Tho' proud Del---ne, for nameless, partial Ends,
Throws me at Distance from my letter'd Friends;
And, not content to banish from his Walls,
Ev'n on my few Well--wishers vengeful falls,
Think not, dear Partner in the Search of Truth,
The Guide, and the Companion of my Youth,
That a long Absence, and a distant Sky
Divide you from my Heart, tho' from my Eye:
For oft, as thro' our Kentish Meads I stray,
To Oxford's Domes my Thoughts are borne away.
Sometimes, with thee, I seem, on human Fate,
With Freedom and Good--nature, to debate;
And fallibly indeed, but void of Pride,
Sincerely and impartially decide:
Sometimes, methinks, we search the Ways of God,
And tread the Paths, by vulgar Feet untrod:
Sometimes in the Recess of Merton Grove,
Beneath the cooling Bowers, as once, we rove;
Or 'midst Oppression, Clamour, and Ill--will,
To GEORGE's Name the loyal Goblet fill.

Whilst in my Thoughts these pleasing Scenes arise,
That us'd to chear my Soul, and charm my Eyes,
Spight of feign'd Calmness, and affected Art,
I must disclose the Weakness of my Heart,
That often Sighs burst forth, and Tears commence,
That Party--Rage, and Faction drove me thence.

Yet this, at least, this Truth will be confest,
If I, sometimes, my Thoughts too freely prest,
That Age, experienc'd Age, might have withstood
The little, peevish Throws of youthful Blood,
Might have presum'd, that if I judg'd not right,
Years would correct, and fledge my latter Flight.
This better wou'd a Christian Priest become,
This to Reproach had left no envious room
To say, in selfish Wrath he turn'd me forth
A Vagabond, a Starveling on the Earth.

But know, my Friend, forsaken as I seem,
Heav'n of my Foes hath broke the plotted Scheme.
O! listen to the Fulness of my Breast,
How much I am amidst ill Treatment blest!

From Tunbridge Walks these friendly Lines I send,
Where now, at Ease, the joyful Hours I spend:
Where, with the Wise, the Noble, and the Fair,
I lose my Sorrows, and forget my Care.
Did nothing else contribute to my Bliss,
Yet blest I am, sincerely blest in this,
That, in these gay Retreats, I am withdrawn
From Pedantry, Corruption, and Del---ne.

With Nature Art, and Art with Nature vies,
Here spread the Vallies, there the Mountains rise:
Here in the Wind the nodding Forests play,
And there in Clouds the Landscape rolls away:
Here the pleas'd Eye the mimick Rock--work fills,
And trickle down its sides the babling Rills:
Here, springing upwards thro' the steely Mines,
The nervous, Life--prolonging Stream refines,
Whilst the gay Graces in the Basin sport,
And Health's fair Goddess keeps her sanguine Court.

But to enhance the Blessings of this Place,
The foremost of Mankind its Mansions grace;
Here Blunt from the Fatigue of Thought retires,
And for a while allays the Patriot's Fires;
For oh! The Plan, that teems with boundless Wealth,
Weighs down his Mind, and preys upon his Health:
Early He breaks his Rest, and watches late,
Still carrying in his Brain the Nation's Fate;
By his unrival'd Art, and deathless Pains,
O'er Nations, once obey'd, Britannia reigns,
More dreadfully her martial Lions roar,
Beyond their usual pitch her Eagles soar;
Her forky Trident awes the farthest Seas,
And Peace and War commence as she decrees.

With Fears surrounded, in his Palace--Jayl,
Law sees, with Shame, his empty Projects fail,
And blushes to behold, but scorns to own
What Blunt, with half the Gallic Power, has done.
Each rising Sun new Millions we behold;
For what he touches all converts to Gold,
Beneath our Northern, bleak, and barren Skies,
Indias and richer Mexicos arise.

Here Ingram too, well--worthy of our Lays,
The Friend and finish'd Gentleman displays,
Amidst Abundance candid to Mankind,
With Pride unsoil'd, the Canker of the Mind;
Easy to all, and rigidly sincere,
To every Rank He lends an equal Ear;
With God--like Blunt, the World's exalted Theme,
He joins in Council, and Directs the Scheme.

To these we add, distinguish'd from the Croud,
Craggs, Masters, Gumley, Hamilton, and Strode,
Rider for Candour fam'd, for Truth belov'd,
And Otway in the Fields of Bloodshed prov'd:
Pardon, great Names, the Freedom I assume,
(For Vanity forbids me to be dum,
To make it known, in these ambitious Lays,
What Worthies Kent can boast in GEORGE's Days.

