TO THE EARL OF PETERBOROW, WHO COMMANDED THE BRITISH FORCES IN SPAIN. MORDANTO fills the trump of fame, The Christian worlds his deeds proclaim, In journies he outrides the post, Knows every prince in Europe's face, From Paris gazette à-la-main, A messenger comes all a-reek, Next day the post-boy winds his horn, Mordanto gallops on alone; The roads are with his followers strown; His body active as his mind, Returning sound in limb and wind, Except some leather lost behind. A skeleton in outward figure, His meagre corpse, though full of vigour, Would halt behind him, were it bigger. So wonderful his expedition, Shines in all climates like a star; In senates bold, and fierce in war; A land commander, and a tar: Heroic actions early bred in, Ne'er to be match'd in modern reading, But by his name-sake, Charles of Sweden. THE PROGRESS OF POETRY. THE farmer's goose, who in the stubble But, when she must be turn'd to graze, And round the barren common strays, Hard exercise and harder fare Soon make my dame grow lank and spare: Her body light, she tries her wings, And scorns the ground, and upward springs; While all the parish, as she flies, Hear sounds harmonious from the skies. Such is the poet fresh in pay (The third night's profits of his play); The steed, oppress'd, would break his girth, But view him in another scene, His flesh brought down to flying case: |