To Caleb Hardinge, M.D.

With sordid floods the wintry Urn Hath stain'd fair Richmond's level green: Her naked hill the Dryads mourn, No longer a poetic scene. No longer there thy raptur'd eye The beauteous forms of earth or sky Surveys as in their Author's mind: And London shelters from the year Those whom thy social hours to share The Attic Muse design'd. From Hampstead's airy summit me Her guest the city shall behold, What day the people's stern decree To unbelieving kings is told, When common men (the dread of fame) Adjudg'd as one of evil name, Before the sun, the anointed head. Then seek thou too the pious town, With no unworthy cares to crown That evening's awful shade. Deem not I call thee to deplore The sacred martyr of the day, By fast and penitential lore To purge our ancient guilt away. For this, on humble faith I rest That still our advocate, the priest, From heavenly wrath will save the land; Nor ask what rites our pardon gain, Nor how his potent sounds restrain The thunderer's lifted hand. No, Hardinge: peace to church and state! That evening, let the Muse give law: While I anew the theme relate Which my first youth inamor'd saw. Then will I oft explore thy thought, What to reject which Locke hath taught, What to pursue in Virgil's lay: Till hope ascends to loftiest things, Nor envies demagogues or kings Their frail and vulgar sway. O vers'd in all the human frame, Lead thou where'er my labor lies, And English fancy's eager flame To Grecian purity chastize: While hand in hand, at wisdom's shrine, Beauty with truth I strive to join, And grave assent with glad applause; To paint the story of the soul, And Plato's visions to control By Verulamian laws.