Search, with thy more than mortal eye,
The breasts of all thy friends : descry

What there has got poffeffion.
See if thy unsuspecting heart
In some for truth mistook not art,

For principle, profession.



From these, the pests of human kind,
Whom roval bounty cannot bind,

Protect our parent King :
Unmass their treach'ry to his fight,
Drag forth the vipers into light,

And crush them ere they sting.


If such his trust and honours share,
Again exert thy guardian care,

Each venom'd heart disclose ;
On (lim, on Him, our all depends,
Oh save him from his treach'rous friends,

He cannot fear his foes,


Whoe'er fhall at the helm prefide,
Still let thy prudence be his guide,

To stain the troubled wave;
But chiefly whisper in his ear,
• That GEORGE is open, just, fincere,

" And dares to scorn a knave."


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No selfish views t'oppress mankind,
No mad ambition fir'd thy mind,

To purchase fame with blood ;
Thy bofom glow'd with purer heat;
Convinc'd that to be truly great

Is only to be good.


To hear no lawless paffion's call,
To serve thy King, yet feel for all,

Such was thy glorious plan!
Wisdom with gen'rous love took part,
Together work thy head and heart,

The Minister and Man.


Unite, ye kindred fons of worth;
Strangle bold faction in its birth;

Be Britain's weal your view !
For this great end let all combine,
Let virtue link each fair design,

And Pelham live in you.


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Yes happy youths, on Camus sedgy fide,
You feel each joy that friendship can divide ;
Each realm of science and of art explore,
And with the antient blend the modern lore.
Studious alone to learn whate'er may tend 5
To raise, the genius, or the heart to mend ;
Now pleas'd along the cloyster'd walk you rove,
And trace the verdant mazes of the grove,
Where social oft, and oft alone, ye chuse
To catch the zephyr, and to court the muse.
Mean time at me (while all devoid of art
These lines give back the image of my heart)
At me the pow'r that comes or soon or late,
Or aims, or seems to aim, the dart of fate;


* Born 1716; dyed 1742. This poem is in imitation of the 5th Elegy of the 3d book of Tibullus, and of a letter of Mr. Pope, in sickness, 10 Mr. Steel. Almost all Tibullus's

Elegy," Mr. Mafon observes, " is imitated in ibis little piece, from whence the transition to Mr. Popes letter is very artfully contrived, and bespeaks a degree of judgment much beyond Mr. Weft's years." It was written before 21.

The reader may compare this with another imitation of the fame eleg y by Mr. Hammond. (See p. 35:)


From you remote, methinks, alone I stand

15 Like some fad exile in a defert land ; Around no friends their lenient care to join In mutual warmth, and mix their hearts with mine. Or real pains, or those which fancy raise, For ever blot the sunshine of my days; 20 To fickness still, and still to grief a prey, Health turns from me her rosy face away.


Just heav'n! what fin, ere life begins to bloom, Devotes my head untimely to the tomb ? Did e'er this hand against a brother's life Drug the dire bowl, or point the murd'rous knife ? Did e'er this tongue the flanderer's tale proclaim, Or madly violate


Maker's name? Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe, Orknow a thought but all the world might know? 30 As yet just started from the lists of time, My growing years have scarcely told their prime; Useless, as yet, through life I've idly run, No pleasures tasted, and few duties done. Ah, who, ere autamn's mellowing suns appear, 35 Would pluck the promise of the vernal year; Or, ere the grapes their purple hue betray, Tear the crude cluster from the mourning spray. Stern Power of Fate, whose ebon sceptre rules The Stygian deserts and Cimmerian pools, 40 Forbear, nor rafhly smite my youthful heart, A victim yet unworthy of thy dart;

Ah, stay till age shall blaft my withering face,
Shake in my head, and falter in my pace ;
Then aim the shaft, then meditate the blow,
And to the dead my willing fhade shall go.


How weak is Man to Reason's judging eye!
Born in this moment, in the next we die ;
Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire,
Too proud to creep, too humble to aspire. 50
In vain our plans of happiness we raise,
Pain is our lot, and patience is our praise ;
Wealth, lineage, honours, conqueft, or a throne,
Are what the wise would fear to call their own.
Health is at best a vain precarious thing, 55
And fair-fac'd youth is ever on the wing ;
Tis like the stream, beside whosë wat'ry bed
Some blooming plant exalts his flow'ry head,
Nursid by the wave the spreading branches rise,
Shade all the ground, and flourish to the skies; 60
The waves the while beneath in secret flow,
And undermine the hollow bank below;
Wide and more wide the waters urge their

Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey.
Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride,
And finks, untimely, in the whelming tide.


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But why repine, does life deserve my figh?
few will lament my loss whene’er I die.
For those the wretches I despise or hate,
I neither envy nor' regard their fate.

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