TO THE

AN EPISTLE.

Death may determine war, and rest succeed,
'Cause nought survives on which our rage may feed:

In faithful friends we lose our glorious foes,
RIGHT HON, GEORGE LORD LANSDOWNE. And strifes of love exalt our sweet repose.

See graceful Bolingbroke, your friend, advance, MDCCXII.

Nor miss his Lansdowne in the court of France; -Parnassia laurus

So well receiv'd, so welcome, so at home, Parva sub ingenti matris se subjicit umbra. Virg. (Blest change of fate) in Bourbon's stately dome;

The monarch pleas'd, descending from his throne,

Will not that Anna call him all her own; When Rome, my lord, in her fall glory shone, He claims a part, and looking round to find And great Augustus rul'd the globe alone,

Sonething might speak the fulness of his mind, While suppliant kiuas in all their pomp and state, A diamond shines, which oft had touch'd him near, Swarmd in his courts, and throng'd his palace gate; | Renew'd his grief, and robb’d him of a tear; Horace did oft the mighty man detain,

Now first with joy beheld, well plac'd on one, And sooth'd his breast with no ignoble strain ; Who makes him less regret his darling son; Now soar'd aloft, now struck an humbler string; So dear is Anna's minister, so great, And taught the Roman genius how to sing. Your glorious friend in his own private state. Pardon, if I his freedom dare pursue,

To make our nations longer two, in vain Who know no want of Cæsar, finding you ;

Does Nature interpose the raging main : The Muse's friend is pleas'd the Muse should press The Gallic shore to distant Britain grows, Through circling crowds, and labour for access, For Lewis Thames, the Seine for Anna flows: That partial to his darling he may prove,

From conflicts pass'd each other's worth we find, And shining throngs for her reproach remove,

And thence in stricter friendship now are join'd; To all the world industrious to proclaiin

Each wound receivid, now pleads the cause of love, His love of arts, and boast the glorious flame. And former injuries endearments prove.

Long has the western world reclin'd her head, What Briton but must prize th’ illustrious sword, Pour'd forth her sorrow, and bewail'd her dead; That cause of fear to Churchill could afford? Fell discord through her borders tiercely rang’d, Who sworn to Bourbon's sceptre, but must frame And shook her nations, and her monarchs chang'd; Vast thoughts of him, that could brare Tallard By land and sea its utinost rage employd; Thus generous hatred in affection ends, (tame ? Nor Heaven repair'd so fast as men destroy'd. And

war,

which rais'd the foes, completes the friends. In vain kind summers plenteous fields bestow'd, A thousand happy consequences flow Is vain the vintage liberally flow'd ;

(The dazzling prospect makes my bosom glow); Alarms from loaden boards all pleasures chas'd, Commerce shall lift her swelling sails, and roll And robb'd the rich Burgundian grape of taste; Her wealthy fleets secure from pole to pole; The smiles of Nature could no blessing bring, The British merchant, who with care and pain The fruitful autunn, or the flowery spring; For many moons sees only skies and main; Time vas distinguish'd by the sword and spear, When now in view of his lov'd native shore, Not by the various aspects of the year;

The perils of the dreadful ocean o'er, The trumpet's sound proclaim'd a milder sky, Cause to regret his wealth no more shall find, And bloodshed toid us when the Sun was nigh. Nor curse the inercy of the sea and wind; But now (so soon is Britain's blessing seen,

By hardest fate condemn’d to serve a fue, When such as you are near her glorious queen!) And give him strength to strike a deeper blow. Now peace, though long repuls'd, arrives at last, Sweet Philoinela providently flies And bids us smile on all our labours past;

To distant woods and streams, for such supplies, Bils every nation cease her wonted inoan,

To feed her young, and make them try the wing, And every monarch call his crown his own : And with their tender notes attempt to sing: To valour gentler virtues now succeed;

Mean wbile, the fowler spreads his secret snare, No longer is the great man born to bleed;

