, approves; Whose practice praises, and whose virtue loves! Who liv'st, to crown departed friends with fame! Then, dying late, shalt all thou gav'st reclaim. BY THE RIGHT HONORABLE THE EARL OF CARLISLE, ON HIS SCHOOLFELLOWS WHILE AT ETON. IN youth, 'tis said, you easily may scan, How will whole nations listen to his lay! Say, will Fitzwilliam ever want a heart Cheerful, his ready blessings to impart ? Will not another's woe his bosom share, The widow's sorrow, and the orphan's prayer? Who aids the old, who soothes the mother's cry, Who wipes the tear from off the virgin's eye? Who feeds the hungry? who assists the lame? All, all re-echo with Fitzwilliam's name. Thou know'st I hate to flatter, yet in thee No fault, my friend, no single speck I see. Nor, if alike my former maxims true, Shall e'er ill-nature tinge thy heart, Buccleugh; How will my Fox, alone, thy strength of parts, Shake the loud senate, animate the hearts Of fearful statesmen ? while around you stand Both peers and commons listening your command; While Tully's sense its weight to you affords, His nervous sweetness shall adorn your words: What praise to Pitt, to Townshend e'er was due, In future times, my Fox, shall wait on you. Mild as the dew that whitens yonder plain, Legge shines serenest 'midst your youthful train; He whom the search of Fame with rapture moves, Disdains the pedant, tho' the muse he loves; By nature form'd with modesty to please, And join'd with wisdom unaffected ease. Will e'er Ophaly, consciously unjust, Revoke his promise, or betray his trust? What, tho' perhaps with warmer zeal he'd hear The echoing horn, the sportsman's hearty cheer, Than god-like Homer's elevated song; Loud as the torrent, as the billows strong; Cast o'er this fault a friendly veil, you'll find Witness, ye Naiads, and ye guardian powers, Who sit sublime on Henry's lofty towers; Witness if e'er I saw thy open brow, Sunk in despair, or sadden'd into woe, Well-natur'd Stavordale-the task is thine Foremost in pleasure's festive band to shine: Say, wilt thou pass alone the midnight hour, Studious the depths of Plato to explore? To lighter subjects shall thy soul give way, Nor heed what grave philosophers shall say? The god of mirth shall list thee in his train, A cheerful vot'ry, and the foe of pain. Whether I Storer sing in hours of joy, |