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174

COMPLIMENTARY VERSES TO THE AUTHOR.

175

SONNET.

Whate'er the buildings I have raised to fame,
And whether long or short their future date,
Amid the effusions of a purer flame
This niche to Vanity I consecrate.
Accept these offerings Goddess!—Who in arms
Of boasted proof so strongly girt can stand,
As not to fall beneath thy magic charms,
Alluring graces, and enchanting wand?
Who can resist the flattering notes of praise
When she her voice in elegance arrays,
And calls on friendship to attest it's truth?
Nor do I blush to yield; with pride endue
My soul; and set the applauses of the Few
'Gainst scorn, and blame, and envy's canker'd tooth.
176

To the AUTHOR,

On the first Publication of his Poems.

Hail happy Britain! Land of Liberty!
Land of the Muses also now I find,
For surely Downman they reside with thee,
So rich thy fancy, and so pure thy mind.
Methought I saw them mounted on the wing,
And threatening to withdraw their wonted smile,
Prepared they seem'd in distant climes to sing,
No more on Albion's undeserving Isle.
I saw, and mourn'd, for I revered their power,
And what is life without their heavenly lays?
Who mid it's thorns shall raise the balmy flower?
Who sprinkle dew-drops o'er it's barren ways?
177

But thou, my Downman—how I call'd thee mine
I wist not, yet forgive the friendly zeal,
Unskill'd my heart in fraudulent design,
What nature prompts, I know not to conceal.
And why suspicion when no danger's near?
From thee who dreads the haughty, cold disdain?
Can scornful pride (unreasonable fear)
Sully a breast, so gentle, so humane?
As the fond Parent, when some foreign shore
Calls from her arms her son, her sole delight,
With aching heart hears the mad ocean roar,
And thousand anxious thoughts her mind affright.
Thus, when thy Muse, yet tender, yet unknown,
Thro the wide world thou wert resolved to send,
Say, when thou found'st her from thy bosom flown,
Did not like anxious thoughts that bosom rend?
178

Fain would I help thee to dispell those fears,
Nor aught of friendship's healing balm deny,
Fain would reduce the phantom that appears
Hideous, gigantic, to the timorous eye.
Curst be Ill-nature, eager to devour
Young Genius! Curst be envy, venom'd brute!
Which crops the beauties of the rising flower,
Or blasts it, ere it ripens into fruit.
These be thine enemies: to such as these
Thy tender song affords delicious food,
Expect their hate, and be content to please
None but the elegant, polite, and good.
In full possession of thy fair one's charms,
When all the world shall call thee happy youth,
When Thespia, lovely Thespia's willing arms
Soon shall reward thy constancy and truth;
179

Leave then thy amorous elegiac lays,
Smooth as the gliding movement of the Dove,
Thy flight to Heaven on bolder pinions raise,
And nobly emulate the bird of Jove.
To celebrate the wise, the truly great,
In lyric, or in epic strain be thine,
Draw modest worth from it's obscure retreat,
And with due lustre make it's virtues shine.
Or if the cause demands to arm thy pen,
Dare to chastise the loose abandon'd race,
“Brand the bold front of shameless guilty men,”
And make each Cynthio tremble to be base.
This thy employ. —I, whose aspiring mind
Life's toil restrains, and damps poetic fire,
Pleased will behold thee; and far, far behind,
Will learn at humble distance to admire.
Tiverton, July 25, 1768. T. WOOD.
180

AN EPISTLE

To the Same.

Write says Melissa, fie my Dear,
You know the expected time is near;
And unimproved to let it pass
Would surely ask a front of brass.
Good Heaven! this subject why renew?
Reflect on what I have in view.
Sunday you know is just at hand,
Not many hours I can command,
Yet I my talents must display,
And preach at Ratho all the day.
Fancy besides no longer paints
Her fairy scenes; e'en nature faints.
How shall to verse my spirits rise,
Inured of late to sermonize?
From jaded thought, and barren brain
These arguments I urge in vain,
181

