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Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd,
Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd.
And Curio, restless by the fair one's side,
Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his brids.

Theirs is the vanity, the learning thine:

Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine;
Her gods and godlike heroes rise to view,
And all her faded garlands bloom anew.
Nor blush these studies thy regard engage:
These pleased the fathers of poetic rage:
The verse and sculpture bore an equal part,
And art reflected images to art.

Oh, when shall Britain, conscious of her claim,
Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame?
In living medals see her wars enroll'd,
And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold?
Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face;;
There, warriors frowning in historic brass :
Then future ages with delight shall see
How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree;
Or in fair series laurell'd bards be shown,
A Virgil there, and here an Addison.

Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine)
On the cast ore, another Pollio, shine;

With aspect open shall erect his head,
And round the orb in lasting notes be read,→
Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear;
Who broke no promise, served no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend:
Ennobled by himself, by all approved,
And praised, unenvied, by the muse he loved'

END OF VOL. 1.

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