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And baffle all the pow'rs of song ?-
A brazen throat, an iron tongue,
(Which poets wish for, when at length
Their subject soars above their strength)
Would shun the task. Our humbler Muse,
(Who only reads the public news,
And idly utters what she gleans
From chronicles and magazines)
Recoiling feels her feeble fires,
And blushing to her shades retires.
Alas! she knows not how to treat
The finer follies of the great,
Where ey’n, Democritus, thy sneer
Were vain as Heraclitus' tear.
Suffice it that by just degrees
They reach'd all heights, and rose with ease;
(For beauty wins its way, uncalld,
And ready dupes are ne'er black-ball’d.)
Each gambling dame she knew, and he
Knew every shark of quality;
From the grave, cautious few, who live
On thoughtless youth, and living thrive,
To the light train who mimic France,
And the soft sons of nonchalance.
While Jenny, now no more of use,
Excuse succeeding to excuse,
Grew piqued, and prudently withdrew
To shilling whist, and chicken loo.
Advanc’d to fashion's wav'ring head, They now, where once they follow'd, led.
Devis'd new systems of delight,
A-bed all day, and up all night,
In diff'rent circles reign'd supreme.
Wives copied her, and husbands him;
Till so divinely life ran on,,
So separate, so quite bon-ton,
That meeting in a public place,
They scarcely knew each other's face.
At last they met, by his desire,
A tête-à-tête across the fire;
Look'd in each other's face awhile,
With half a tear, and half a smile.
The ruddy health, which wont to grace
With manly glow his rural face,
Now scarce retain'd its faintest streak;
So sallow was his leathern cheek.
She lank, and pale, and hollow-ey'd,
With rouge had striven in vain to hide
What once was beauty, and repair
The rapine of the midnight air.
Silence is eloquence, 'tis -said.
Both wish'd to speak, both hung the head.
At length it burst. "'Tis time,” he cries,
“ When tir'd of folly, to be wise.
Are you too tir'd?”—then check'd a groan,
She wept consent, and he went on.
“ How delicate the married life!
You love your husband, I my wife.
Not ev'n satiety could tame,
Nor dissipation quench the flame.
“ True to the bias of our kind
'Tis happiness we wish to find.
In rural scenes retir'd we sought
In vain the dear, delicious draught,
Though blest with love's indulgent store,
We found we wanted something more.
'Twas company, 'twas friends to share
The bliss we languish’d to declare,
'Twas social converse, change of scene,
To soothe the sullen hour of spleen;
Short absences to wake desire,
And sweet regrets to fan the fire.
“ We left the lonesome place; and found,
In dissipation's giddy round,
A thousand novelties to wake
The springs of life and not to break.
As, from the nest not wand'ring far,
In light excursions through the air,
The feather'd tenants of the grove
Around in mazy circles move,
(Sip the cool springs that murm'ring flow,
Or taste the blossom on the bough)
We sported freely with the rest;
And, still returning to the nest,
In easy mirth we chatted o'er
The trifles of the day before.
“ Behold us now, dissolving quite
In the full ocean of delight;
In pleasures ev'ry hour employ,
Immers’d in all the world calls joy;
Our affluence easing the expense
Of splendour, and magnificence;
Our company, the exalted set
Of all that's gay, and all that's great:
Nor happy yet!—and where's the wonder!-
We live, my dear, too much asunder.”
The moral of my tale is this, Variety's the soul of bliss. But such variety alone, As makes our home the more our own. As from the heart's impelling pow'r The life-blood pours its genial store; Though, taking each a various way, The active streams meand'ring play Through ev'ry artery, ev'ry vein, All to the heart return again; From thence resume their new career, But still return, and centre there : So real happiness below Must from the heart sincerely flow; Nor, list'ning to the syren's song, Must stray too far, or rest too long. All human pleasures thither tend; Must there begin, and there must end; Must there recruit their languid force, And gain fresh vigour from their source.
BORN 1712.-DIED 1785.
RICHARD GLOVER was the son of a Hamburgh merchant, in London, and was born in St. Martin'slane, Cannon-street. He was educated at the school of Cheam, in Surrey ; but, being intended for trade, was never sent to the university. This circumstance did not prevent him from applying assiduously to classical learning; and he was, in the competent opinion of Dr. Warton, one of the best Greek scholars of his time. This fact is worth mentioning, as it exhibits how far a determined mind may connect the pursuits, and even distinctions of literature, with an active employment. His first poetical effort was a poem to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton, which was written at the age of sixteen; and which his friend, Dr. Pemberton, thought fit to prefix to a “ View of the Newtonian Philosophy,” which he published. Dr. Pemberton, who was a man of more science than taste, on this and on some other occasions, addressed the public with critical eulogies on the genius of Glover, written with an excess of admiration, which could be pardoned only for its sincerity. It gives us a higher idea of the youthful promises of his mind, to find that the intelligent poet Green had the same prepossession in his favour. Green says of him, in the “ Spleen,"