For let me say whate'er I will,
Melissa importunes me still.
True, Fancy is not in our power,
Unless we catch the lucid hour.
But Friendship's bright and holy flame
In feeling souls is still the same.
If in your heart her ardours glow,
Spontaneous will your verses flow;
Each brilliant thought they will suggest,
And animate the languid breast.
Yet e'en if this resource should fail,
Nor o'er your lethargy prevail,
At least your kind intention shew,
And pay the thanks you justly owe.
Oh! could my grateful spirit soar
High as the Theban swan of yore,
Whose lay through earth's remotest bounds,
And Heaven's extensive arch resounds,
182

When fired some victor to proclaim
At Isthmian or Olympic game.
Then should my faithful numbers tell
What transports in my bosom swell,
My soul what keen emotions thrill,
My eyes what tepid currents fill,
With virtue's triumph, nature's smart,
While Belisarius tears my heart.
With such heroic souls in view,
Tho malice and design pursue,
We scarce can wish to suffer less,
But envy the sublime distress.
Oh! had the godlike man foreseen
That he with laurels ever green
Should in duration's endless round
By Genius such as thine be crown'd,
On hope above their malice borne,
He might have laugh'd his foes to scorn,
183

And felt a triumph o'er despair,
Which martyrs might exult to share.
Be these degenerate days accurst,
In vice's calendar the worst,
When Managers, Taste's plague and vermin,
The fate of Genius must determine.
Yet execrations Muse forbear,
Their own dark courses let them steer;
Should wrath it's magazines explore,
Not Heaven itself can curse them more.
Chill'd with the view, compassion sighs;
To gayer subjects fancy flies.
Tho callous long to vulgar praise,
Thy late epistle she surveys,
Which since received, she oft hath found
A sovereign balm for every wound.
The mystic secret, oh! impart,
Inform me by what potent art,
184

To give thy bright conceptions birth,
Thou call'st the powers of wit and mirth.
Where could'st thou find the skill to please
At once with dignity and ease?
While in thy magic circle bound
The enchanted Graces smile around,
And placid from her aweful throne
Wisdom asserts the smile her own.
Oh! could the Muses' palfrey bear
My corpulence thro fields of air,
How would I skim the fluid way
Without cessation, or relay,
Nor in it's bowers refreshment taste,
Till thee and Thespia I embraced!
Yet then with disappointed pride
From morn to evening should I chide.
For shame, my happy Friend! for shame!
For thee alone shall Genius flame?
185

Whate'er adorns the good and wise
Would'st Thou alone monopolize?
Wit's power alone would'st Thou assume?
For thee alone shall laurels bloom?
Nor We inferior witlings share
One sprig to keep Us from despair?
But by the keen impulse of song,
And keener friendship urged along,
Intent my feelings to express,
My lays forget whom they address.
The man by whom each worth is known,
And praised each merit, but his own.
At length the fit of passion o'er,
When envy could upbraid no more,
My soul would Thespia's charms admire,
And of your health, and her's enquire.
Or with alternate pleasure tell
That I had left Melissa well.
186

But this excursion to my vows
No favouring destiny allows.
Meantime tho these gross elements
Tho fate this interview prevents
Letters more expedite can fly,
And represent me to your eye.
You hinted once, but ah! 'tis plain
The hope that hint inspired was vain,
That you and Thespia, prospect dear!
Might pay a friendly visit here.
But tho the distance be remote,
And that delightful hint forgot,
Yet recollect the solemn way
In which you end your former lay;
There promises explicit given
Are heard, and ratified in Heaven,
That you would tell in future strains
What of your conduct still remains.
187

In close Divan of late I saw
Much Counsel learned in the law,
These all declared it understood
That promises in verse were good,
And if completion should not follow,
An action lay before Apollo.
Keep then that axiom still in view,
An axiom pleasing as 'tis true,
“That thus 'tis grateful to unbend
And Egotisms delight a friend.”
Edinburgh, August 10, 1773. T. BLACKLOCK.

To the SAME.