And renders vain the tuneful mother's care. Renown'd in councils, brave Argyle shall tell, Britannia's bold adventurer of late, Wisdomn and prowess in one breast may dwell : The foaining ocean plow'd with equal fate. Through milder tracts he soars to deathless fame, Goodness is greatness in its utmost height, And without trembling we resound his naine. And power a curse, if not a friend to right:

No more the rising harvest whets the sword, To conquer is to make dissension cease, No longer waves uncertain of its lord ;

That man may serve the king of kings in peace. Who cast the seed, the golden sheat shall claim, Religion now shall all her rays dispense, Nor chance of battle change the master's name. And shine abroad in perfect excelle Each stream unstain’d with bluod more smoothly Else we may dread some greater curse at hand, The brighter Sun a fuller day bestows; [Hows; To scourge a thoughtless and ungrateful land : All Nature seems to wear a cheerful face,

Now war is weary, and retir'd to rest ; And thank great Anna for returning peace. The meagre famine, and the spotted pest,

The patient thus, when on his bed of pain, Deputed in her stead, may blast the day, No longer be invokes the godsin vain,

And sweep the relics of the sword away. But rises to new life; in every field

When peaceful Numa fill'd the Roman throne, He finds Elysium, rivers pectar yield;

Jove in the fulness of his glory sbone; Nothing so cheap and vulgar but can please, Wise Solomon, a stranger to the sword, And burrow beauties from his late disease.

Was born to raise a temple to the Lord. Nor is it peace aloue, but such a peace,

Anne too shall build, and every sacred pile As inore than bids the rage of battle cease.

Speak peace eternal to Britannia's isle,

Those mighty souls, whom military care

Calls forth her monarchs, bids her heroes rage, Diverted from their only great affair,

And mourning beauty melt the crowded stage; Shall bend their full united force, to bless

Charms back past ages, gives to Britain's use Th'almighty Author of their late success.

The noblest virtues time did e'er produce; And what is all the world subdued to this?

Leaves fam'd historians' boasted art behind; The grave sets bounds to sublunary bliss;

They keep the soul alone, and that's confin'd, But there are conquests to great Anna known, Sought out with pains, and but by proxy speaks: Above the splendour of an earthly throne ;

The hero's presence deep impression makes;
Conquests! whose triumph is too great, within The scenes his soul and body reunite,
The scanty bounds of matter to begin ;

Furnish a voice, produce him to the sight;
Tuo glorious to shine furth, till it has run

Make our contemporary him that stood Beyond this darkness of the stars and Sun,

High in renown, perhaps before the flood; And shall whole ages past be still, still but begun. Make Nestor to this age advice afford, Heroic shades! whom war has swept away,

And Hector for our service draw his sword. Look down, and smile on this auspicious day : More glory to an author what can bring, Now boast your deaths; to those your glory tell, Whence nobler service to his conntry spring, Who or at Agincourt or Cressy fell;

Than from those labours, which, in man's despight, Then deep into eternity retire,

Possess bim with a passion for the right? Of greater things than peace or war inquire; With honest magic make the knave inclin'd Fully content, and unconcern'd, to know

To pay devotion to the virtuous mind; What farther passes in the world below.

Through all her toils and dangers bid him rove, The bravest of mankind shall now have leare And with her wants and anguish fall in love? To die but once, nor piece-meal seek the grave : Who hears the godlike Montezuma groan, On gain or pleasure bent, we shall not meet And does not wish the glorious pain his own? Sad melancholy numbers in each street

Lend but your understanding, and their skill (Owners of bones dispers’d on Flandria's plain, Can domineer at pleasure o'er your will: Or wasting in the bottom of the main);

Nor is the short-liv'd conquest quickly past; To turn us back from joy, in tender fear,

Shame, if not choice, will hold the convert fast. Lest it an insult of their woes appear,

[blood How often hare I seen the generous bowl And make us grudge ourselves that wealth, their With pleasing force unlock a secret soul, Perhaps preservd, who starve, or beg for food. And steal a truth, which every sober hour Devotion shall run pure, and disengage

(The prose of life) had kept within her power! From that strange fate of injxing peace with rage. The grape victorious often has prevail'd, On Heaven without a sin we now may call,

When gold and beauty, racks and tortures, failid: And guiltless to our Maker prostrate fall;

Yet when the spirit's tumult was allay'd, Be Christians while we pray, nor in one breath She mourn'd, perhaps, the sentiment betray'd; Ask mercy for ourselves, for others death.

