Poems to Thespia :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.

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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.

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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.