454

Nor pack'd Committees break his rest,
Nor avarice sends him forth in quest
Of climes beneath the fun.

Short is our span; then why engage
In schemes for which man's tranfient age
Was ne'er by Fate design'd?
Why flight the gifts of Nature's hand ?
What wanderer from his native land
E'er left himself behind ?

The restless thought and wayward will,
And difcontent attend him still,

Nor quit him while he lives;
At fea, care follows in the wind;
At land, it mounts the pad behind,
Or with the post-boy drives.
He who would happy live to-day,
Must laugh the present ills away,
Nor think of woes to come;
For come they will, or foon or late,
Since mix'd at best is man's estate,
By Heav'n's eternal doom.

To ripen'd age Clive liv'd renown'd,
With lacks enrich'd, with honours crown'd,
His valour's well-earn'd meed.
Too long, alas! he liv'd to hate
His envied lot, and died too late,
From life's oppreffion freed.
An early death was Elliott's doom;
I faw his opening virtues bloom,
And manly sense unfold,
Too foon to fade. I bade the ftone
Record his name, 'midst * Hordes unknown,
Unknowing what it told.

To thee, perhaps, the Fates may give,
I wish they may, in health to live,

Herds, flocks, and fruitful fields;
Thy vacant hours in mirth to shine;
With thefe, the muse already thine,
Her present bounties yields.
For me, O Shore, I only claim,
To merit, not to feek for fame,

The good and just to please;
A ftate above the fear of want,
Domestic love, heaven's choiceft grant,
Health, leifure, peace and ease.

For ev'ry virtue there's a place,
That dignifies the human race.
Sometimes, indeed, the Vices drive
The envied Virtues from their hive,
The drone Insensibility
Invades the cell of Sympathy;
While the more active waspith train,
Eager to feize the rich domain,
(Should Virtue fleep) with poison'd darts
Envenom all the honey'd parts.-
Specious without, but foul within,
That artful, undermining fin,
Hypocrify, ufurps the cell
Where plain Sincerity should dwell!-

O, ever 455

Where ev'ry virtue reigns apart, It has by all been long confeft,

Friendship's is larger than the rest;
Or to expands, that numbers may
Unenvied hold united sway;

While in the monarch Cupid's cell
One favour'd guest alone can dwell.
Since I, fair Anna, dare not aim
To kindle in your heart Love's flame,
Haply I may, without offence,
To Friendship's part make some pretence.
O let me ever then remain
Where Friendship holds her social reign;
'Till (the long years of abfence o'er)
" Safe anchor'd on my native shore,"
Your fparkling eye and lips unfold,
In language to be felt, not told,
Nor time nor absence could impair
The traces of my image there.
En Artois, June 16, 1786.

G. W.

And bring the hour my pensive spirit loves, When o'er the mountain flow defcends the

ray

That gives to filence the deserted groves. Ah, let the happy court the morning still," When in her blooming loveliness array'd, She bids fresh beauty light the vale or hill, And rapture warble in the tuneful fhade.

Sweet is the odour of the morning's flow'r,
And rich in melody her accents rife;
But welcome is to me the fofter hour

At which her bloffoms close-her mufick
dies.

For then, while Nature drops her weary
head,
She wakes the tear its luxury to shed.

RECEIPT to make a PASTORAL.
By the late Mr. HENDERSON.
AKE first two handfuls of wild thyme,
Or any herb that fuits your rhyme,

T

And shred it finely o'er your plains,
Fit to receive your rolling swains.
With crocus, violets, and daifies,
Be sure to fill the vacant places;
Then plant your groves and myrtle bowers,
(Well water'd with celestial showers)

And

Mr. PINGO, by direction of Mr Garrick, engraved a medal, on one side of which was the Manager's head; on the reverse, three Sgures, that resembled plague, pestilence, and famine, more than what they were in. tended to reprefent, namely, the three Graces, with this modeft infcription,

"He has united all your powers." This being, by a Gentleman to whom Mr. Garrick had presented it, shewn to Mr. Henderfon, he repeated the following lines:

THREE squalid hags when Pingo form'd, And chriften'd them the Graves; Garrick, with Shakespear's magic warm'd, Recogniz'd foon their faces.

He knew them for the fifters weird,

Whose art bedimm'd the noon-tide hour, And from his lips this line was heard, " I have united all your power."

So Garrick, critics all agree,

The Graces help'd thee to no riches,
And Pingo thus to flatter thee,
Has made bis Graces witches.

The brightest verdure of Castalia's bay;
And gave an ampler meed
Of Pifan palms, than in the field of fame
Were wont to crown the car's victorious
speed;

And hail'd his scepter'd Champion's patriot
zeal,
Who mix'd the monarch's with the people's
weal;

From civil plans who claim'd applause, And train'd obedient realms to Spartan

laws.

111.

And he, sweet master of the Doric ost,
Theocritus, forfook awhile
The graces of his paftoral iste;
The lowing vale, the bleating cote,
The clusters on the funny steep,
And Pan's own umbrage, dark and deep,
The caverns hung with ivy-twine,
The cliffs that wav'd with oak and pine,
And Etna's hoar romantic pile;
And caught the bold Homeric note,
In stately founds exalting high
The reign of bounteous Ptolemy :
Like the plenty-teeming tide
Of his own Nile's redundant flood,
O'er the cheer'd nations, far and wide,

Diffusing opulence and public good:
While, in the rich-warbled lays
Was blended Berenice's name,
Pattern fair of female fame;
Softening with domeftic life
Imperial splendour's dazzling rays,
The queen, the mother, and the wife!

THE

1

HE following Prologue, mentioned in our Magazine for March last (fee p. 207), we could not before obtain a copy of: PROLOGUE,

OCCASIONED BY THE

DEATH of Mr. HENDERSON,
Spoken by Mrs. SIDDONS, *
At Covent-Garden, Feb. 25, 1786.
Written by ARTHUR MURPHY, Efq.

ERE fiction try this night her magic
Arain,

And blend mysteriously delight with pain;
Ere yet the wake her train of hopes and fears
For Jaffier's wrongs and Belvidera's tears,
Will you permit a true, a recent grief

To vent its charge, and feek that sad relief? How shall we feel the tale of feign'd distress,

While on the heart our own aflictions press? When our own friend, when Henderson expires,

And from the tomb one parting pang requires!

In yonder Abbey shall he rest his head, And on this spot no virtuous drop be shed? You will indulge our grief: - Those

crowded rows

roar,

Is now no counterfeit :--He'll rise no more! 'Twas Henderson's the drama to pervade, Each paffion touch, and give each nicer shade. When o'er these boards the Roman Father pafs'd

But I forbear- that effort was his last.
The Muse there saw his zeal, tho' rack'd with
pain,

While the flow fever ambush'd in cach vein.
She fought the bed, where pale and wan he
lay,
And vainly try'd to chase disease away;
Watch'd ev'ry look, and number'd ev'ry sigh,
And gently, as he liv'd, she saw him die.
Wild with her griefs, she join'd the mourn-
ful throng,

With fullen found as the hearse mov'd along:
Through the dim vaulted ailes she led the

EVROP. MAG.

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