In the white page of LAURA’S vital state;
And emulate each great, each gentle deed,
That crown’d her fame, or that disarm’d her fate;
For sky-rob’d Innocence can smiling brave
The dart of instant death, and triumph o’er the grave.
O, born to smooth the rugged path of life,
For all who trod with thee its mazy round!
Where neither gloomy Care, nor noisy Strife,
Dark Spleen or haggard Jealousy were found;
For Chearfulness and Love, with potent sway,
The LARES of thy hearth, chas’d ev’ry Fiend away.
Since well thou knew’st, nor pomp nor festal show,
In the gay revel of their gorgeous night,
On youth’s warm breast could breathe so pure a glow,
As sweet domestic comfort’s cheering light;
For soft she sheds, on halcyon pinions borne,
Her poppies o’er the night, her roses on the morn.
In dissipation’s giddy circle whirl’d,
One joy sincere can erring Beauty prove,
A rake’s loose homage or a flatt’ring world,
Supply the sweetness of connubial love;
Where fix’d esteem shall lasting joy inspire,
And blend the husband’s faith with all the lover’s fire?
Nor less that bliss the virtuous bosom knows
Whilst its fond care a parent’s woe beguiles;
When life’s pale winter, with the filial rose
Adorn’d and happy, still serenely smiles;
Lulls the chill gale of each repining sigh,
And basks in joy’s warm gleam when the lov’d child is nigh.
Thus duteous LAURA hung, with vestal care,
O’er the dim trembling light of waning age;
The waste of time and sickness to repair,
And steal attention from each dark presage;
Discharging thus affection’s vast arrears
Of countless debts incurr’d through childhood’s helpless years.
And thus her infants, in a distant hour,
With fairest worth parental hopes had blest;
Strew’d her declining path with ev’ry flow’r,
Her fost’ring hand had planted in their breast;
But ah! that hand is cold! and points no more
The surest path of peace, on virtue’s sacred shore!
Ye lovely innocents, whose loss severe
The Muse with tender sympathy surveys,
If such memorials as her love can rear,
May catch, in future years, your filial gaze,
Here shall your parent’s pure emblazon’d name,
Light you to fairest deeds by emulation’s flame!
Yet must this verse thy kind indulgence crave,
THOU, who wilt most perceive its failing art;
Who view’st, slow wand’ring round thy LAURA’S grave,
Her juster image in thy widow’d heart;
For the fond wish to bid her merits live,
Forgive the fainter tints, the erring line forgive!
O faithful Memory! may thy lamp illume
Her honour’d sepulchre with radiance clear;
Connubial love shall rest upon her tomb,
And infant duty shed its April tear;
There, with veil’d brows, parental fondness mourn,
Bend o’er the holy earth, and consecrate her urn!
EPISTLE
TO THE
REV. DR WILLIAM BAGSHOT STEVENS,
OF REPTON, DERBYSHIRE,
WRITTEN IN 1783.
If yet, unbless’d with learning’s guardian aids,
I rov’d the labyrinths of Aonian shades,
And in the gloomy and the silent hour
Wove the dun foliage of their cypress bower,
The oak-crown’d Chief, and laurel’d Warrior’s tomb[96]
Solemn to strew;--and cropt their floral bloom
For a fair votary’s urn, my priz’d reward[97]
Lives in the smile of Repton’s classic Bard.
Yet not the letter’d smile’s inspiring ray,
When most its warmth shall gild my pensive lay,
Such intellectual luxury can impart,
Or pour such sweet sensations on my heart,
As when, ingenious Lyrist, brightly shine
Through the clear medium of thy classic line,[98]
On every hill, and vale, and plain, and grove,
The seraph forms of Beauty, Truth, and Love.
Sing on, sweet Bard! for to thy happy lyre,
When beams the setting sun with chasten’d fire,
And evening clouds, half pierc’d with light, have spread
Their floating purple round his golden head,
High o’er their edge, as soft they sail along,
Shall bend the spirits of congenial song;
THOMSON, great Nature’s darling votary, bow
The leafy honours of his placid brow,
And lofty AKENSIDE shall hail the strains
That Beauty decks, and Energy sustains.