But mourn'd too late, nor longer could deny, But O! I view with transport arts restor'd, And on her own confession charge the lie. Which double nse to Britain shall afford;

Thus they, whom neither the prerailing love Secure her glory purchas'd in the field,

Of goodness here, or mercy from above, And yet for future peace swcet motives yield: Or fear of future pains, or human laws While we conterrplate on the pairted wall, Could render advocates in virtue's cause, The pressing Briton, and the Aving Gaul,

Caught by the scene have unawares resign'd
In such bright images, such living grace,

Their wonted disposition of the mind :
As leave great Raphael but the second place; By slow degrees prevails the pleasing tale,
Our cheeks shall glow, our heaving bosoms rise, As circling glasses on our senses steal;
And martial ardours sparkle in our eyes;

Till throughly by the Muses' banquet warm'd,
Much we shall triumph ir our battles past, The passions tossing, all the soul alarm’d,
And yet consent those battles prove our last; They turn mere zealots flush'd with glorious rage,
Lest, while in arms for brighter fame we strive, Fise in their seats, and scarce forbear the stage,
We lose the means to keep that fame alive. Assistance to wrong'd innocence to bring,

In silent groves the birds delight to sing, Or tum the poiniard on some tyrant king, Or near the margin of a secret spring :

llow can they cool to villains ? how subside Now all is calm, sweet music shall improve, ?o dregs of vice, from such a godlike pride ? Nor kindle rage, but be the nurse of love.

To spoiling orphans how to day return, But what's the warbling voice, the trembling Who wepi #ist night to see Münimia mourn? string,

In this gay school of virtue, whom so fit Or breathing canvass, when the Muses sing? To govern, and control the world of wit, The Muse, my lord, your care above the rest, As Talbot, Lan downe's friend, has Britain kdown? With rising joy dilates my partial breast;

kim polish'd Italy bas call'd her own; The thunder of the battle ceas'd to roar,

He in the lap of elegance was bred, Ere Greece her godlike poets taught to soar;

And trac'd the Muses to their fountain head : Rome's dreadful foe, great Hannibal, was dead, But much we hope, he will enjoy at home And all her warlike neighbours round her bled; What's ncarer ancient than the modern Rome. For Janus shut, her lö Pæans rung,

Nor fear I mention of the court of France, Before an Ovid or a Virgil sung.

When I the British genius would advance; A thousand various forms the Musc may wear, There too has Shrewsbury improv'd his taste; (A thousand various forms become the fair ;) Yet still we dare invite him to our feast: But shines in none with more majestic mien, Por Corneille's sake I shall my thoughts suppress Thao when in state she draws the purple scene; Of Orooroko, and presume him less :

What though we wrong him? Isabella's woe But if that reigning star propitious shine,
Waters those bays that shall for ever grow.

And kindly mix his gentle rays with thine ;
Our foes confess, nor we the praise refuse, E'en I, by far the meanest of your age,
The drama glories in the British Muse.

