Here lies David Garrick:  describe me, who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor, confessed without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line. 
Yet with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art: 
Like an ill-judging beauty his colours he spread,
And beplastered with rouge his own natural red;
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting—­
’Twas only that when he was off he was acting. 
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turned and he varied full ten times a day: 
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
If they were not his own by finessing and trick;
He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back. 
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came,
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;
Till, his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who peppered the highest was surest to please. 
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind: 
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind;
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave,
What a commerce was yours while you got and you gave! 
How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised,
While he was be-Rosciused and you were bepraised! 
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies
To act as an angel and mix with the skies! 
Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;

Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.

* * * * *

Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a better or wiser behind. 
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part—­
His pencil oar faces, his manners our heart. 
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judged without skill he was still hard of hearing;
When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.

  JAMES BEATTIE

  FROM THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS
  OF GENIUS

  Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride,
  That a poor villager inspires my strain;
  With thee let pageantry and power abide: 
  The gentle Muses haunt the sylvan reign;
  Where through wild groves at eve the lonely swain
  Enraptured roams, to gaze on Nature’s charms. 
  They hate the sensual, and scorn the vain,
  The parasite their influence never warms,
  Nor him whose sordid soul the love of gold alarms.

Though richest hues the peacock’s plumes adorn,
Yet horror screams from his discordant throat. 
Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn,
While warbling larks on russet pinions float;
Or seek at noon the woodland scene remote,
Where the grey linnets carol from the hill: 
O let them ne’er, with artificial note,
To please a tyrant, strain the little bill,
But sing what Heaven inspires, and wander where they will!