Sing on, sweet Bard! when spring’s gay warblers cease
To celebrate the jocund year’s increase,
And summer must no more his thirst subdue
In the expanding rose-bud’s lucid dew;
But, with their fading hues, and closing bells,
The pale, shrunk flowers shall strew the whiten’d dells,
And autumn’s lingering steps, retreating, press
Their fallen petals down the lone recess,
Still may thy song, to every rising gale,
Sigh through the dim and melancholy vale;
And when the aerial archer, as he flies,
Wings the red arrow through the gloomy skies,
And furious Trent, high o’er his banks shall pour
The turbid waters round thy favourite bower,
Ceaseless do thou the rising strain prolong,
And hail stern winter with thy solemn song!
While for the lyre, that erst to the soft days
Of bloomy summer breath’d the lovely lays,
On thy nerv’d arm the Eolian shell be slung,
Full to the tempest’s angry wailing flung;
And he, whose strains, on cold Temora’s hill,
Mourn’d o’er the eddies of the darken’d rill,
The fame resounding of the fallen brave,
O’er Erin’s heath, and Ullin’s stormy wave,
He, on his thin, grey mist descending slow,
Shrill as the frequent blast is heard to blow,
’Mid the lone rocks thy wandering steps shall find,
And lift thy harp to winter’s loudest wind.
O! when its tones fall murmuring on the floods,
Deeply respondent to the groaning woods,
Each lofty note, that hymns the rifled year,
With force impressive shall assail the ear,
As when thou call’st the shuddering thoughts to mourn
O’er talents wither’d in the untimely urn;[99]
To grieve that Penury’s resistless storm
Beat cold and deadly o’er the shrinking form,
Where mighty Genius had those powers enshrin’d,
Whose reign is boundless o’er each feeling mind;
To mourn that anguish durst the heart invade
Beneath the regal purple’s awful shade,
That, steep’d in blood, at the fanatic frown,
From Charles’ pale brows should fall the thorny crown;
That England’s virgin majesty should close
A long illustrious life in bitterest woes;
She, who, in wisdom firm, as vast in power,
On grateful millions shed the prosperous hour.
O! how unlike those councils dark, that hurl’d
The torch of Discord o’er the western world![100]
Whatever ills may to the past succeed,
Though lust of war may doom a world to bleed,
And bleed in vain, yet may no public gloom
Nor private sorrow, blight thy classic bloom!
And to the Sons of Genius, whose sad fate
Thy mournful lines, with sacred force, relate,
O! may thy fortunes no resemblance bear,
Yet may thy rising fame their deathless laurels share!
TO
WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ.
ON LEAVING EARTHAM, HIS SEAT IN SUSSEX, SEPT. 1782.
To-morrow’s dawn must bring the unwelcome hour,
When my reluctant spirit’s kind farewell
Shall mourn in sighs, through Eartham’s beauteous bower,
The vanish’d pleasures of the sylvan cell.
The clouds of future torpid days to chace,
On its dear scenes the tender thought shall dwell,
And Memory restore each lovely grace,
That decks their radiant hill, and dusky dell.
The full luxuriance of yon sloping wood,
Circling the golden field with pomp of shade,
And, where mild Comfort’s downy pinions spread,
The village, bosom’d in the leafy glade.
The path-way fence, with shrubs and florets strewn,
Soft as it winds the bright mount’s steepy side;
While, on th’ opposing hill, dark forests frown
On the noon’s glory, in their sombrous pride.
Green as the livelier eminence ascends,
The champaign splendours bursting on the sight,
Where far and wide the dazzling vale extends,
Clos’d by the distant main, that rolls in light!
Groves half as beauteous may delight these eyes,
Thy bowers, gay Lichfield, lovely scenes afford;
But ah! what keen regrets must wake my sighs,
To miss the pleasures of the Haylean board!
Where, as his pencil, ROMNEY’S spirit warm,[101]
Glows with bold traits, original and strong,
While HERON’S lays diffuse each tuneful charm;[102]
ELIZA’S wit enchants, and melting song.[103]
But thou, dear Bard, our master-spring of joy,
How shall I breathe to thee the sad farewell?
Yet long thy kindness, grateful shall employ
The mind it gladden’d in thy sylvan cell.
ADDRESS TO THE SUN.
WRITTEN IN A CHAISE, RETURNING OUT OF SUSSEX, SEPT. 15, AFTER A SIX
WEEKS RESIDENCE AT MR HAYLEY’S SEAT, IN THAT COUNTY, 1782.
