Whate’er we paint—a grot, a flower, a bird,
Heavens! how we sweat, laboriously absurd!
Words of gigantic bulk, and uncouth sound,
In rattling triads the long sentence bound;
While points with points, with periods periods jar,
And the whole work seems one continued war!”
Not less poetical, and certainly much more pleasant in its tone, is this reminiscence of his early friendship with Dr. Ireland:
‘Chief thou, my friend! who from my earliest years
Hast shared my joys, and more than shared my cares,
Sure, if our fates hang on some hidden power,