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And playing wanton in the hall,
With accent sweet their parents call;
To your fair images I run,
You clasp the husband in the son;
O how the mother's heart will bound !
O how the father's joy be crown'd!

ROBERT CRAGGS,

,

EARL NUGENT.

BORN 1709.--DIED 1788.

ROBERT CRAGGs was descended from the Nugents of Carlanstown, in the county of Westmeath, and was a younger son of Michael Nugent, by the daughter of Robert Lord Trimleston. In the year 1741, he was elected member of parliament for St. Mawes, in Cornwall; and, becoming attached to the party of the Prince of Wales, was appointed in 1747) comptroller of his Royal Highness's household. On the death of the Prince he made his peace with the court, and was named successively a lord of the treasury, one of the vice-treasurers of Ireland, and a lord of trade. In 1767 he was created Viscount Nugent and Baron Clare. He was twice married. His second wife, with whom he acquired a large fortune, was sister and heiress to Secretary Craggs, the friend of Addison.

His political character was neither independent nor eminent, except for such honours as the court could bestow; but we are told, that in some instances he stood forth as an advocate for the interests of Ireland. His zeal for the manufactures of his native island induced him, on one occasion, to present the Queen with a new-year's gift of Irish grogram, accompanied with a copy of verses; and it was wickedly alleged, that her Majesty had returned her thanks to the noble author for both his pieces of stuff

A volume of his poems was published, anonymously, by Dodsley in 1739. Lord Orford remarks, that “ he was one of those men of parts, whose dawn 6 was the brightest moment of a long life.” He was first known by a very spirited ode on his conversion from popery; yet he relapsed to the faith which he had abjured. On the circumstance of his re-conversion it is uncharitable to lay much stress against his memory. There have been instances of it in men, whom either church would have been proud to appropriate. But it cannot be denied, that his poem on Faith formed, at a late period of his life, an anti-climax to the first promise of his literary talents; and though he possessed abilities, and turned them to his private account, he rose to no public confidence as a statesman.

ODE TO WILLIAM PULTENEY, ESQ.

REMOTE from liberty and truth,
By fortune's crime, my early youth

Drank error's poison'd springs, Taught by dark creeds and mystic law, Wrapt up in reverential awe,

I bow'd to priests and kings.

Soon reason dawn'd, with troubled sight
I caught the glimpse of painful light,

Afflicted and afraid,
Too weak it shone to mark my way,
Enough to tempt my steps to stray

Along the dubious shade.

Restless I roam’d, when from afar
Lo, Hooker shines! the friendly star

Sends forth a steady ray.
Thus cheer'd, and eager to pursue,
I mount, till glorious to my view,

Locke spreads the realms of day.

Now warm'd with noble Sidney's page,
I pant with all the patriot's rage;

Now wrapt in Plato's dream,
With More and Harrington around
I tread fair Freedom's magic ground,

And trace the flatt'ring scheme.

But soon the beauteous vision flies;
And hideous spectres now arise,

Corruption's direful train:
The partial judge perverting laws,
The priest forsaking virtue's cause,

And senates slaves to gain.
Vainly the pious artist's toil
Would rear to heaven a mortal pile,

On some immortal plan;
Within a sure, though varying date,
Confin'd, alas! is every state

Of empire and of man.

What though the good, the brave, the wise,
With adverse force undaunted rise,

To break th' eternal doom !
Though Cato liv'd, though Tully spoke,
Though Brutus dealt the godlike stroke,

Yet perish'd fated Rome,

To swell some future tyrant's pride,
Good Fleury pours the golden tide

On Gallia's smiling shores;
Once more her fields shall thirst in vain
For wholesome streams of honest gain,

While rapine wastes her stores.

Yet glorious is the great design,
And such, Pulteney! such is thine,

To prop a nation's frame.

If crush'd beneath the sacred weight,
The ruins of a falling state

Shall tell the patriot's name.

ODE TO MANKIND.

Is there, or do the schoolmen dream?
Is there on earth a pow'r supreme,

The delegate of heav'n,
To whom an uncontrol'd command,
In

every realm o'er sea and land,
By special grace is giv'n?

Then say, what signs this god proclaim?
Dwells he amidst the diamond's flame,

A throne his hallow'd shrine ?
The borrow'd pomp, the arm'd array,
Want, fear, and impotence betray:

Strange proofs of pow'r divine !

If service due from human kind,
To men in slothful ease reclin'd,

Can form a sov'reign's claim :
Hail, monarchs! ye, whom heav'n ordains,
Our toils unshar'd, to share our gains,

Ye ideots, blind and lame!

Superior virtue, wisdom, might,
Create and mark the ruler's right,

So reason must conclude:

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