Bright God of Day, whose long-enshrouded beams[104]
Now dart refulgent on the glancing streams,
Since thou did’st suffer, through the months that claim
The boon consummate of thy cloudless flame,
Dim Auster still, in dank, and dropping groves,
To breathe the sullen strain that Winter loves,
Why now invest, with all thy pomp of light,
The tardy morning, and the hast’ning night?
But soon shall this late, gaudy race be run,
Soon shall thy steeds our chill horizon shun;
Their labouring way through billowy ether gain,
While the pale ice-drop trembles on their mane.
Not with such transient fires, and slack’ning pace,
May thy own HAYLEY own his mortal race!
Be life for him one lengthen’d summer day,
With fame, health, friendship, love, and pleasure gay;
O! be it long ere wintry powers assail,
Spread the dull cloud, or wake the stormy gale!
Intrusive Sun!--more dazzling splendours play
On these moist eyes, with uncongenial ray;
Unwished, unwelcome, in these vacant hours,
Through which affection droops, and fancy lours;
Send, as they seek a less inspiring sky,
The gaze reverted, and the straining eye
To wood-crown’d Sussex, in whose bright domain,
The Muses on their new Parnassus reign.
But now, O Sun! from yonder western hill,
Thy glories soften on the gilded rill;
Yet, since the ruthless hand of distance spreads
To my reverted gaze, her waste of meads;
Rears barrier mountains, ting’d with thy last ray,
Ah! what shall cheer the long ensuing way?
Lone deprivation breathes respondent sighs,
The gilded stream grows pale, and Eve’s chill gales arise.
ADDRESS
TO WOMAN.
FROM THE ITALIAN.
Designed for peace, and soft delight,
For tender love, and pity mild,
O seek not thou the craggy height,
The howling main, the desert wild!
Stay in the shelter’d valley low,
Where calmly blows the fragrant air,
But shun the mountain’s stormy brow,
For darken’d winds are raging there.
The ruffian MAN endures the strife
Of tempests fierce, and furious seas;
Ah! better guard thy transient life,
WOMAN, thou rosy child of ease!
Rash MAN, for glory’s fading wreath,
Provokes his early, timeless doom,
Seeks every varied form of death,
And desperate hastens to the tomb;
But thou, O Gentlest! what can rend,
With cruel grief, thy panting heart?
Nor Heaven, nor Man, dost thou offend,[105]
What fancied woes can dread impart?
Ah! surely, on thy primal day,
Great Nature smil’d in kindest mood,
Suspended held the bloody fray,
And hush’d the wind, and smooth’d the flood!
While Man, who lives a life of pain,
Was with a soul vindictive born,
Loud winds blew round him, and the rain
Beat furious on his wintry morn.
But thou, beneath a vernal sky,
What distant tempest wakes thy fears?
Why does that soft, that trembling eye
Gleam through a crystal film of tears?
Stay in the vale;--no wild affright
Shall cross thy path, nor sullen care
But go not to the craggy height,
The dark, loud winds are raging there!
VERSES
TO THE
REV. WILLIAM MASON,
ON HIS SILENCE RESPECTING DR JOHNSON’S UNJUST CRITICISMS UPON MR GRAY’S
WORKS, IN THE LIVES OF THE POETS.--WRITTEN IN 1782.[106]
Long have I seen the injured muse of GRAY,
Angry and mournful, before MASON stand,
With asking eyes, that flash’d th’ indignant ray,
A pen extending, with impatient hand.
I hear her awful voice reproach the bard,
That rude malicious hands, permitted, tear
From her fair brows, the wreath ’twas his to guard
With gratitude, and friendship’s sacred care.
That unrepell’d the brazen faulchion flies,
Whose blade is steep’d in Envy’s venom’d dews,
From that Philistine critic, who defies
The chosen armies of the heavenly muse.
Blush, Loiterer, blush, that from thine able arm
Truth’s victor pebbles were not slung ere now,
The Giant’s vaunting prowess to disarm,
And sink, deep buried in his haughty brow!
MASON, canst thou the vulture-talons spy,
Mark the dead eagle’s noble bosom gor’d,
That taught thy muse to build her aerie high,
And on whose guardian wing aloft she soar’d,--
To glory soar’d, in sun-bright fields of fame!
