 | The life and posthumous writings |  |
64
[Abbot is painting me so true]
Abbot is painting me so true,That (trust me) you would stare
And hardly know, at the first view,
If I were here, or there.
66
[Through floods and flames to your retreat]
LETTER XXXIV.
To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esqr.
Weston, July 29, 1792.
Through floods and flames to your retreatI win my desp'rate way,
And when we meet, if e'er we meet,
Will echo your huzza.
138
[Beware of building! I intended]
Beware of building! I intended
Rough logs and thatch, and thus it ended.
Rough logs and thatch, and thus it ended.
140
Instead of a pound or two, spending a mint
Must serve me at least, I believe, with a hint,
That building and building a man may be driven
At last out of doors, and have no house to live in.
Must serve me at least, I believe, with a hint,
That building and building a man may be driven
At last out of doors, and have no house to live in.
142
[The Sculptor?—nameless, though once dear to fame]
The Sculptor?—nameless, though once dear to fame;But this Man bears an everlasting name.
148
[Her pen drops eloquence as sweet]
Her pen drops eloquence as sweetAs any Muse's tongue can speak;
Nor need a scribe, like her, regret
Her want of Latin or of Greek.
303
[To be remember'd thus is fame]
To be remember'd thus is fame,
And in the first degree;
And did the few, like her the same,
The press might rest for me.
And in the first degree;
And did the few, like her the same,
The press might rest for me.
So Homer in the memory stor'd
Of many a Greecian belle,
Was once preserv'd—a richer hoard,
But never lodg'd so well!
Of many a Greecian belle,
Was once preserv'd—a richer hoard,
But never lodg'd so well!
386
VERSES TO THE MEMORY OF DR. LLOYD,
Spoken at the Westminster Election next after his decease.
Our good old friend is gone, gone to his rest,Whose social converse was itself a feast.
O ye of riper years, who recollect,
How once ye lov'd, and eyed him with respect,
Both in the firmness of his better day,
While yet he rul'd you with a father's sway,
And when impair'd by time, and glad to rest,
Yet still with looks in mild complacence drest,
387
His sprightly vein with yours, now drop a tear!
In morals blameless, as in manners meek,
He knew no wish, that he might blush to speak,
But, happy in whatever state below,
And richer than the rich in being so,
Obtain'd the hearts of all, and such a meed
At length from one as made him rich indeed.
Hence then, ye titles, hence, not wanted here!
Go! garnish merit in a higher sphere,
The brows of those, whose more exalted lot
He could congratulate, but envy'd not!
Light lie the turf, good Senior, on thy breast,
And tranquil, as thy mind was, be thy rest!
Tho' living thou hadst more desert than fame,
And not a stone now chronicles thy name!
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