 | Poems |  |
86
TO DR. HAYTER,
LATE BISHOP OF LONDON.
No more, my friend; nor check the honest lay
Which merit animates the muse to pay;
What tho' undignify'd by rank or place,
No titles gild her, and no honours grace;
Is worth, is truth to rank or place consin'd?—
Or have they left their seat, the virtuous mind?
No, no, my friend;—nor will the wise disdain
The heart's free tribute, as an offering vain.
Tho' mean the present, which the poor man brings
To the dread altar of the king of kings;
Yet pleas'd his grateful piety to own,
Th' almighty smiles applausive from his throne.
Which merit animates the muse to pay;
What tho' undignify'd by rank or place,
No titles gild her, and no honours grace;
Is worth, is truth to rank or place consin'd?—
Or have they left their seat, the virtuous mind?
No, no, my friend;—nor will the wise disdain
The heart's free tribute, as an offering vain.
Tho' mean the present, which the poor man brings
To the dread altar of the king of kings;
Yet pleas'd his grateful piety to own,
Th' almighty smiles applausive from his throne.
Nor thou, O Hayter, shalt contemn the song
Which longs to join the gratulating throng;
And midst the friendly train, tho' last, appear,
To pour its best good wishes in thy ear!
Oh happy in thy monarch's grateful choice!
Oh happy in thy flock's assenting voice!
His choice alone were highest dignity:—
But still to bless thee more—had we been free
To choose—our choice unanimous had fix'd on thee.
What coud'st thou more desire to fill thy breast,
With honest gladness, and with heart-felt rest?
What more desire to elevate thy name,
High in the records of immortal fame?
Yet more thou hast,—triumphant—But, no string
Discordant touch we; while with joy we sing,
And hail thee, pleas'd, to fair Augusta's see:
Where long, ah long triumphant may'st thou be
O'er foes, not less or meaner to engage,—
The family of pain, and cares of age!
Long may'st thou live, a blessing to mankind,
Still, as we've known thee, generous and refin'd:
Foe to all art; good, unreserv'd and free,
Mild without meanness, meek with dignity:
Friend to all science, to all worth a friend,
And lib'ral to assist, as to commend!
Long may'st thou live, and with a ray benign
On the fair cause of pure religion shine.
Long may'st thou live, still chearful and carest,
And long by blessing find thyself most blest.
Which longs to join the gratulating throng;
And midst the friendly train, tho' last, appear,
To pour its best good wishes in thy ear!
Oh happy in thy monarch's grateful choice!
Oh happy in thy flock's assenting voice!
His choice alone were highest dignity:—
But still to bless thee more—had we been free
To choose—our choice unanimous had fix'd on thee.
What coud'st thou more desire to fill thy breast,
With honest gladness, and with heart-felt rest?
What more desire to elevate thy name,
High in the records of immortal fame?
87
Discordant touch we; while with joy we sing,
And hail thee, pleas'd, to fair Augusta's see:
Where long, ah long triumphant may'st thou be
O'er foes, not less or meaner to engage,—
The family of pain, and cares of age!
Long may'st thou live, a blessing to mankind,
Still, as we've known thee, generous and refin'd:
Foe to all art; good, unreserv'd and free,
Mild without meanness, meek with dignity:
Friend to all science, to all worth a friend,
And lib'ral to assist, as to commend!
Long may'st thou live, and with a ray benign
On the fair cause of pure religion shine.
Long may'st thou live, still chearful and carest,
And long by blessing find thyself most blest.
Thus sung the muse, in artless strains sincere:—
Let truth, her advocate, the numbers bear,
Howe'er imperfect, well design'd;—and say,
She'll strive to mend them on another day.
Let truth, her advocate, the numbers bear,
Howe'er imperfect, well design'd;—and say,
She'll strive to mend them on another day.
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