O! canst thou mark, and let illiberal dread
Unnerve thy arm, and quench thy spirit’s flame?
Then shall ingratitude her mildew shed,
And stain thy garlands, to remotest years,
With the disgraceful spots of cold and selfish fears.
EPITAPHS.
ON
HANNAH ROBINSON,
OF LICHFIELD,
ADDRESSED TO HER HUSBAND, THE REV R. G. ROBINSON.
Ere ten short months have ran their swift career,
Three lovely sisters press the untimely bier!
Last of the fallen blossoms! griev’d I pay,
At thy pure shrine, this tributary lay.
If ever dwelt with mortal woman’s mind
Angelic worth, from sin’s dark stains refin’d,
O gentle Hannah! in thy beauteous frame
From Heaven to Earth the soft perfection came.
Unhappy Husband, who art doom’d to mourn
The lamp of joy extinguish’d in her urn,
May thy torn breast congenial meekness prove,
O, live to emulate thy sainted love!
So shalt thou, passing a few destin’d years,
With pious hope illume thy falling tears,
And when thy clay this sacred dust shall join,
Be ever hers who transiently was thine.
ON LADY MILLER,
INSCRIBED ON HER MONUMENT IN THE ABBEY CHURCH, BATH.
Once, in this now cold breast, those virtues shone,
Which tender thought, and lasting record claim;
Then, ’mid the wrecks of time, devoted stone,
Uninjur’d bear thy Miller’s spotless name!
When clos’d the numerous eyes, that round her bier
Have wept the loss of wide-extended worth,
O, gentle Stranger! may one generous tear
Drop, as thou bendest o’er this hallow’d earth!
Are truth, and science, love, and pity thine,
With liberal charity and faith sincere?
Then rest thy wandering step beneath this shrine,
And greet a kindred Spirit hovering near!
ON ELIZA JONES,
WIFE OF THE REVEREND JOHN JONES.
O, pure of spirit! that hast soar’d away
To thy congenial realms of cloudless day,
ELIZA, Angel! wilt thou hover near,
And teach his soul thy wounding loss to bear,
Sorrowing who saw thy cypress garland wove,
Ere time had dimm’d one hue of life, or love?
Then o’er the darkness, gather’d round his head,
Thy guardian care the light of hope will shed,
Shewing the harbour bright, religion forms
For the heart wreck’d by grief’s o’er-whelming storms.
So shall that heart, from fruitless anguish free,
Teach thy lov’d children to resemble thee;
And when, in future years, they pious turn
The moistened eye of duty on this urn,
Here shall its consecrated tablet prove
Their Mother’s virtue, and their Father’s love.
ON MISS ANNE LAWLEY,
DAUGHTER OF SIR ROBERT LAWLEY,
OB. 1790. ÆTAT. 11.
Sweet transient Object of incessant cares,
Snatch’d from thy parents’ hopes, and fears, and prayers,
Let them, reflecting on life’s thorny ways,
Change groans of anguish to submissive praise,
That thy much favour’d, and yet spotless soul,
Thus early reaches the triumphant goal;
Obtains the prize at the appointed place,
Without the toil and danger of the race!
ON
DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.[107]
While on this marble bends thy pensive eye,
Here, Stranger, breathe the tributary sigh!
Beneath these groves their GARRICK nurs’d the art,
That reign’d resistless o’er each feeling heart;
And here those virtues dawn’d, whose power benign
Bids Faith, for him, celestial palms entwine.
Oft had his bounty, with pervading ray,
Chas’d the dark clouds from want’s tempestuous day,
And oft his silence, generous as his aid,
Hid from the world the noblest part he play’d.
ON MRS BENNET,[108]
OB. SEPTEMBER 1792, ÆTAT. 73.
The pale cold form these gates of death inclose,
When warm with life, the gem of women rose.
Immortal RICHARDSON, through many a year,
Watch’d her pure soul along its bright career,
Saw it arise, collected, and sedate,
O’er the oppressive gloom of wayward fate.
Her friendship taught his eagle-glance to find
Each perfect model rising in her mind,
When female virtues from his hallow’d page
In cloudless glory school’d a thoughtless age.
BENNET, tho’ set thy earthly sun, whose ray
Pour’d all the fires of intellectual day,
Yet its sunk orb on every heart has spread,
That living honour’d, and that mourn’d thee dead,
A glow celestial, potent to illume
The mists of grief, the shadows of the tomb.
