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Here Cumberland' lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; A flattering painter, who made it his care To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And comedy wonders at being so fine; Like a tragedy queen he has dizzen'd her out, Or, rather, like tragedy giving a rout. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, Adopting his portraits, are pleased with their owni. Say, where has our poet this malady caught ? Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? Say, was it that, vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

Here Douglas retires, from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant re

clines : When satire and censure encircled his throne, I feared for your safety, I feared for my own; But now he is gone, and we want a detector, [ture; Our Dodds3 shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecMacpherson write bombast, and call it a style, Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile; New Lauders? and Bowers the Tweed shall cross Here lies David Garrick,' describe him who can, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man; As an actor, confess'd 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 beplaster'd 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 turn'd 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

over, No countryman living their tricks to discover: Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, [dark. And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the

1 Vide page 212. 2 Vide page 212. 3 The Rev. Dr. Dodd. 4 Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, under the title of “The School of Shakspeare.” 5 James Macpherson, Esq.; who, from the mere force of his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity. 6 Vide rage 213. 7 Vide p. 212. raised, While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were be-praised? But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies, To act as an angel and mix with the skies : Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will. [love, Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.

back. Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came, And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame; Till his relish, grown callous almost to disease, Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. But let us be candid and speak out our mind, If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls4 so grave, What a commerce was yours while you got and you

gave? How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you Here Hickey' reclines, a most blunt, pleasant

1 Vide page 212. 2 Vide p. 214. 3 Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of “ False Delicacy,. “ Word to the Wise,” « Clementina," “ School for Wives," &c., &c. 4 Mr. William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.

creature, And slander itself must allow him good nature; He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper; Yet one fault he had, and that was a thumper. Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser? I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser: Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat? His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. Perhaps he confided in men as they go, And so was too foolishly honest ? ah no. Then what was his failing ? come, tell it, and burn ye, He was—could he help it ?-a special attorney.

Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He has not left a wiser or better behind ; His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand; His manners were gentle, complying, and bland; Still born to improve us in every part, 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; When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff. (stuff,

POSTSCRIPT. [After the fourth edition of this poem was printed, the publisher

received the following Epitaph on Mr. Whitefoord, from a friend of the late Dr. Goldsmith.

HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who cari, Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man; Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun! Who relished a joke, and rejoiced in a pun;

1 Vide p. 212. 2 Vide p. 212. 3 Sir Joshua Reynolds was su remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an eartrumpet in company. 4 Mr. Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.

5 Mr. W. was so notorious a punster, that Dr. Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep him com: pany without being infected with the itch of punning.

Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ;
A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear;
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily bon mots half a column might fill ;
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that so liberal a mind
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined !
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content “if the table he set in a roar;"
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall' confess'd him a wit.

Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs, and re-echo'd his jokes; Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come, Still follow your master, and visit his tomb; To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine, And copious libations bestow on his shrine ; Then strew all around it (you can do no less) Cross-readings, ship news, and mistakes of the press..

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake, I admit That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit; This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, 66 Thou best-humour'd man with the worst-humour'd

muse.

THE HERMIT: A BALLAD.

“ TURN, gentle hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way,
To where yon taper cheers the vale

With hospitable ray. 1 Mr. H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser, 2 Mr. Whitefoord has frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces under those titles in the Public Advertiser.

For here forlorn and lost I tread,

With fainting steps, and slow; Where wilds, immeasurably spread,

Seem lengthening as I go.' “Forbear, my son,” the hermit cries,

“To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom fies

To lure thee to thy doom. “ Here to the houseless child of want

My door is open still ;
And, though my portion is but scant,

I give it with good-will. “ Then turn to-night, and freely share

Whate'er my cell bestows; My rushy couch and frugal fare,

My blessing and repose. “ No flocks, that range the valley free,

To slaughter I condemn; Taught by that Power that pities me,

I learn to pity them : “ But from the mountain's grassy side

A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,

And water from the spring. “ Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;

All earthborn cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long."
Soft as the dew from Heav'n descends,

His gentle accents fell ;
The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure,

The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighb’ring poor,

And strangers led astray.

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