To Me, obscure amid the distant glade,
Comes the rich donative of his sweet lay,
Who warm'd by poesy's diviner ray,
Yet stoops to praise a songstress of the shade.
188

Faint truly must her song resound and weak,
The grateful strain when she would raise to thee:
Yet take it from the maid who scorns to seek
The flatterer's art to smooth her wood-notes free.
And take the wish, that springing from the heart,
For thee propitious Phœbus would implore,
Who liberal thus bestows his tuneful store,
To bid his beams reviving health impart;
That love connubial long may bless thy days,
And weave his myrtles long amid thy growing bays.
1781. A. M. BRADFORD.
189

To the SAME.

Thy modest nature, Downman, will not scorn
This small, poor offering from a friendly hand,
Howe'er unfit that altar to adorn,
Which Love and Genius raised at thy command.
Yet while the sonnet stints my votive strains
To spare the exertion of a feeble muse,
Know, my big heart such narrow bounds disdains,
And throbs it's fulness wider to diffuse.
Could I, (alas! a rival but in woe)
With health, possess the skill to match thy lay,
Then would my zeal with genial ardour glow
Thy merits, and my friendship to display:
And surer still to charm, my song should be
More full of lovely Thespia than of thee.
1781. J. COLE.
190

To the SAME,

On receiving his Poems to Thespia with a Sonnet prefixed.

The Merchant, who by dangerous ways
Cross burning sands, and raging seas,
Seeks goodly pearls, and Ophir's gold,
Thro' scanty patrimony bold,
Dear Downman never was so blest,
Nor felt his bosom half the zest
If some bright gem by fortune's whim
To princely wealth exalted him,
As I this morn, when by surprize
Your known initials met my eyes.
Thanks, my dear friend, from him receive,
Who grieved when you were known to grieve,
Who would with joy your welfare hear,
Ready in either cup to share.
191

Your kind address, your potent strain
Made me live o'er my life again.
Now quick and light my spirits flow,
My veins confess their pristine glow.
Again we thread the sportive round,
Or conn our tasks with murmuring sound,
With awe behold our master's nod,
And catch his smile, or dread his rod.
Again are our's new-born delights,
Unruffled days, oblivious nights,
And frolic jest, and young desire,
And emulation's active fire.
Now the Academic shades I view,
With Churchill blest, and blest with you.
To Doidge descends the friendly tear,
His memory I afresh revere,
Who happy found in early hour
Life's transient pains and labours o'er.
With you the path again I tread
While science urged, and Godwin led.
192

Sweet counsel we together took
From nature's and from learning's book.
Together studied varying man,
And wisdom's more abstracted plan.
But then, alas! fate changed the scene,
And accidents arose between,
To turn aside the pleasing source
Of our once frequent intercourse.
While you beyond Tweed's pebbled bed
With care the page of physic read,
Mix'd antient lore with modern art,
To stay pale death's oft-menaced dart:
I, deeply sunk in rural sloth,
To wonted exercises loath,
Inactive from the world withdrew,
And my friends lessen'd to my view.
And while they seem'd by me forgot,
I merited oblivion's blot.
But by your Thespia's magic power
Now raised from slumber's thick-wove bower,
193

I mount on Pegasean wing
Your undeserved regard to sing.
My Nymph too joins—nor deem the zone
Of nuptial worth is yours alone.
But should I wish to paint my flame,
Your lays I'll take, nor change the name.
In verse, or prose, of this be sure,
Still burns the fire of friendship pure,
Round you may every blessing spread!
Her kindly balm Hygeia shed!
And may your happy Thespia prove
Thro life's long day your constant love!
1781. GEO. BENT.
194

To the SAME,

On reading Poems to Thespia.

Downman! whose strains the sacred Nine inspire,
Whose native genius and inherent fire
Not sickness can depress,
Or sharpest anguish in it's dire excess.
While rising still superior over all,
Antæus like, more vigorous from his fall:
Thy limbs stern pain may bind,
But not inslave the free impassive mind.
Say, shall the muse's humblest votary raise
His voice to thee, whose soul thirsts not for praise,
But modestly withdraws
E'en from the breath of merited applause?
195

