Classic Poem

T HE sympathies of blood I hail,
Where scenes can prompt the local tale.
Here toy'd an Ancestor of mine,
And call'd his Imogen divine:
A Village Pastor's comely Daughter
Made lips of a Collegiate water.
Poor was the Lover as a rat,
The books at Wadham call'd him Pratt .
Her charms alone his passion fir'd —
His time engross'd — his Muse inspir'd;
She had no portion but her beauty,
And principles of nuptial duty.
Born of the Mace that Mayors preceded,
It was a mercy he succeeded.
Lur'd by the Damsel's tempting grace,
He tempted her — to his embrace.
What Beldam could have then foretold
That, ere a century had roll'd,
This Buccaneer, with sails unfurl'd,
Would challenge an applauding world?
In eloquence his part would play,
And be the Erskine of his day?
That, first a Puny's rank his prize,
Then a Chief Justice he should rise?
That from his loins would spring a Son,
Born for a nobler prize to run;
Whom Public Freedom should approve;
The Idol of his Country's love!
A Chancellor — the Suitor's pride —
His arbiter — his friend — his guide;
A Peer , but still the People's Friend,
Whom Kings and Courts could never bend?
Yet, whilst a worthy Son inherits
The fruits of all his Father's merits;
The little Judge , his Lordship's Cousin,
Laughs, and writes Sonnets by the dozen;
And, though his fortune has been spent,
Comes of the very same descent;
By no adversities depress'd,
By Love and by the Muse caress'd!