A few, however, yet expect to find, Among the mifty millions of mankind, Who proudly stoop to aid an injur'd caufe, And o'er the fneer of coxcombs force applaufe. Who, with felt pleasure, fee fair Virtue rise, And lift her upwards to the beckoning prize! Or mark her labouring in the modest breast, And honour her the more, the more depreft. Thee, Savage, thefe (the juitly great) admire, Thee, quick'ning Judgment's phlegm with Fancy's fire! Thee, flow to cenfure, earneft to commend,

An able critic, but a willing friend.

An EPISTLE to a FRIEND in TOWN *.

HAVE my friends in the town, in the gay busy

town,

Forgot fuch a man as John Dyer?
Or heedlefs defpife they, or pity the clown,
Whofe bofom no pageantries fire?

No matter, no matter-content in the fhades-
(Contented?-why every thing charms me)
Fall in tunes all adown the green fteep, ye cafcades,
Tilf hence rigid virtue alarms me.

Till outrage arifes, or mifery needs

The fwift, the intrepid avenger;

Till facred religion or liberty bleeds,

*

Then mine be the deed, and the danger.

Alas!

Among the Poems of Mr. Savage, there is one to Mr. Dyer, in answer to his from the country.

Alas! what a folly, what wealth and domain
We heap up in fin and in forrow!
Immenfe is the toil, yet the labour how vain!
Is not life to be over to-morrow?

́Then glide on my moments, the few that I have
Smooth-shaded, and quiet, and even ;
While gently the body descends to the grave,
And the spirit arises to heaven.

TO MR.

I'

DYER. BY CLIO*.

VE done thy merit and my friendship wrong,
In holding back my gratitude fo long;
The foul is fure to equal tranfport rais'd,
That justly praifes, or is justly prais'd :
The generous only can this pleasure know,
Who tafte the god-like virtue-to bestow!
I ev'n grow rich, methinks, while I commend
And feel the very praises which I send.
Nor jealoufy nor female envy find,
Though all the Mufes are to Dyer kind.

Sing on, nor let your modeft fears retard,
Whose verse and pencil join, to force reward:
Your claim demands the bays, in double wreath,
Your Poems lighten, and your pictures breathe.
I wish to praise you, but your beauties wrong;
No theme looks green, in Clio's artless fong:

But

Among the Poems of Mr. Savage, is an Epiftle,

eccafioned by Mr. Dyer's Picture of this Lady.

But yours

will an eternal verdure wear,
For Dyer's fruitful foul will flourish there.
My humbler lot was in low distance laid;
I was, oh, hated thought! a woman made;
For houshold cares, and empty trifles meant,
The Name does immortality prevent.
Yet let me ftretch, beyond my sex, my mind,
And, rifing, leave the fluttering train behind;
Nor art, nor learning, wifh'd affiftance lends,
But nature, love, and mufic, are my friends..