Yet though unpluck'd by me the laurel bough,
Tho not a leaf hath deck'd my youthful brow,
Haply with partial ear
The Father's Friend may heed the verse sincere.
For tho unused to seek the fragrant bowers
Where fancy dwells mid never-fading flowers;
Can I in silence rest
When thy mellifluous numbers charm my breast?
Where chaste desire unveils his purple ray,
Where innocence and grace unsullied play,
As in the happiest clime
They marked the golden age's blameless time.
Then white-robed purity serenely smiled,
And Heavenly Venus, and her spotless child,
Nor wealth (our sordid shame)
Damp'd his bright ardour, and ethereal flame.
196

His radiant torch more lustrous graced his hand
When saffron-vested Hymen knit the band,
And constancy and truth
Cherish'd thro life the fires which beam'd in youth.
Thus, (tho in these degenerate days how rare!)
Hast thou beheld the Paphian boy appear,
Nor less his gifts he shed
On her, the gentle partner of thy bed.
Well knew'st thou when, the walk recluse and still,
When to prefer the fount, or gurgling rill,
The open sunny plain,
Or the dark umbrage of the wood-land reign.
Well could thy taste discern the graces meek
Of sweet simplicity's unvarnisht cheek,
And when adorn'd the least,
To thee her genuine beauties were increast.
197

Much rather had'st thou, on the turf reclined,
Where the beech waved his branches to the wind,
Or the oak tower'd on high,
Attend the shepherd's native melody:
Or untaught voice, borne on the lingering gale
Of maid at eve returning thro the vale,
Or curfew sounding deep
Warning black night to climb the Eastern steep:
Than in the taper'd room to waste thy hours,
Where boastful art her tones profusely pours,
While nature thence removes,
Pleased with the murmuring brook, and choral groves.
With taste refined, and feelings just endow'd,
Well may'st thou view with careless glance the croud;
On the base world look down,
Nor heed it's treacherous smiles, or envious frown.
198

Oh! may Hygeia from her plumed wing
On thee once more her grateful odours fling!
Powerful new strength to impart,
And heal the wound of pain's corrosive dart!
So shall thy Thespia's eye with transport shine,
So shall each Friend the festive garland twine,
Indulge the genial rite,
And mark the day long-hoped with purest white.
SAMUEL CODRINGTON. 1781.

To the SAME.

Me, the rough steeps of military fame
Striving with care-worn mind in vain to climb,
Long hath the Muse deserted; nor sublime
Nor blither strains her presence now proclaim.
Else Downman, long ere this, my grateful voice
Had met thy ear; not echoing general praise,
199

That thou pourtray'st what faithful lovers feel,
Painting true passion in these nerveless days;
Nor that thou teachest virtue to rejoice
Amidst her sufferings for the common-weal;
But that returning health wooed to thy bower
By wedded Love, bids Friendship bless the hour.
J. G. SIMCOE. 1787.

To the SAME.

Rude tho my verse, and uninspired my lays,
While each rough line the unpractised hand betrays,
Tho no kind Muse has taught the pleasing art
By powerful numbers to affect the heart,
Yet let me not in discontented strain
Bewail my fate, and peevishly clomplain.
When genuine Bards soar high on Fancy's wing
I catch each sound, transported as they sing,
200

Find their sweet harmony my bosom thrill,
And feel in every nerve their matchless skill.
Thus form'd; whene'er you lift, my much-loved friend,
Your tuneful voice, enraptured I attend.
Whether you paint the enchanting Muses' Land,
Where bright creations rise at your command;
Whether with Tragic notes you shake the soul,
And every passion at your will controul;
Whether by softer tones the heart you move
When you to Thespia breathe the tale of love;
Or pour instruction on the docile mind
Of the fond Mother blest with taste refined,
Who in melodious airs, serenely mild,
Is taught to invest with health her darling Child;
To all I listen with attentive ear,
New stores collect, and gain delight sincere.
And equal pleasure must thy song impart
To every lover of the tuneful art.
201

To make men wiser; to point out the road
Which leads from error's maze, to truth's abode;
Affliction's pangs, and misery's sting to ease,
Nicely to observe, and cure the dire disease;
To cause each social good around us flow
In various streams, is the prime bliss below.
That bliss, my Friend, dwells ever in thy mind,
Thy writings please, and benefit mankind:
By Pæan's art, and penetrating skill
Thou curest (if art can cure) the body's ill:
To mental anguish thou can'st give relief,
And heal by sympathy the wounds of grief.
Oh! may all-gracious Heaven, thy future days
Illume, my Downman, with it's brightest rays;
With life protracted may each joy keep pace,
A life like thine's a blessing to our race.
But when, (be that a far, far distant hour)
Thou shall submit to death's relentless power,
Of thee no common portion shall survive,
For works of real genius ever live.
202