Hail native Spot! The Garden of our Isle,
Where Loyalty, and Peace, and Beauty smile!
Where a full Crop the fruitful Season yields,
Thy Patriots Wealth, and Plenty crowns thy Fields;
Here, in old Times, the Saxon Monarchs reign'd,
And Pelham here the signal Belt obtain'd;
Here, the fam'd Patron of abandon'd VVit;
Dorset inspir'd the Verse which Prior writ;
Here Romney, to great Shovell's Race ally'd,
In impious Days oppos'd Rebellion's Tide;
Here Stanhope, in the Camp for Valour known,
And in the British Councils glorious grown,
VVhen publick Cares admit a short Retreat,
Fixes, the noble Earl, his rural Seat.
Here his first Breath immortal Hoadly drew,
Revil'd and slander'd by the Bigot--Crew;
And Taylor here (ah! much--lamented Knight!)
Liv'd to the publick and diffus'd Delight.
In England's Annals fair, this County claims
Of Men the greatest, and the brightest Dames,
Still foremost in the Days of Danger stood,
Kent, the first polish'd, and the last subdu'd.

In these Elisian Shades I still pursue
Those noble Lessons, which I learnt from you;
Still, in despight of vain, scholastick Pride,
Truth is my Search, and Reason is my Guide:
Nor think, that to your Oxford is confin'd
The rich and learned Prospect of the Mind;
Or that the Muses in one Climate reign,
And only one; the Thought absurd and vain!
Knowledge, a generous Plant, in every Land,
Shoots forth and branches for the youthful Hand.

Thus Kent to me, what Oxford was before,
Parnassus is, the soft Poetick Shore;
My Helicon is Medway's gentle Stream,
And, as of late was Isis, is my Theme.

But, when from Tunbridge--Wells you shall behold
These dated Lines, for Beauty fam'd of old,
From me, perhaps, you will expect to hear
What shining fair ones grace this happy Year;
And that in lofty Verse I should declaim
On the Perfections of each toasted Dame:
Alas! My Friend, so numerous, and so bright
Are the fair Faces that divide my Sight;
That a full Volume would the Task require;
And both the VVriter and the Reader tire;
All greatly born, well--bred, and all divine,
Like Jove's immortal Progeny they shine,
Hammonds and Rayes from every Part surprize,
And Calverts, Towns, and Kelleys strike our Eyes;
Awful like Juno, and like Venus sweet,
Sofness and courtly Grace in Rider meet;
Kingsley in every View the Heart beguiles,
And full of Charms she moves, she speaks, she smiles;
In each, by Nature amply blest, are seen
The winning Aspect and the comely Mien.
A brighter Pair not high Olympus boasts,
Nor can Jove's self propose two nobler Toasts.

''But this, is this, my honest Friend, you cry,
''The utmost Height your Kentish Muses fly?
''Each arrant Scribbler that to Verse pretends,
''Has these dull Stories at his Fingers Ends;
''To Juno thus, and Venus he compares
''The lovely Author of his Midnight Cares:
''Thus, in jejune, reiterated Lays,
''Her Eyes, her Mein, and Aspect he displays.
''VVretched, indeed! That such fair Dames excite,
''VVith all their Lustre, no sublimer Flight!
''They look, methinks, in your degrading Lines,
''Like heavenly Angels daub'd on Country Signs.

Why truly, Sir, in these melodious Times,
When every saucy Footman scribbles Rhimes,
And scarce one sees a Porter in the Street,
But deals in Numbers and Poetick Feet,
Beauty and Love such hackney Themes are grown,
We scarce can call a single Thought our own;
On this trite Topick, howsoe'er we aim,
Our Similes and Figures are the same;
For better and for worse in vain you hope,
You'll find us all alike--from Me to Pope.

For this sage Reason, dearest Friend of mine,
I willingly this Province would decline,
And to another Subject turn my Lays,
(For the worst Satire is unskilful Praise).
A thousand Themes unsung there still remain,
All well--deserving an Horatian Strain:
But Francklin, who, at present, rules my Roast,
Sends in warm Terms for Copy by next Post;
And therefore I must hasten to an End;--
Believe me to be still your faithful Friend,
The same, unalter'd Man, sincere and true;
My Service to all Friends, and so adieu.