 | Miscellanies in Prose and Verse |  |
188
A PROLOGUE to JONES's ESSEX.
Spoken by Mr. SOWDEN.
To night, your bard salutes his native plains,
And shews true grief in unaffected strains.
Indebted to pure nature for his skill,
He boasts no merit but the sense to feel:
Not warp'd by study, not debauch'd by art,
He paints the honest feelings of his heart:
Quick, from within, each ardour as it grows,
His pencil catches, and the canvas glows.
And shews true grief in unaffected strains.
Indebted to pure nature for his skill,
He boasts no merit but the sense to feel:
Not warp'd by study, not debauch'd by art,
He paints the honest feelings of his heart:
Quick, from within, each ardour as it grows,
His pencil catches, and the canvas glows.
To these unlabour'd scenes the British fair
Oft lent a pitying and attentive ear.
Albion's best fears for Essex learn'd to flow,
And each soft bosom heav'd with Rutland's woe.
Oft lent a pitying and attentive ear.
Albion's best fears for Essex learn'd to flow,
And each soft bosom heav'd with Rutland's woe.
Such praises by our sister realm supply'd,
The modest poet owns he felt with pride;
But the same praise, should it reward him here,
A thousand social transports wou'd endear.
Fame! fortune! country! all th' engaging ties,
Which consecrates applause, before him rise:
And his heart treasures ev'ry smile you lend,
As the kind rapture of a chosen friend.
The modest poet owns he felt with pride;
But the same praise, should it reward him here,
A thousand social transports wou'd endear.
189
Which consecrates applause, before him rise:
And his heart treasures ev'ry smile you lend,
As the kind rapture of a chosen friend.
Ye fair! just brivals of each British charm,
With equal goodness let your bosoms warm;
Cherish this flow'r, make its young beauties known,
Nor prize it less because it is your own.
But claim your bard, and let his native air
Yield the same sunshine which refresh him there.
So shall new ardour each bless'd youth inspire,
Again shall music wake th' Hibernian lyre;
Phœbus again shall bless the sacred isle,
And our wits brighten, as our beauties smile.
With equal goodness let your bosoms warm;
Cherish this flow'r, make its young beauties known,
Nor prize it less because it is your own.
But claim your bard, and let his native air
Yield the same sunshine which refresh him there.
So shall new ardour each bless'd youth inspire,
Again shall music wake th' Hibernian lyre;
Phœbus again shall bless the sacred isle,
And our wits brighten, as our beauties smile.
| Miscellanies in Prose and Verse | |