Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Since Epic Strains no more are heard;
Nor Vertue, lately, has appear'd
In long-spun Fable: Since no God
Works Wonders now in Episod.
But Poets write (as Doctors Cure
By Chymic Skill) in Miniature.

Since Pages few of flowing Wit,
On merry Subjects, Archly writ,
Out-rival all the Tales, of Old,
By Strong-lung'd Greek or Latin told.
In short, my Lord, since Folio-Praise
Is thought unbred, in these our Days;
And since a little Ode or Letter
Is sooner penn'd, and, relish'd better:
Accept the humble Verse I chuse;
A Wakening to some sprightlier Muse:
Accept it from your faithful Friend;
The Love, which you create, I send.
I send you Health, I send you Praise;
And Length and Faustity of Days.
May every Year, may every Hour,
Honours and Blessings on you pour:
And when good Durham sleeps in Peace,
O! may you Bless the Diocese.

Knowledge Extensive, Useful, New:
A Head so Clear, a Heart so True:
Vertue embody'd! a Whole Life,
For LIBERTY, one glorious Strife:
Talents like These, let all Men know it,
Deserve a Better See, and Poet.

Whilst I, my Lord, deceive my Time
With Milton's Blank, or Welsted's Rhime:
Whilst I my Hours, at Will, employ,
And feel no Care, without a Joy:
Whilst deep in Lore and Learned Text,
I'm oft inlighten'd, oft perplex'd:
Whilst Clemens and his Friends, awhile,
In Facts I trace, or sift in Stile;
Plodding to Sleep my pensive Mind,
One Truth, in Hours, explain'd to find.
Or whilst I rouze to Life again,
With Horace, Lucan, or Montagne;

Or still give Gayer Pleasures Birth;
Court Music, Wit, and living Mirth:
And upon all of these refine
With Atticus and Generous Wine.

I say, with Negligence and Ease,
Whilst much I strive myself to please;
More Uniform and Rigid, You
Your unremitted Toils pursue;
Make Mankind's Good your Sole Delight;
Your Morning Thought; your Care at Night.

But, since, my Lord, our Holy War
Is ending, just as others are:
Or, since this War, (much like the Flemish)
ONE CAMPAIGN more, will, surely, Finish,
For which, in due Time, we shall look;
You'll not be Cashier'd, like the DUKE.

Since all your Foes, the Small, the Great One,
This of the Temple, That of Eton,
Quitting the Field, away have flown,
And, humbly, laid their Weapons down.
Since Those, who Scandal were imploy'd on,
From Carlisle Town, to that of Croydon;
That is to say, from South to North,
Their Rage, in vain, have bluster'd forth:
Since Wor'ster's Dean, who would be dabbling,
Has paid, full well, for Putney-babbling;
As Joseph Smith, and half a Score,
Like Atterbury heretofore,
Calamy, Blackhall, many more.

Since Figulus, if I can guess well,
Will ne'er repair his broken Vessel:
And is thought neither Wise nor Nice,
To print such Country, Stale Advice.
Since George's Schemes, with Power, o'erthrow
Each Lukewarm Friend, each Red-hot Foe;

And all is snug, and safe and quiet,
From Westminster, to Warsaw-Diet;
Nay, since the Church is far from Change, Sir,
And the Stage only was in Danger.

In Fine, my Lord, since The Craft fails,
And Truth and Liberty prevails;
Relieve your Mind, your Spirits spare:
Forget your Glory, and your Care:
Bethink: Your Foes are fled and gone;
Enjoy the Triumphs you have won.
Divide yourself amongst your Friends;
With which Advice my Letter ends:
Hoping we, speedily, shall meet,
Not without Clark, in Gerrard-Street.