Nothing is had for nothing, all is sold,
Not to the wealthy only for their gold;
By strenuous action and by patient thought,
All our best blessings ever must be bought.
Man seldom fails to o'ertake what he pursues,
But 'tis most rare that object well to choose.
Could thine be wealth, wake early and watch late,
Or, scorning dross, wouldst thou be still more great?
The world's reproaches and thy own despise,
Be servile to rule others, creep to rise;
Or wouldst thou fame? court Science or the Muse,
An ardent lover neither can refuse :
Be oftener heard in Senates, now to still,
Now stir, their charmed Passions at thy Will.
To be renown'd some health and life expose,
Cross Afric's sands, or pierce the polar-snows,
Or in the Field, the bravest of the brave,
For glory seek, and find it—in the Grave.
Thy hopes, I know, have a far loftier aim
Than riches, rank, vain learning, or a name :
Of love, true honour, happiness, the price
Is fixed, and must be given-Self-sacrifice.
This, through thy life, has cheerfully been paid,
And the rich recompense as freely made.
'Tis thine the same just judgment to have shown
Of thy lov'd Country's welfare and thine own.
Still has it been thy fate-thy choice-to oppose
Power and Corruption, formidable foes!
And ah! how few the victories thou hast won!
Yet wilt thou deem thyself o'erpaid by one *.
The last, the most desir'd, a victory!
Long due to him, who still survives in thee.
Oh! could even now his generous Spirit feel
For Justice, Freedom, but its ancient Zeal,
Think with what heart-felt joy he must have view'd
Evils that foil'd even him, by thee subdued.
One conflict more †, and soon shall all be free,
All, all, whate'er their Creed may chance to be.
*Repeal of the Test and Corporation Acts.
+ Emancipation of the Catholics.
EPITAPH ON MR. HENDERSON *.
BORN to delight at once and mend the age,
Life to adorn, and dignify the stage,
No more, oh HENDERSON! thy magic art
Shall wake at will each passion of the heart;
No more thy ardour fire, thy humour cheer,
Nor at thy bidding start the obedient tear!
No more shall crowds entranc'd scarce breathing see
The dreams of Shakespeare realiz'd by thee.
Yet, were this all, this loss thy friends might bear,
And e'en with pride the general sorrow share,
But can they hope again, in one, to find
Thy sense and genius, wit and worth, combin'd?
* Buried in Westminster Abbey, 3rd December, 1785.
Where shall thy widow'd wife, thy orphan-child Meet love so warm, authority so mild?
Alas! thy fame shall still renew their grief:
And Time itself to them refuse relief.
SAY, Lovely Rose, so fragrant and so fair!
Why art thou doom'd these rugged thorns to bear?
None sure would steal thee from thy native bower,
Though smooth thy stem, and silken as thy flower.
Once was I a poor weed, a worthless briar;
Till HE, who tun'd thy voice, and strung thy lyre, Bade me these soft and blushing leaves to bear, And scatter perfume to the summer-air.
For, as she fled whose love he long had sought,
Her fluttering garments in my branches caught,
And she was won to listen to his vows:
When lo! these blooms, these odours deck'd my boughs!
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