Can hot-press’d page, or mezzotinto bust, Back to an author call th’ expended sum? Can honour’s voice engage the printer’s trust, Or flat’ry sooth the dull, cold debtor’s room? Perhaps in those muse-slighted courts are laid Some hearts once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of Thespis might have sway’d, Or wak’d the modern Pindar’s laughing lyre, But Themis to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of clients did unroll; Chill penury repress’d their classic rage Or beauty warm’d the current of the soul. Yet many a term, a Lawyer, too serene, The briefless bag to Westminster may bear, Yet many a Lover’s born to sigh unseen, Or waste his rhet’ric on th’ obdurate fair. Some Nash, that had alike with dauntless breast The little tyrant, or the great withstood Some mute, inglorious Erskine there may rest; Some Scott, ne’er thirsting for a patriot’s blood. Th’ applause of list’ning juries to command, The cause of Hardy and of Tooke to gain To scatter pamphlets o’er their native land, And read their praises from a foreign pen, Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib’d alone Their growing merit, but their faults confin’d; Forbade to raise the persecutor’s throne, And shut the gates of freedom on the mind. The gentle charms of Christian truth to hide, To wake her blushes of ingenuous shame, Heaping the shrine of bigotry and pride, With incense kindled at her sacred flame. Far from the wrangling Bar’s high purchas’d strife, On a back seat they mark the wordy fray; Along the circuit to the vale of life, They keep the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e’en their heads from eave-drops to protect Some frail umbrella still upheld on high The uncouth wig, as Cloudesley Shovell’s deck’d, Declare a councillor is passing by. Their names, their years, spelt falsely in the news, The place of fame and Marlborough supply; And many a line around the Printer strews, That teach how Barristers may wed and die. But who, to dull law precedents a prey, The pleasing cares of science e’er resign’d, Left the warm novel or the well-wrought play, Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind. On summer’s pleasure the fagg’d clerk relies, Some rural ease the pleader’s health requires; E’en from the bench the Chief for leisure sighs, E’en on Welch mountains seeks his wonted fires. Henry, for thee, who now to science dead, Dost on law folios rent thy classic pate; If chance, by friendly recollection led, Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate, Haply some Drama-loving wight may say―― “Oft have we seen him at the hour of five, “Brushing, with hasty steps the dust away, “For Drury’s pit, and a front seat to strive.