TO
MR.
S.
TUCKER
.
BY
Mr.
MENDES
.
THE
sons
of
man
,
by
various
passions
led
,
The
paths
of
bus'ness
or
of
pleasure
tread
;
The
florist
views
his
dear
carnation
rise
,
And
wonders
who
can
doat
on
Flavia's
eyes
;
The
lover
sees
,
unmov'd
,
each
gaudy
streak
,
And
knows
no
bloom
but
that
on
Daphne's
cheek
:
While
some
grow
pale
o'er
Newton
,
Locke
,
or
Boyle
,
Miss
reads
romances
,
and
my
lady
Hoyle
;
Thus
inclination
binds
her
fetters
strong
,
And
,
just
as
judgment
marks
,
we're
right
or
wrong
.
Fair
are
those
hills
where
sacred
laurels
grow
,
Rul'd
by
the
pow'r
who
draws
the
golden
bow
;
But
see
how
few
attain
the
dang'rous
road
,
How
few
are
born
to
feel
th'
inspiring
god
!
Yet
all
,
to
reach
the
arduous
summit
try
,
From
soaring
Pope
to
reptile
Ogleby
.
Among
the
rest
,
your
friend
attempts
to
climb
,
But
ah
,
how
diff'rent
poesy
and
rhyme
!
The
mid-night
bard
,
reciting
to
his
bell
,
Who
breaks
our
rest
,
and
tolls
the
muses
knell
,
Is
just
a
poet
matchless
and
divine
,
As
he
a
Raphael
,
who
,
on
ale-house
sign
,
Seats
his
bold
George
in
attitude
so
quaint
,
That
none
can
tell
the
dragon
from
a
saint
.
Reckon
each
sand
in
wide
New-market
plain
,
Mount
yon
blue
vault
,
and
count
the
starry
train
;
But
numbers
ne'er
can
comprehend
the
throng
Of
retail
dealers
in
the
art
of
song
.
Like
summer
flies
they
blot
the
solar
ray
,
And
,
like
their
brother
insects
,
live
a
day
.
Am
I
not
blasted
by
some
friendless
star
,
To
know
my
wants
,
yet
wage
unequal
war
?
I
own
I
am
;
and
dabbling
thus
in
rhyme
,
'Tis
folly's
bell
that
rings
the
pleasing
chyme
;
Bit
by
the
bard's
tarantula
I
swell
,
Write
off
the
raging
fit
,
and
all
is
well
.
And
yet
,
perhaps
,
to
lose
my
time
this
way
Is
better
far
than
some
mis-spend
the
day
.
The
fatal
dice-box
never
fill'd
my
hand
,
By
me
no
orphan
weeps
his
ravish'd
land
;
What
ward
can
tax
me
with
a
deed
unjust
?
What
friend
upbraids
me
with
a
broken
trust
?
(
Some
few
except
,
whom
pride
and
folly
blind
,
I
found
them
chaff
,
and
give
them
to
the
wind
)
Like
a
poor
bird
,
and
one
of
meanest
wing
,
Around
my
cage
I
flutter
,
hop
,
and
sing
.
Unlike
in
this
my
brethren
of
the
bays
,
I
sue
for
pardon
,
and
they
hope
for
praise
;
And
when
for
verse
I
find
my
genius
warm
,
Like
infants
sent
to
school
,
I
keep
from
harm
.
What
time
the
dog-star
with
unbating
flames
Cleaves
the
parch'd
earth
,
and
sinks
the
silver
Thames
;
While
the
shrill
tenant
The
grasshopper
.
of
the
sun-burnt
blade
,
(
A
poet
he
,
and
singing
all
his
trade
)
Tears
his
small
throat
,
I
brave
the
sultry
ray
,
And
deep-embower'd
,
escape
the
rage
of
day
.
