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Poems on Several Occasions

By Edward, Lord Thurlow. The Second Edition, considerably enlarged
Thurlow, Edward Hovell-Thurlow (1781-1829)

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[section]
  
[dedication]
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VERSES PREFIXED TO THE DEFENCE OF POËSY.
  
TO THE MOST NOBLE PRINCE THE DUKE OF DORSET.
  
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORD HOLLAND.
  
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF GRANARD.
  
A SONG TO SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
  
HERMILDA.
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SYLVA:
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3. ON THE DEPARTURE OF THE EARL OF MOIRA, TO THE GOVERNMENT OF INDIA.
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4. A SONG, TO AMORET.
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6. A DIALOGUE OF TWO SHEPHERDS.
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8. A SONG.
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10. A SONG.
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11.
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13.
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17. TO THE VERY NOBLE, AND ACCOMPLISHED, THE LORD HOLLAND:
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18.
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21.
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22. TO A LADY:
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28.
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30. ON THE MANY ATTACKS MADE BY LATE WRITERS ON THE MEMORY OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
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31. FROM ANACREON.
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33. FROM THE ITALIAN OF DIANA SAMPIERI, OF OTRICOLI. ON A LADY BATHING.
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35. A SONG.
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36. THE FIRST PSALM.
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37. THE INDUCTION TO MY POEM, WHICH I DESIGNED TO WRITE; ENTITLED, “ENGLAND TRIUMPHANT.”
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38. THE PRAISE OF PINDAR, AND THEN OF AUGUSTUS:
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40. ON THE QUEEN'S PASSING THROUGH OTRICOLI, ON HER WAY TO ROME.
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41. ON THE QUEEN CHRISTINA'S ENTRANCE INTO OTRICOLI; DECEMBER 18, 1654.
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42. ON BEHOLDING MR. DENT'S LIBRARY, IN HERTFORD-STREET.
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45. FROM THE LATIN OF HORACE.
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47. ON MR. TODD'S EDITION OF SPENSER.
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48.
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58. THE LEGEND OF THE KNIGHT OF ILLYRIA.
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59. THE THIRD ELEGY OF THE THIRD BOOK OF TIBULLUS.
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61. FROM HORACE.
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62. FROM HORACE. THE THIRTEENTH ODE OF THE BOOK OF EPODES.

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162

30. ON THE MANY ATTACKS MADE BY LATE WRITERS ON THE MEMORY OF SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

O thou, the darling of the Muse,
Since senseless men thy wit abuse,
And all thy matchless fame refuse:
Though thou, indeed, art far above
The utmost fancy of our love;
And yet the shepherds sing of Jove:
I cannot tell what fate may be
To those, that thus would injure thee,
And spoil of immortality!
165

Since pity cannot touch their hearts,
Or Love with his thrice-golden darts,
Or fancy any joy imparts:
Since all heroick virtue seems
To them, but as mere empty dreams,
Or fuel for a Poet's themes:
They are by senseless nature so
Defended, that they cannot know
The poignant destiny of woe.
The spearman cannot wound a shade,
Nor marble by sharp thought be sway'd,
And yet their fortune may be weigh'd:
O Sidney, this shall be their doom,
The pale oblivion shall o'ercome
Their malice, and their faults consume!
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