To the EARL of CHESTERFIELD. AUGUST 7th

Reclin'd beneath thy shade, Blackheath! From politicks and strife apart; His temples twin'd with laurel-wreath, And virtue smiling at his heart:

Will Chesterfield the muse allow, To break upon his still retreat? To view if health still smooths his brow, And prints his grove with willing feet?

Tho' gratitude is rarely found, At court or spacious drawing-room; Still shall she tread poetic ground, And favors past shall ne'er intomb.

'Twas this awak'd the present theme, And bad it reach thy distant ear; Where if no rays of genius beam, Sincerity at least is there.

May pale disease fly far aloof, O'er venal domes its flag display; And health beneath thy peaceful roof, Add lustre to thine evening ray.

If this my fervent wish be crown'd, I'll dress with flowr's the godhead's shrine:— Nor thou with wisdom's chaplet bound, At any absent gift repine.

What tho' thou dost not grace a throne, While subjects bend the supple knee; No other king the muses own, And science lifts her eye to thee.

Tho' deafness by a doom severe, Steals from thy ear the murm'ring rill; Or Philomel's delightful air, Ev'n deem not this a partial ill.

Ah, if anew thine ear was strung, Awake to ev'ry voice around? Thy praises by the many sung, Wou'd stun thee with the choral sound!—