TO JOSEPH COOPER WALKER, ESQ.
MEMBER OF THE ROYAL IRISH ACADEMY, FELLOW
THE LITERARY AND ANTIQUARIAN SOCIETY OF
PERTH, AND HONORARY MEMBER OF THE
ETRUSCAN ACADEMY OF CORTONA,
ON READING HIS MEMOIRS OF THE IRISH BARDS.
FRIDAY, MARCH XXVIITH, MDCCLXXXIX.
WITH keen refearch, and penetrating eyes,
While you pervade the fhades where fcience lies,
And, vers'd in ancient and historic lore,
The manly records of our fires explore;
Their customs, manners, habits, language trace,
To truth add luftre, and to wisdom grace;
The hidden treasures of times past unfold,
And even their very drofs tranfmute to gold;
While thus, when crowds, at time and health's expence, Provoke derifion, you exalt your fense;
The veil of dark antiquity remove,
Cur minds irradiate, and our taste improve,
And, fill'd with patriot zeal, the deeds rehearse
Of chieftains mighty and renown'd in verfe;
I, to a bard's great name who can't aspire,
Smit with congenial feelings, touch the lyre;
Call'd forth by thee my voice impartial raife,
Lefs to record than teftify thy praise.
Thy own rich page, from imperfection free,
Embalms thy fame and needs no aid from me.
O! had I leifure for the juft defign,
And talents ample as the theme were mine,
Not thy bright name alone, the charter'd band,
That blefs with learning's beams their native land,
And
gave her claim among the nations birth,
The laft in effort though not leaft in worth,
Should all, if minftrelfy diftinction give,
While truth with merit dwells applauded live.
But worn with toil and circumfcrib’d in time,
Ill fuits my lot the laurel'd haunts of rhyme;
Though fancy fometimes fluttering on the wing,
Tempts my rafh hand the soothing harp to string,
In ceafelefs tumults each vibration drown'd,
Emits, if any, but a feeble found:
Some happier genius hence, for fong admir'd,
May catch the hint, and, as of old inspir'd,
To diftant ages make the worthies known,
And, with his country's glory, fix his own.
Here all my hopes and my ambition end;
Suffice it me to be approv'd thy friend.
SOLICITING SUBSCRIPTIONS TO HER POEMS,
IN ANSWER TO A COPY OF VERSES ON THE OCCASION,
FAIR fufferer! charm'd, I read thy partial lines,
Where bright the ray of native genius fhines,
And from thy lips delighted more have heard,
Which beggar praise, and foar beyond reward;
But tho' thy flowing ftrains my pen invite,
Why fhould't thou 'tempt the prefs? ah! wherefore write?
If gilded laurels lure thy venturous mufe,
A flippery path and dangerous fhe purfues.
From critic rancour and the fangs of spleen
Thy gentle fpirit, what, alas! fhall screen?
When MILTON fail'd, what merit can engage
A loofe, luxurious, vain and trifling age?
The mufe for ANDRE, hapless victim! fir'd,
With affluence blefs'd, even by the foe admir'd; What could they lefs, when in fuch charming lays, 15 She wreathes his urn with never-fading bays?
SIWARD, whofe various strains the age furprife,
And fhow her wit as piercing as her eyes,
But envy with defert admits no truce,
Where moft applaufe was due incurr'd abuse,
And, as if tafte were from the nation fled,
BARBAULD and MOORE lie in the fhops unread. Would't thou, humane the wish, improve mankind,
Reftrain the froward and direct the blind,
And bid the mufe, her grateful lore of old,
Bright honour's paths and virtue's charms unfold;
Arduous the task is, and, the event will prove,
Secures not friendship, nor conciliates love.
And then the fex! ye Gods! on what pretence
Can they prefume to knowlege, wit or fenfe?
Flat ufurpation! fuch a stumbling block
Muft all the lords of the creation shock:
Not greater was his crime, who durft afpire
To steal from Heaven great Jove's authentic fire.
Are there not calls more fuited to their parts,
Domestic cares and culinary arts?
And if no boys and girls you have to teaze ye,
Will nothing, cry the Dons, but fcribbling please ye?
Then your kind friends, the female tribe I mean,
O lud! an authorefs! almoft die with spleen.
In fly-traps to catch beaux your skill exert,
For fops knit purses, or with puppies flirt;
Shine at the ball, the opera, park and play,
Revel all night, and lie in bed all day;
Y
Those precious fciences to women known,
And in your quarrel they'll defend their own.
Superior parts obtain but cold respect,
Excite detraction and provoke neglect ;
Fear fhuns their walk, and hate's a-kin to fear;
A common cafe adduced will make it clear.
An author once, it might be you or I,
Muft needs the pulfe of old acquaintance try;
They met, and, as is ufual among friends,
His hand the bard,· -a finger he extends ;-
Perchance, a tribute to the taylor due,
He forc'd a civil grin and put forth two;
Nature, howe'er the lips may play their part,
Will fomewhere out, and leave unveil'd the heart.
The bard his hand, I fhould fay finger, took,
And blithely afk'd him, how he lik'd his book?
The book! and round a vacant ftare he flings,-
O yes!-your book contains fome pretty things;
But with new works fuch trouble one receives!
It took me a full hour to cut the leaves.
The humbled author startles at the found,
And scarce articulates, 'twas neatly bound.
I, whofe quick feelings more are on the stretch,
Had turn'd upon my heel and damn'd the wretch.
Thus dunces, their own confequence to feed,
Defparage works they have not fenfe to read.
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