ON ELIZA WHATELEY,
WHO DIED MAY 1793, AGED NINE YEARS.
Mild as the dew, that cheers the drooping flowers,
Bright as its drops, ELIZA’S infant hours.
Ah! scarce less transiently their influence given,
They shone, but soon exhaling, rose to Heaven.
Ye dawning talents, virtues soft and kind,
That lighted and adorn’d her opening mind,
Ye leave her parents’ wounded hearts to mourn
Their hopes, their comforts, perish’d in her urn.
Religion, harbinger of endless life,
Calm thou their sorrow’s unavailing strife,
And, with blest hope that they shall meet her there,
Gild the short hours of lone privation here!
ON ELIZABETH,
WIFE OF J. B. SIMPSON, ESQ. OF BABWORTH, IN YORKSHIRE.
_She was celebrated for her skill in Painting and Music._
Though breathing tints, wak’d by this now cold hand,
To widow’d love’s admiring gaze remain,
No more Eliza’s melting tones expand,
Till choiring with the seraph’s kindred strain.
Yet, while the mourner wails his years forlorn,
In floods of anguish, o’er her early doom,
Sky-towering Hope, on Faith’s strong pinion borne,
Bursts the dark portals of the ruthless tomb.
ON ELIZABETH,
WIFE OF THE REV. MICHAEL BAXTER,
OF TAMWORTH.
In the dire list of agonizing woes,
Severest grief the human bosom knows,
Is the fond husband’s lot, ordain’d to lead
His infants round their mother’s clay-cold bed.
Youth, beauty, virtue, modesty’s mild grace,
Charms of the mind irradiating the face,
Could they, ELIZA, have revers’d thy doom,
Love had not quench’d his torch upon thy tomb.
Too early Angel! be thy bliss the balm
This wound to heal, these rebel griefs to calm,
Till the resigning heart shall cease to mourn
A blighted lily, and a timeless urn!
ON THE
HON. HENRIETTA BAGOT,
OB. JAN. 13, 1797, AGED 16.
Ye, who in sprightly health, and strength, and bloom,
By choice, or chance, view HENRIETTA’S tomb,
Of vanish’d virtues while you mourn the fate,
Ponder the warning of this early date!
Her mortal lot, in youth, in beauty’s prime,
What was,--what is,--think!--and redeem the time!
Gay converse!--facile smiles!--Hope’s rising light!--
Eternal silence!--and a mornless night!--
O! late the solace of thy parents’ eyes,
Balm of their rest, and day-star of their joys!
Sunk from this orb of error, loss, and woe,
Risen ’mid the spheres that change, nor sorrow know,
If grief, if faith, bend mutual o’er thy shrine,
The pang is human--but the trust divine.
ON
MISS WINGFIELD, <small>OF</small> SHREWSBURY,
OB. DECEMBER 1797, ÆT. 25.
O! perish’d flower!--O! early darken’d day!
Deplor’d eclipse of youth’s meridian ray!
MARIA, she who mourns thy wither’d bloom,
And weaves her cypress garland o’er thy tomb,
Well knew the worth this now cold form enshrin’d,
Pure in the last recesses of the mind;
Each shaded excellence, that shunn’d the crowd,
Devote to Friendship, Wisdom, and to GOD.
Spirit benign, implore, from Mercy’s Throne,
Meekness resign’d and holy as thine own,
To sooth their bosoms, whose parental woe
They, who have lost an Angel, only know,
And wake consoling thoughts of that blest clime,
Where smiles eternal shame the tears of time.
INSCRIBED ON THE MONUMENT
OF THE
REV. WILLIAM BAGSHOT STEVENS,
IN REPTON CHURCH. HE DIED 1800.
Reader, if thee each sacred worth inspire,
The Patriot’s ardour, and the Poet’s fire;
Unsullied honour, friendship’s generous glow,
Sky-pointing hope, that smiles on finite woe
Such STEVENS was, and thy congenial tear
Drops on the Scholar,--Bard,--and Christian’s bier.
FOR A MARBLE TABLET IN LICHFIELD CATHEDRAL.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
JOHN SAVILLE,
FORTY-EIGHT YEARS VICAR-CHORAL OF THAT PLACE,
DIED AUGUST 2, 1803, AGED 67.