Shall not repent my passion for the stage. The French are delicate, and nicely lead

Thus did the will-alınighty disallow, Of close intrigue the labyrinthian thread;

No human force could pluck the golden bough, Our genius more affects the grand, than fine, Which left the tree with ease at Jove's command, Our strength can make the great plain action shine: And spar'd the labour of the weakest hand. They raise a great curiosity indeed,

Auspicious fate! that gives me leave to write From his dark maze to see the hero freed;

To you, the Muses' glory and delight; We rouse th' affections, and that hero show Who know to read, nor false encomiums raise, Gasping beneath some formidable blow:

And mortify an anthor with your praise: They sigh; we weep: the Gallic doubt and care Praise wounds a noble mind, when 't is not due, We heighten into terror and despair;

But censure's self will please, my lord, from you; Strike home, the strongest passions boldly touch, Faults are our pride and gain, when you descend Nor fear our audience should be pleas'd too much. To point them out, and teach us how to mend. What's great in Nature we can greatly draw, What though the great man set his coffers wide, Nor thank for beauties the dramatic law.

That cannot gratity the poet's pride; The fate of Cæsar is a tale too plain

Whose inspiration, if 't is truly good, The fickle Gallic taste to entertain;

Is best rewarded, when best understood. Their art would have perplex'd, and interwove The Muses write for glory, not for gold, The golden arras with gay flowers of lore:

'Tis far beneath their nature to be sold : We know Heaven made him a far greater man The greatest gain is scorn'd, but as it serves Than any Cæsar, in a human plan,

To speak a sense of what the Muse deserves; And such we draw him, nor are too refin'd, The Muse, which from her Lansdowne fears no To stand affected with what Heaven design'd.

wrong, To claim attention, and the heart invade,

Best judge, as well as subject, of her song. Shakspeare but wrote the play th’ Almighty made. Should this great theme allure me farther still, Our neighbone's stage-art too bare-fac'd betrays, And I presume to use your patience ill, 'T is great Corneille at every scene we praise; The world would plead my cause, and none but you On Nature's surer aid Britannia calls,

Will take disgust at what I now pursue : None think of Sbakspeare till the curtain falls; Since what is mean my Muse can't raise, I'll choose Then with a sigh returns our audience home, A theine that's able to exalt my Muse. From Venice, Egypt, Persia, Greece, or Rome, For who, not void of thought, can Granville name,

France yields not to the glory of our lines, Without a spark of his iminortal flane?
But manly conduct of our strong designs;

Whether we scek the patriot, or the friend,
That oft they think more justiy we must own, Let Bolingbruke, let Anna recommend;
Not ancient Greece a truer sense has shown: Whether we choose to love or to admire,
Greece thought but justly, they think justly too; Yon melt the tender, and th' ambitious fire.
We sometimes err by striving more to do.

Such native graces without thought abound,
So well are Racine's meanest persons tanght, And such familiar glories spread around,
But change a sentiment, you make a fault; As more incline the stander-by to raise
Nor dare we charge them with the want of Aame: Flis value for himself, than you to praise.
When we boast more, we own ourselves to blame. Thus you befriend the most heroic way,

And yet in Shakspeare something still I find, Bless all, on none an obligation lay; That makes me less esteem all human-kind; So turn'd by Nature's band for all that's well, He made one nature, and another found,

'Tis scarce a viriue when you most exe.I. Both in his page with master-strokes abound : Though sweet your presence, graceful is your His witches, fairies, and enchapted isle,

mien, Bid us no longer at our nurses smile;

You to be happy want not to be seen; Of lost historians we almost complain,

Though priz'di in public, you can smile alone, Nor think it the creation of his brain.

Nor court an approbation but your own : Who lives, when his Othello's in a trance? In throngs, not conscious of those eyes that gaze With his great Talbot' too he conquer'd France. In wonder fix'd, though resolute to please;

Long we may hope brave Talbot's blood will run You, were all blind, would still deserve app)?:e; In great descendants, Shakspeare has but one; The world's your glory's witness, not its cause; And him, my lord, permit me not to name, That lies beyond the limits of the day, But in kind silence spare his rival's shame :-- Angels behold it, and their God obey. Yet I in vain that author would suppress.

You take delight in others excellence; What can't be greater, cannot be made less: A gift, which Nature rarely does dispense: Each reader will defeat my fruitless aim,

Of all that breathe 't is you, perlians, alone And to himself great Agamemnon name.

