University of Virginia Library

[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.

[Through floods and flames to your retreat]

LETTER XXXIV.

To WILLIAM HAYLEY, Esqr.

Weston, July 29, 1792.

Through floods and flames to your retreat
I win my desp'rate way,
And when we meet, if e'er we meet,
Will echo your huzza.

[Beware of building! I intended]

[The Sculptor?—nameless, though once dear to fame]

The Sculptor?—nameless, though once dear to fame;
But this Man bears an everlasting name.

[Her pen drops eloquence as sweet]

Her pen drops eloquence as sweet
As any Muse's tongue can speak;
Nor need a scribe, like her, regret
Her want of Latin or of Greek.

[To be remember'd thus is fame]

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,
He took his annual seat, and mingled here
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!