'Tis charitable-let your power decree,
That persecution then is charity;

Call reason error; forms, not things, display,
Let moral doctrine to abstruse give way;
Sink demonstration; mystery preach alone;
Be thus religion's friend, and thus your own.
But Foster well this honest truth extends
Where mystery begins, religion ends.
In him, great modern miracle! we see
A priest, from avarice and ambition free;
One, whom no persecuting spirit fires;

Whose heart and tongue benevolence inspires:
Learn'd, not assuming; eloquent, yet plain; [vain;
Meek, though not timorous; conscious, though not
Without craft, reverend; holy, without cant;
Zealous for truth, without enthusiast rant.
His faith, where no credulity is seen,
'Twixt infidel and bigot, marks the mean;
His hope, no mitre militant on earth,

[worth,

'Tis that bright crown which Heaven reserves for
A priest, in charity with all mankind,
His love to virtue, not to sect confin❜d:
Truth his delight, from him it flames abroad,
From him, who fears no being, but his GoD:
In him from Christian, moral light can shine;
Not mad with mystery, but a sound divine;
He wins the wise and good, with reason's lore;
Then strikes their passions with pathetic pow'r;
Where vice erects her head, rebukes the page;
Mix'd with rebuke, persuasive charms engage;
Charms, which the' unthinking must to thought ex-
Lo! vice less vicious, virtue more upright: [cite;
Him copy, Codex, that the good and wise,
Who so abhor thy heart, and head despise,

May see thee now, though late, redeem thy name,
And glorify what else is damn'd to fame.
But should some churchmen, apeing wit severe,
The poet's sure turn'd Baptist-say, and sneer;
Shame on that narrow mind so often known,
Which in one mode of faith owns worth alone.
Sneer on, rail, wrangle! nought this truth repels—
Virtue is virtue, wheresoe'er she dwells;

And sure, where learning gives her light to shine,
Her's is all praise-if her's, 'tis, Foster, thine.
Thee boast dissenters; we with pride may own
Our Tillotson; and Rome her Fenelon.*

THE

POET'S DEPENDANCE

ON A STATESMAN.

SOME seem to hint, and others proof will bring, That, from neglect, my numerous hardships spring. 'Seek the great man!' they cry-'tis then decreed, In him if I court fortune, I succeed.

What friends to second? who for me should sue, Have interests, partial to themselves, in view. They own my matchless fate compassion draws; They all wish well, lament, but drop my cause.

* In this character of the Rev. James Foster, truth guided the pen of the Muse. Mr. Pope paid a tribute to the modest worth of this excellent man: little did he imagine his Rev. Annotator would endeavour to convert his praise into abuse. The character and writings of Foster will be admired and read, when the works of the bitter Controversialist are forgotten.

211

There are who ask no pension, want no place,
No title wish, and would accept no grace.
Can I entreat, they should for me obtain
The least, who greatest for themselves disdain ?
A statesman, knowing this, unkind, will cry,
'Those love him: let those serve him!-why should
Say, shall I turn where lucre points my views;
At first desert my friends, at length abuse?
But, on less terms, in promise he complies:
Years bury years, and hopes on hopes arise;
I trust, am trusted on my fairy gain;
And woes on woes attend, an endless train.

Be posts dispos'd at will!—I have, for these,
No gold to plead, no impudence to tease.
All secret service from my soul I hate;
All dark intrigues of pleasure or of state;
I have no power election-votes to gain;
No will to hackney out polemic strain;

To shape, as time shall serve, my verse, or prose,
To flatter thence, nor slur a courtier's foes;
Nor him to daub with praise, if I prevail;
Nor shock'd by him, with libels to assail.
Where these are not, what claim to me belongs?
Though mine the muse and virtue, birth and wrongs.
Where lives the statesman, so in honour clear,
To give where he has nought to hope, nor fear?
No-there to seek, is but to find fresh pain:
The promise broke, renew'd, and broke again;
To be, as humour deigns, receiv'd, refus'd;
By turns affronted, and by turns amus'd;

To lose that time, which worthier thoughts require;
To lose the health, which should those thoughts in.
To starve on hope; or,
like cameleons, fare (spire;
On ministerial faith, which means but air.

But still, undrooping, I the crew disdain, Who, or by jobs or libels, wealth obtain. Ne'er let me be, through those, from want exempt; In one man's favour, in the world's contempt; Worse in my own!-through those, to posts who

rise,

Themselves, in secret, must themselves despise ; Vile, and more vile, till they, at length, disclaim Not sense alone of glory, but of shame.

What though I hourly see the servile herd, For meanness honour'd, and for guilt preferr'd; See selfish passion, public virtue seem; And public virtue an enthusiast dream; See favour'd falsehood, innocence belied, Meekness depress'd, and power-elated pride; A scene will show, all-righteous vision haste! The meek exalted, and the proud debas'd! Oh, to be there!-to tread that friendly shore, Where falsehood, pride, and statesmen are no more! But ere indulg'd- -ere fate my breath shall claim,

A poet still is anxious after fame.

What future fame would my ambition crave?
This were my wish, could aught my memory save,

Say, when in death my sorrows lie repos'd,
That my past life, no venal view disclos'd;
Say, I well knew, while in a state obscure,
Without the being base, the being poor;
Say I had parts, too moderate to transcend;
Yet sense to mean, and virtue not to' offend;
My heart supplying what my head denied,
Say that, by Pope esteem'd, I liv'd and died;
Whose writings the best rules to write could give;
Whose life the noblest science, how to live.

ΤΟ

DAMON AND DELIA.

HEAR Damon, Delia hear, in candid lays,
Truth without anger, without flattery, praise !
A bookish mind, with pedantry unfraught,
Oft a sedate, yet never gloomy thought:
Prompt to rejoice when others pleasure know,
And prompt to feel the pang for others' woe;
To soften faults, to which a foe is prone,
And, in a friend's perfection, praise your own:
A will sincere, unknown to selfish views;
A heart of love, of gallantry a muse;
A delicate, yet not a jealous mind;
A passion ever fond, yet never blind,
Glowing with amorous, yet with guiltless fires,
In ever-eager, never gross desires;

A modest honour, sacred to contain

From tattling vanity, when smiles you gain;
Constant most pleas'd, when beauty most you please:
Damon! your picture's shown in tints like these.
Say, Delia, must I chide you or commend?
Say, must I be your flatterer or your friend?
To praise no graces in a rival fair,

Nor your own foibles in a sister spare ;
Each lover's billet, bantering to reveal,
And never known one secret to conceal ;
Young, fickle, fair, a levity inborn,

To treat all sighing slaves with flippant scorn;
An eye, expressive of a wandering mind;
Nor this to read, nor that to think inclin'd;