PROMOTION OF EDWARD THURLOW, ESQ.
TO THE LORD HIGH CHANCELLORSHIP OF ENGLAND.
ROUND Thurlow's head in early youth, And in his sportive days, Fair Science pour'd the light of truth, And Genius shed his rays.
See! with united wonder cried The experienced and the sage, Ambition in a boy supplied With all the skill of age!
Discernment, eloquence, and grace Proclaim him born to sway The balance in the highest place, And bear the palm away.
The praise bestow'd was just and wise; He sprang impetuous forth, Secure of conquest, where the prize Attends superior worth.
So the best courser on the plain Ere yet he starts is known, And does but at the goal obtain What all had deem'd his own.
COME, peace of mind, delightful guest! Return and make thy downy nest
Once more in this sad heart: Nor riches I nor power pursue, Nor hold forbidden joys in view ; We therefore need not part.
Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me, From avarice and ambition free,
And pleasure's fatal wiles ? For whom, alas! dost thou prepare The sweets that I was wont to share, The banquet of thy smiles?
The great, the gay, shall they partake The Heaven that thou alone canst make?
And wilt thou quit the stream That murmurs through the dewy mead, The grove and the sequester'd shed, To be a guest with them?
For thee I panted, thee I prized, For thee I gladly sacrificed
Whate'er I loved before; And shall I see thee start away, And helpless, hopeless, hear thee say- Farewell! we meet no more?
WEAK and irresolute is man; The purpose of to-day, Woven with pains into his plan, To-morrow rends away.
The bow well bent, and smart the spring, Vice seems already slain;
But Passion rudely snaps the string, And it revives again.
Some foe to his upright intent Finds out his weaker part; Virtue engages his assent, But Pleasure wins his heart.
'Tis here the folly of the wise
Through all his art we view; And, while his tongue the charge denies, His conscience owns it true.
Bound on à voyage of awful length And dangers little known, A stranger to superior strength, Man vainly trusts his own.
But oars alone can ne'er prevail
To reach the distant coast;
The breath of Heaven must swell the sail,
Or all the toil is lost.
REBELLION is my theme all day; I only wish 'twould come
(As who knows but perhaps it may ?) A little nearer home.
Yon roaring boys, who rave and fight On t'other side the Atlantic, I always held them in the right, But most so when most frantic.
When lawless mobs insult the court, That man shall be my toast, If breaking windows be the sport, Who bravely breaks the most. But O! for him my fancy culls The choicest flowers she bears, Who constitutionally pulls Your house about your ears. Such civil broils are my delight, Though some folks can't endure them, Who say the mob are mad outright, And that a rope must cure them.
A rope! I wish we patriots had Such strings for all who need 'em- What! hang a man for going mad! Then farewell British freedom.
BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD'S LIBRARY,
TOGETHER WITH HIS MSS. BY THE MOB, IN THE
So then the Vandals of our isle, Sworn foes to sense and law, Have burnt to dust a nobler pile Than ever Roman saw!
And Murray sighs o'er Pope and Swift, And many a treasure more, The well judged purchase, and the gift That graced his letter'd store.
Their pages mangled, burnt, and torn, The loss was his alone;
But ages yet to come shall mourn The burning of his own.
WHEN wit and genius meet their doom In all devouring flame,
They tell us of the fate of Rome, And bid us fear the same.
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