If Nature, grac'd by ev'ry stroke of art,
Can raise the passions, or explore the heart;
If winning elegance, and sense refin'd,
Exalt the soul, or captivate the mind;
That pow'r is thine, — thy features can impart
Thy inmost thoughts, and open all thy heart:
And in thy private life we plainly view
The pleasing characters you act so true. —
In Belcour's gen'rous heart we view thy own,
A soul deserving Virtue's loftiest throne;
Thy manners gentle, thy affection free; —
It is no Actor , but Thyself we see.
How does thy Trotley brave the Critic's rage,
And dart invective on this foolish age,
Point, with keen satire, at the tinsell'd throng,
And rise Knight-Errant to subdue the Ton?
But when in Ogleby you please the sight,
Gay ev'n in age, and laughingly polite;
Tho' each rheumatic pain has overspread
His feeble limbs, yet Ogleby's well-bred.
In Puff , of excellence, oh! what a store,
You gain more learned plaudits than before. —
Still sure to please the wits in either row,
The Gods above, or Demigods below;
Or if you strive to please each brilliant side,
How is each heart elate with honest pride!
How oft they wish that King would never part,
But raise to virtuous deeds each rival heart!
And still, when off the stage, you charm us more,
Almost superior to thy worth before. —
No more ideal goodness charms the sight,
We view thy real self, with new delight, —
We see thee ev'ry son of merit raise,
And build thyself a monument of praise;
We see thee Glory's shining path pursue,
Excel thyself, and make thy acting true.
If aught my humble Muse avail'd, I'd string
Once more my humble lyre, and strive to sing;
But, sure, the song must but debase thy same,
And my weak efforts sully such a name;
Thy great applause would baffle all my pains,
The Muse is dumb; — but gratitude remains.