Thrice
bless'd
the
man
,
who
,
shielded
from
the
beam
,
Sings
lays
melodious
to
the
sacred
stream
;
Thrice
bless'd
the
stream
,
who
views
his
banks
of
flow'rs
,
Crown'd
with
the
Muse's
or
imperial
tow'rs
,
Whose
limpid
waters
as
they
onwards
glide
,
See
humble
oziers
nod
,
or
threat'ning
squadrons
ride
.
Health
to
my
friend
,
and
to
his
partner
,
peace
,
A
good
long
life
,
and
moderate
increase
;
May
Dulwich
garden
double
treasures
share
,
And
be
both
Flora
and
Pomona's
care
.
Ye
Walton
naiads
,
guard
the
fav'rite
child
,
Drive
off
each
marsh-born
fog
;
ye
zephyrs
mild
,
Fan
the
dear
innocent
;
ye
fairies
,
keep
Your
wonted
distance
,
nor
disturb
his
sleep
;
Nor
in
the
cradle
,
while
your
tricks
you
play
,
The
changeling
drop
,
and
bear
our
boy
away
.
However
chance
may
chalk
his
future
fate
,
Or
doom
his
manhood
to
be
rich
or
great
,
Is
not
our
care
;
oh
,
let
the
guiding
pow'r
Decide
that
point
,
who
rules
the
natal
hour
;
Nor
shall
we
seek
,
for
knowledge
to
enrich
,
The
Delphic
tripod
,
or
your
Norwood
witch
.
But
Tucker
doubts
,
and
"
if
not
rich
,
"
he
cries
,
"
How
can
the
boy
reward
the
good
and
wife
?
Give
him
but
gold
,
and
merit
ne'er
shall
freeze
,
But
rise
from
want
to
affluence
and
ease
:
The
Guido's
touch
shall
warm
his
throbbing
heart
,
The
patriot's
bust
shall
speak
the
sculptor's
art
;
But
if
from
Danae's
precious
show'r
debar'd
,
The
Muse
he
may
admire
,
but
ne'er
reward
.
"
All
this
I
grant
;
but
does
it
follow
then
,
That
parts
have
drawn
regard
from
wealthy
men
?
Did
Gay
receive
the
tribute
of
the
great
?
No
,
let
his
tomb
be
witness
of
his
fate
:
For
Milton's
days
are
too
long
past
to
strike
;
The
rich
of
all
times
ever
were
alike
.
See
him
,
whose
lines
"
in
a
fine
frenzy
roll
,
"
He
comes
to
tear
,
to
harrow
up
the
soul
;
Bear
me
,
ye
pow'rs
,
from
his
bewitching
sprite
,
My
eye-balls
darken
at
excess
of
light
;
How
my
heart
dances
to
his
magic
strain
,
Beats
my
quick
pulse
,
and
throbs
each
bursting
vein
.
From
Avon's
bank
with
ev'ry
garland
crown'd
,
'Tis
his
to
rouse
,
to
calm
,
to
cure
,
to
wound
;
To
mould
the
yielding
bosom
to
his
will
,
And
Shakespear
is
inimitable
still
:
Oppress'd
by
fortune
,
all
her
ills
he
bore
,
Hear
this
ye
Muses
,
and
be
vain
no
more
.
Nor
shall
my
He
was
rewarded
with
lands
in
Ireland
,
which
he
lost
in
the
rebellion
of
the
earl
of
Desmond
.
He
came
over
to
England
to
solicit
a
recovery
of
them
;
but
having
attended
long
in
vain
,
finished
his
days
in
grief
and
disappointment
.
Spenser
want
his
share
of
praise
,
The
heav'n-sprung
sisters
wove
the
laureat's
bays
;
Yet
what
avail'd
his
sweet
descriptive
pow'r
,
The
fairy
warrior
,
or
inchanted
bow'r
?
Tho'
matchless
Sidney
doated
on
the
strain
,
Lov'd
by
the
learned
Sir
Walter
Raleigh
.
shepherd
of
the
main
,
Observe
what
meed
his
latest
labours
crown'd
,
Belphaebe
Queen
Elizabeth
.
smil'd
not
,
and
stern
Burleigh
frown'd
.
