IV. They wou'd ne'er have been tir'd with gazing, And fo much her charms did please, Sir, That all of them ftaid Till their ale grew dead, And cold was their toafted cheese, Sir. V. How happy the lord of the manor, That fhall be of her poffeft, Sir; For all must agree, Who my HARRIET fhall fee, Then pray make a ballad about her; You can never be blam'd, For a prophet is often a poet. VII. But why don't you make one yourself then? I fuppofe I by you shall be told, Sir: This beautiful piece, Alas, is my niece; And befides she's but five years old, Sir. VIII. But tho', my dear friend, fhe's no older, Will, if fhe's alive, Be a goddess at fifteen, Sir. To Mr. GARNIER and Mr. PEARCE of BATH. A grateful ODE, in return for the extraordinary Kindness and Humanity they fhewed to me and my eldest Daughter, now Lady ESSEX, 1753. WHAT By the Same. I. HAT glorious verfe from Love has fprung? And can the gentle Mufe, Whilft in her once belov'd abode I ftray, and fuppliant kneel, an ode II. GARNIER, my friend, accept this verse, Let others, other fubjects fing, Some murd'rous chief, fome tyrant king, Humanity's my theme. III. For arts like yours, employ'd by you, To whom indulgent Heav'n Its fav'rite pow'r of doing good, Judiciously has giv'n. IV. Behold, IV. Behold, obedient to your pow'r, Nor chilling agues freeze; Health at your call extends her wing, O'er Death's approaches you prevail, VI. Thefe gifts, my friends, which fhine in you, Heav'n has the fame aflign'd; Health waits on Mead's prescription ftill, But hearts like yours are rare indeed, The lover's fear, the parent's groan, Your natures catch, and make your own, And share the pains you heal. VIII. But Oh, goddess, hear my pray'r, and grant ODE to DEATH. Tranflated from the By Dr. HAWKSWORTH. ET a few years, or days perhaps, YE Yor moments pafs with filent lapfe, Or moments And time to me fhall be no more; No more the fun thefe eyes fhall view, Alas! I touch the dreadful brink, Faft by my bed he takes his ftand, And conftant at my board is found. Earth, Earth, air, and fire, and water, join And where for fuccour can I fly ? I fee this tyrant of the mind, Once call'd from dust by pow'r divine; And can I then with guilty pride, Or look on aught around with scorn? But then this fpark that warms, that guides, That knows at once itself and God? Great |