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Oft from the balmy blessings of repose,
And the cool fillness of the night's deep shade,
Whilft fancy work'd with med'cine's powerful aid.
Oft in his dreams (no longer clogg'd with fears
Of some broad torrent, or some headlong steep,
When harrass'd Nature finks in turbid sleep)
Oft in his dreams he saw diffufive day
Through bursting glooms its cheerful beams extend;
And bright Hygeia from her heaven descend.
What marvel then, that man's o’erflowing mind
Should wreath-bound columns raise, and altars fair,
Tho' fancy-form'd, and creatures of the Air.
Who that has writh'd beneath the scourge of pain,
Or felt the burthen'd languor of disease,
And idolize the hand which lent him ease ?
To Thee, my friend, unwillingly to thee
For truths like these the anxious Muse appeals.
No, let me hope ere this in Romely grove
Hygeia revels with the blooming Spring, Ere this the vocal seats the Muses love
With hymns of praise, like Pæon's temple, ring:
It was not written in the book of Fate
That, wand'ring far from Albion's sea-girt plain, Thy distant Friend should mourn thy shorter date,
And tell to alien woods and streams his pain,
It was not written. Many a year fhall roll,
If aught th' inspiring Muse aright presage, Of blameless intercourse from Soul to Soul,
And friendship well matur'd from Youth to Age.
EHOLD, my friend, to this small orb confin'd
The genuine features of Aurelius' face; The father, friend, and lover of his kind,
Shrunk to a narrow coin's contracted space.
The medal of Marcus Aurelius,
Not so his fame ; for erft did heaven ordain
Whilst seas should waft us, and whilst suns should warm, On tongues of men, the friend of man Mould reign,
And in the arts he loy'd the patron charm.
Oft as amidst the mould'ring spoils of Age,
His moss-grown monuments my steps pursue ; Oft as my eye revolves the historic page,
Where pafs his generous acts in fair review, Imagination grasps at many things,
Which men, which angels might with rapture see; Then turns to humbler fcenes its safer wings,
And, blush nog whilst I speak it, thinks on thee.
With all that firm benevolence of mind,
Which pities, whilft it blames, th' unfeeling vain, With all that active zeal to ferve mankind,
That tender suffering for another's pain,
Why wert not thou to thrones imperial rais'd ?
Did heedless Fortune flumber at thy birth, Or on thy virtues with indulgence gaz’d, And
gave her grandeurs to her sons of earth? Happy for thee, whose less distinguished sphere
Now cheers in private the delighted eye,
And, Heav'n's divinelt gift, sweet Liberty.
Happy for me, on life's serener flood
Who fail, by talents as by choice reftrain's,
And lost the friend the Universe had gain’d.
The LYRIC MUSE to Mr. M A S O N.
On the Recovery of the Right Honourable the Earl
of HOLDERNESSE from a dangerous Illness.
Where every menial face affords
Does the noisy town deny