If
still
you
doubt
,
consult
some
well
known
friend
,
Let
Ellis
speak
,
to
him
you
oft
attend
,
Whom
truth
approves
,
whom
candor
calls
her
own
,
Known
by
the
God
,
by
all
the
Muses
known
.
Where
tow'r
his
hills
,
where
stretch
his
lengths
of
vale
,
Say
,
where
his
heifers
load
the
smoaky
pail
?
Oh
may
this
grateful
verse
my
debt
repay
,
If
aught
I
know
,
he
show'd
the
arduous
way
;
Within
my
bosom
fan'd
the
rising
flame
,
Plum'd
my
young
wing
,
and
bade
me
try
for
fame
.
Since
then
I
scribbl'd
,
and
must
scribble
still
,
His
word
was
once
a
sanction
to
my
will
;
And
I'll
persist
'till
he
resume
the
pen
,
Then
shrink
contented
,
and
ne'er
rhyme
again
.
Yet
,
ere
I
take
my
leave
,
I
have
to
say
,
That
while
in
sleep
my
senses
wasted
lay
,
The
waking
soul
,
which
sports
in
fancy's
beam
,
Work'd
on
my
drowsy
lids
,
and
form'd
a
dream
;
Then
to
my
lines
a
due
attention
keep
,
For
oft
when
poets
dream
,
their
readers
sleep
.
On
a
wide
champian
,
where
the
surges
beat
Th'
extended
beach
,
then
sullenly
retreat
,
A
dismal
cottage
rear'd
its
turfy
head
,
O'er
which
a
yew
her
baleful
branches
spread
;
The
owl
profane
his
dreadful
dirges
sung
,
The
passing
bell
the
foul
night-raven
rung
;
No
village
cur
here
bay'd
the
cloudless
moon
,
No
golden
sunshine
chear'd
the
hazy
noon
,
But
ghosts
of
men
by
love
of
gold
betray'd
,
In
silence
glided
thro'
the
dreary
shade
.
There
sat
pale
Grief
in
melancholy
state
,
And
brooding
Care
was
trusted
with
the
gate
,
Within
,
extended
on
the
cheerless
ground
,
An
old
man
lay
in
golden
fillet
bound
;
Rough
was
his
beard
,
and
matted
was
his
hair
,
His
eyes
were
fiery
red
,
his
shoulders
bare
;
Down
furrow'd
cheeks
hot
tears
had
worn
their
way
,
And
his
broad
scalp
was
thinly
strew'd
with
grey
;
A
weighty
ingot
in
his
hand
he
prest
,
Nor
seem'd
to
feel
the
viper
at
his
breast
.
Around
the
caitiff
,
glorious
to
behold
,
Lay
minted
coinage
,
and
historic
gold
;
Medals
.
High
sculptur'd
urns
in
bright
confusion
stood
,
And
streams
of
silver
form'd
a
precious
flood
.
On
nails
,
suspended
rows
of
pearls
were
seen
,
Not
such
the
pendants
of
th'
Aegyptian
queen
,
Who
(
joy
luxurious
swelling
all
her
soul
)
Quaff'd
the
vast
price
of
empires
in
her
bowl
.
As
seas
voracious
swallow
up
the
land
,
As
raging
flames
eternal
food
demand
,
So
this
vile
wretch
,
unbless'd
with
all
his
store
,
Repin'd
in
plenty
,
and
grew
sick
for
more
;
Nor
shall
we
wonder
when
his
name
I
tell
,
'Twas
Avarice
,
the
eldest
born
of
hell
.
But
,
hark
!
what
noise
breaks
in
upon
my
tale
,
Be
hush'd
each
sound
,
and
whisper
ev'ry
gale
;
Ye
croaking
rooks
your
noisy
flight
suspend
,
Guess'd
I
not
right
how
all
my
toil
would
end
?
My
heavy
rhymes
have
jaded
Tucker
quite
;
He
yawns
—
he
nods
—
he
snores
.
Good
night
,
good
night
.