ws a native of Britannia's plains.
Soft-ey'd compassion, with a look benign
His fervent vows he offer'd at thy shrine;
To guilt, to woe, the sacred debt was paid,[60]
And helpless females bless'd his pious aid:
Snatch'd from disease, and want's abandon'd crew,
Despair and anguish from their victims flew;
Hope's soothing balm into their bosoms stole,
And tears of penitence restor'd the soul.
Nor did philanthrophy alone expand
His liberal heart, and ope his bounteous hand;
His _talents_ ev'n he gave to friendship's claim,[61]
And by the gift imparted wealth and fame:
His mind exhaustless sped its vivid force,
Yet with unbated vigour held its course;
As some fix'd star fulfills heaven's great designs,
Lights other spheres, yet undiminish'd shines.
How few distinguish'd of the studious train
At the gay board their empire can maintain!
In their own books intomb'd their wisdom lies;
Too dull for talk, their slow conceptions rise:
Yet the mute author, of his writings proud,
For wit unshewn claims homage from the crowd;
As thread-bare misers, by mean avarice school'd,
Expect obeisance from their hidden gold.--
In converse quick, impetuous Johnson press'd
His weighty logick, or sarcastick jest:
Strong in the chace, and nimble in the turns,[62]
For victory still his fervid spirit burns;
Subtle when wrong, invincible when right,
Arm'd at all points, and glorying in his might,
Gladiator-like, he traverses the field,
And strength and skill compel the foe to yield.--
Yet have I seen him, with a milder air,
Encircled by the witty and the fair,
Ev'n in old age with placid mien rejoice
At beauty's smile, and beauty's flattering voice.--
With Reynolds' pencil, vivid, bold, and true,
So fervent Boswell gives him to our view.
In every trait we see his mind expand;
The master rises by the pupil's hand;
We love the writer, praise his happy vein,
Grac'd with the naivete of the sage Montaigne.
Hence not alone are brighter parts display'd,
But ev'n the specks of character portray'd:
We _see_ the Rambler with fastidious smile
Mark the lone tree, and note the heath-clad isle;
But when the heroick tale of Flora charms,[63]
Deck'd in a kilt, he wields a chieftain's arms:
The tuneful piper sounds a martial strain,
And Samuel sings, "The King shall have his ain":
Two Georges in his loyal zeal are slur'd,[64]
A gracious pension on