London, March 4th, 1794.

THO' in Politics sever'd, you'll always admit
That I tasted your humour, and relish'd your Wit ;
When Townshend's gay strain made the whole Circle shine,
While a Viceroy, for once, gave us Wit with his Wine,
And friendships dear tie still exulting I own,
That binds me to Windham, to You, and Malone :
Malone far remov'd from all party-dissension,
Would hang, draw, and quarter, the Gallic Convention ;
On this point alone, (and I fear you wou'd aid him)
Not ev'n his lov'd Bard* can to mercy persuade him :
From our Side, with a sigh I saw Windham depart,
His opinion may err, but how noble's his heart !
Tho' such Virtues I love, and such Talents I prize,
Yet your Crusade of Kings from my soul I despise ;
Look at Poland, and plunder (their Royal reform)
And hail Freedom with me, tho' she rise in a storm !
Then Jephson farewell, with best wishes adieu,
Who loves Genius and Merit, will always love You.—

To share Anstey's laurels, I proudly aspire
Tho' vain my attempts to attune his sweet lyre ;
Yet on Fox's deep brow, if I light up a smile,
And if Sheridan deign to attend to my style ;
If talents and taste can be pleas'd with my lay,
While I sing to Fitzpatrick, to Townshend, and Grey ;
If a plaudit from Erskine and Adam I draw,
Who still think that honour's a part of the law ;
If Barré's quick fancy still pregnant and bright,
Will sometimes approve of a whimsical flight ;
And why should I Wilkes (now he's loyal) omit,
I hate General Warrants, and love Wine and Wit.
If the Norths and the Maitlands my vanity raise,
By crowning my numbers with generous praise ;
If Wickham, and Whitebread, and Lambton I gain,
While they strike at corruption, to list to my strain ;
I'll laugh o'er my wine, fleeting sorrow's best cure,
And like Marvell live gaily, and proud to be poor ;
The Cavils of Critics, disdainfully bear,
If I 'scape the just censures of keen-juding Hare.

Can I envy an A—k—d's or Loug—gh's place,
Tho' like Peachum and Lockit again they embrace ?
Can pensions and titles give honour, or fame ?
Like the Pill'ry, a Patent exposes the name.
Have the poisons of Quacks salutiferous charms,
Tho' the Chancellor grants them his Majesty's Arms ?
Will Birmingham gold pass for Mexico's mine,
Tho' the image of Kings on the base metal shine ?
Then I'll sneer at John Bull, in his panics and fits,
While he's trick'd by the G--v--ls, and dup'd by the P—ts.
To Freedom adhere, (tho' alas ! she is flown)
Nor desert Fox and Britain to cringe to the Throne.

To a Congratulatory Ode


N O T E S.

* Shakspeare.—See the Merchant of Venice, Act IV.

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