Once in the heart, cold in yon narrow cell,
Did each mild grace, each ardent virtue dwell;
Kind aid, kind tears, for others’ want and woe,
For others’ joy, the gratulating glow;
And skill to mark, and eloquence to claim
For genius in each art, the palm of fame.
Ye choral walls, ye lost the matchless song
When the last silence stiffen’d on that tongue.
Ah! who may now your pealing anthems raise
In soul-pour’d tones of fervent pray’r and praise?
SAVILLE, thy lips, twice on thy final day,
Here breath’d, in health and hope, the sacred lay.
Short pangs, ere night, their fatal signal gave.
Quench’d the bright Sun for thee--and op’d the grave!
Now, from that once fair form and beaming face,[109]
Insatiate worms the lingering likeness chase;
But thy pure spirit fled from pains and fears,
To sinless,--changeless,--everlasting spheres.
Sleep then, pale, mortal frame, in yon low shrine,
“Till angels wake thee with a note like thine!”
ON
GENERAL SIMCOE.
To deck lamented SIMCOE’S hallow’d tomb,
Bid all thy laurels, sacred Honour, bloom!
Depriv’d BRITANNIA, o’er thy warrior’s bier
Veil the droop’d head and bend the inverted spear!
Genius and Art, your greenest wreaths bestow,
And here, Religion, bid thy amaranths blow!
Connubial Love, thy thornless roses bring,
That shed o’er wintry life perpetual spring!
Friendship and filial duty, blend your tears,
Pour’d o’er the memory of departed years!
Here, O ye Virtues, spread your palms divine,
This once warm bosom was your chosen shrine.
But since no gem escapes the sullying vein,
No radiant sun the slightly-darkening stain,
Some spots of frailty in that soul might rise.
Whose altering form here cold and silent lies;
Now, from his earthly bound for ever freed,
Angel of mercy, for thy votary plead,
Till Love redeeming wash his stains away,
Ope the bright gate and give the nightless Day!
EPISTLE
TO
F. C. R. MUNDY, ESQ.
OF MARKETON, DERBYSHIRE.--WRITTEN 1794
With pride, O MUNDY, can a soul like thine
Survey the stores of Fortune’s golden mine;
All her caprice can give, or can restrain,
All that can glut the sordid, and the vain;
The circling grove, the lawns extended wide,
Flocks, white and numerous, on the green hill’s side,
The menial train, gay roof, and costly food,
The graceful person, and the gentle blood;
Since thy keen glance, where’er it turns, may see,
Fools, coxcombs, villains, share those claims with thee?--
Thee! on whose path Aonian splendours shine,
And shame the treasures of the golden mine.
No, MUNDY, no!--th’ injurious doubt forget,
Pardon the needless fear, the vain regret,
While in a juster scale thy spirit weighs
The Muse’s smile, with fashion’s empty praise!
But soft, thy steady purposes require
Graver applause than vibrates on the lyre;
Scorning to feed their fame with such slight things
As fond libations from Pierian springs,
From BURN, and BLACKSTONE, they incessant draw
The thicken’d juices of important Law!
But ah! what equal honours can reward
The toil, which to a Justice, chang’d a Bard![110]
O! when clear spirits, generous, rapt, inspir’d,
By judgment cultur’d, as by genius fir’d,
Stoop from the heights, whence they had shed, sublime,
Th’ etherial essence of the deathless rhyme,
And in the dimmer sphere of mortal light,
Drop the strong pinion, plum’d for eagle-flight,
Something we feel of that regretful pain,
Impress’d by busy memory on the brain,
Sad as she marks the illustrious _Rousseau_[111]
Imprint the harmonic types, intent and slow.
How does the heart for wasted talents grieve,
Recalling thus, the dark, improsp’rous eve,
When one dull taper o’er the labour’d page
Flings its weak ray, and aids the hapless sage
With toil, like this, to obtain an humble bed,
On which might rest secure his honour’d head!
Deep shall the feeling heart his fate deplore,
That sees him, from repeated treachery sore,
With thirst of independence half insane,
Its fever’d ardour throbbing through each vein,
Scorn the luxurious board, where flattery sings,
Scorn titled friendship, and the boon of kings,
And earn scant viands to support that frame,
Whose spirit lives, the immortal “Heir of Fame!”