Address to Thomas King, Esq.

QUICK let me snatch the pliant quill,
Ere time his destin'd course fulfill;
Ere all-impairing age shall drain
The vivid juices of the brain,
Quick let me snatch the means to tell,
What mem'ry yet recalls so well.

Now many rolling years have shed
Their various changes o'er my head,
Since, by instinctive ardour caught,
Thy converse and esteem I sought.
O! blest be that propitious hour,
And blest that sympathetic pow'r,
Which my unpractis'd heart inclin'd
To court the union of thy mind!
For Reason now approves the plan,
Which youthful instinct then began.

What precious hours have we enjoy'd,
Tho' veil'd by distance, not destroy'd!
How oft, in those eccentric days,
When Fancy trac'd her vagrant maze;
How oft did SHAKESPEARE's matchless fire
Our converse and our hearts inspire!
How would we fly, with rapture fraught,
From phrase to phrase, from thought to thought!
Now chuckle over FALSTAFF's mirth,
Which found in QUIN a second birth—
Now glow with noble sympathy
At HOTSPUR's martial ecstacy!—
Sometimes thro' ARDEN's forest rove
With Taste, Simplicity, and Love;

Then follow, o'er the blasted heath,
The bloody footsteps of MACBETH—
Admire the Bard's creative art
In this, or that peculiar part;
Then gaze on the stupendous whole,
And marvel at his boundless soul!

How oft with transport did we trace
The nameless, sweet, electric grace,
The fascinating charms that shone
In still-unequall'd WOFFINGTON!

The various beauties re-peruse,
(Embellishing the Comic Muse)
When PRITCHARD's polish'd taste convey'd
What FARQUHAR, CONGREVE, SHAKESPEARE said!
Recall the sentiment that broke
From GARRICK's eye, ere GARRICK spoke!
Or recollect the frantic glance,
The nobly-wild extravagance,
Of CIBBERS energy, when sir'd
With all ALICIA's rage inspir'd;
Or her mellifluous tones of love,
When BARRY's plainings wak'd the grove!

And have we not, in sportive vein,
To Whim sometimes resign'd the rein,
Letting the giddy rambler run
Thro' all the devious cranks of sun,
Till laughter, in loud peals, would rise,
Term'd folly by the over-wise?
Yet ne'er may we, such Cynics grown,
Prove tasteless to the joys we've known,
But beg of Fortune, "long to use
"The toy that can so well amuse!"

But I digress—Accept the verse,
Nor let the wonders I rehearse
Awake distrust; but mark the tale,
Which, in a lonely western vale,
Recorded is from sire to son,
And when the narrative is done,
If it attract a gen'rous tear,
Grudge not the graceful tribute here;
Admire the worth in ALCON shewn,
And love a heart so like your own.