Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, Sat by his fire, and talked the night away; Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, At church, with meek and unaffected grace, And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.) The service past, around the pious man, With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran; 'And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile. His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest, Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest; Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, The village master taught his little school; A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew ; Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face; Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he; Full well the busy whisper circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned; Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault; The village all declared how much he knew ; 'Twas certain he could write and cypher too; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And even the story ran-that he could gauge ; In arguing too, the parson owned his skill, For even though vanquished, he could argue still; While words of learned length and thundering sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around, And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot The parlour splendours of that festive place; A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; Vain transitory splendour! could not all No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale, FROM 'RETALIATION.' Here lies our good Edmund', whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it, too much; Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind. Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat, To persuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote: Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining; Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient; And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. In short, 'twas his fate, unemployed, or in place, sir, To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man ; As an actor, confessed without rival to shine: As a wit, if not first, in the very first line: Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, The man had his failings, a dupe to his art. Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread, And beplastered with rouge his own natural red. On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting ; 'Twas only that, when he was off, he was acting. With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He turned and he varied full ten times a day: Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick, If they were not his own by finessing and trick: He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came, And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame; Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease, Who peppered the highest, was surest to please. Edmund Burke. • Mr. T. Townshend, M.P. for Whitchurch, afterwards Lord Sydney. But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, 2 Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave, What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave! To act as an angel and mix with the skies : Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill, Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love, Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart: To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing: 1 STANZAS ON WOMAN. When lovely Woman stoops to folly, To hide her shame from every eye, And wring his bosom, is-to die. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, &c. Died 1777. very pathetic William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. Died 1803. 'Sir Joshua Reynolds was deaf and used an ear-trumpet. No soap. |