To the Late Earl of Chesterfield

RECLIN'D beneath thy shade, Blackheath!
From politics 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?

'Twas this awak'd the present theme,
And bade 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 thy evening ray!

If this my fervent wish be crown'd,
I'll dress with flow'rs 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;
E'en 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,
Would stun thee with the choral sound.