Thy friendship, which for many a circling year
With liberal kindness thou hast bid me share,
(Me, in the humble paths of life who move,
And who thy soul in nothing can improve)
I truly value—from it I receive
All the best wealth, the best of hearts can give.
Oh! while the vital current swells my veins,
Till death shall urge me to his cold domains,
To me, indulgent Heaven, this boon extend,
Happy, and proud, that Downman calls me Friend.
JOHN CODRINGTON. Sept. 7th, 1788.
203

To the SAME,

On his Poems addressed to Thespia.

“Year after year steals something every day,”
So sung the sweetest of the tuneful train.
Year after year to prove the assertion vain,
We mark with growing joy each added lay.
For still responsive to thy breast, the lyre
Resounds, and every note symphonious flows:
And may thy Thespia long that strain inspire,
Where tenderest Friendship melts, and passion glows!
Yet Friendship! tho 'tis thine to hold enchain'd
The noblest spirits in thy golden tye,
Thy joys, nor those of Passion unrestrain'd,
With wedded Love the soul's soft union vie.
And may the truth we feel still prompt thy lay,
While years on years revolving roll away!
RICHARD HOLE. March 1, 1791.
207

To the SAME.

Hail to my generous Guide, and honour'd Friend,
May every blessing on his steps attend!
How feebly the warm wish these lines impart;
Yet, oh! accept them from a grateful heart!
Here, Downman, as in still suspense I lye,
And from my pillow lift the languid eye,
'Tis in thy friendship only to infuse
Some little spirit o'er my faultering Muse!
Long have I own'd with pride, amidst the shade
Of sacred poesy thy critic aid.
And whilest thy lessons to perfection fired,
The beauteous model in thy verse admired,
Where melody unites with diction chaste,
And all that fancy charms, or polisht taste.
208

But these deserts bound not thy glowing lays;
And praise like this, were “mockery of praise.”
The manly virtues in thy numbers shine,
And sentiment that nerves each vigorous line.
And Learning, not in pompous garb display'd,
But in simplicity's pure dress array'd.
And strong, unbiast reason, and the light
Of philanthropic feeling, beaming bright.
Nor less the endearing Charities approve
Which ornament the shrine of nuptial Love.
Yet, tho thy writings to the world beam forth
A spotless mirror of thy active worth,
Yet, is thy life (just Heaven's peculiar care)
But with a feeble ray reflected there.
Strenuous to chase from man each brooding ill,
Thy social kindness, or thy healing skill
Through all the tenour of that life appears,
And brightens up a gloomy vale of tears.
209

Whether from opulence retired, thy feet
Trace out the chill and comfortless retreat,
Or with benignant aim thou love to close
The mental wounds that speak no common woes.
Where starting from a short and troubled sleep,
The weary languish, or the wretched weep,
Tis thine refreshing slumbers to restore,
Bid strength revive, or Sorrow weep no more.
And while the sounds of gratulation bless
Thy healing art, thy merited success,
While from the bed of sickness round thee rise
The rich, the poor, to meet thy glistening eyes
Fresh-blooming, with the nerve of health new-strung,
And Downman echoes from each grateful tongue;
Me too thy cordial balms already cheer,
Thy friendly voice, thy sympathy sincere.
210

Yes, where the last dim star of eve survey'd
This fainting frame in pale disorder laid,
When nearly ceased the vital stream to flow,
And every pulse beat tremulously low,
And as my breath seem'd ready to depart
Exhausted nature flutter'd at my heart,
Thy medicine's renovating power could save
My sunken spirit from the yawning grave.
And if propitious Heaven in mercy give
His Servant, yet a few short years to live,
To please that God who bless'd thy art in Me,
Oh Downman! may I live, to copy Thee!
R. POLWHELE. Kenton, Aug. 18, 1791.
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