Would be well pleas'd to see yourse foutdone. Should Shakspeare rise unbless'd with Talbot's You wish not tho:e, who show your name respect, smile,

So little worth, as might excuse neglect; E'en Shakspeare's self would curse this barren Nor are in pain lest merit you should knoir;

Nor shun the well-deserver as fue;

A troublesome acquaintance, that will claim 1 An ancestor of the duke of Shrewsbury, who To be well us’d, or dye your check with shane. conquered France, drawn by Shakespeare.

You wish your Cuiintry's goud; liat tok? so well Young. Your powers are known, th' eveut I need oil.

isle :

When Nestor spoke, none ask'd if he prevailid; Who the Sun's height can raise at pleasure higher, That god of sweet persuasion never fail'd:

His lainp illumine, set his fames on fire. And such great fame had Hector's valour wrought, Yet still one bliss, one glory, I forbear, Who meant he conquer'd, only said he fought." A darling friend whom near your heart you wear ;

When yon, my lord, to sylvan scenes retreat, That lovely youth, my lord, whom you must No crowds around for pleasure, or for state,

blame, You are not cast upon a ranger land,

That I grow thus familiar with your name. And wander pensive o'er the barren strand;

He's friendly, open, in his conduct nice, Nor are you by receiv'd example taught,

Vor serve these virtues to atone for vice: In toys to shun the discipline of thought;

Vice he has none, or such as none wish less, But unconfin'd by bounds of time and place, Put friends indeed, good-nature in excess. You choose companions from all human race; You cannot boast the merit of a choice, Converse with those the deluge swept away, In making him your own, 'twas Nature's voice, Or those whose midnight is Britannia's day. Which call'd too loud by man to be withstood,

Books not so much inform, as give consent Pleading a tie far nearer than of blood; To those ideas your own thoughts present;

Similitude of manners, such a mind Your only gain from turning volumes o'er,

As makes yon less the wonder of mankind. Is finding cause to like yourself the more:

Such ease his common converse recommends, In Grecian sages you are only taught

As he ne'er felt a passion, but his friend's; With more respect to value your own thought: Yet fix'd his principles, beyond the force Great Tully grew immortal, while he drew Of all beneath the Sun, to bend his courses. 'Those precepts we behold alive in you :

Thus the tall cedar, beautiful and fair, Your life is so adjusted to their schools,

Flatters the motions of the wanton air; It makes that history they meant for rules. Salutes each passing breeze with head reclin'd; What joy, what pleasing transport, must arise The pliant branches dance in every wind : Within your breast, and lift you to the skies, But fix'd the stem her upright state maintains, When in each learned page that you unfold, And all the fury of the North disdains. You find some part of your own conduct told ! How are you bless'd in such a matchless friend!

So pleas'd, and so surpris'd, Æneas stood, Alas! with me the joys of friendship end ; And such triumphant raptures fir'd his blood, O Harrison ! I must, I will complain; When far from Trojan shores the hero spied Tears sooth the soul's distress, though shed in vain; His story shining forth in all its pride;

Didst thou return, and bless thy native shore Adinir'd himself, and saw his actions stand With welcome peace, and is my friend no more? The praise and wonder of a foreign land.

Thy task was early done, and I must own
He knows not half his being, who's confin'd Death kind to thee, but ah! to thee alone.
In converse, and reflection on mankind :

But 't is in me a vanity to mourn,
Your soul, which understands her charter well, The sorrows of the great thy tomb adorn;
Disdains imprison'd by those skies to dwell; Strafford and Boling broke the loss perceive,
Ranges eterniir without the leave

They grieve, and make thee envied in thy grave. Of death, nor waits the passage of the grave. With aching heart, and a foreboding mind, When pains eternal, and eternal bliss,

I night to day in painful jonrney joind, When these high cares your weary thoughts disiniss, When first inform’d of his approaching fate; In heavenly numbers you your soul wbend, But reach'd the partner of my soul too late : And for your ease to deathless fame descend. 'T was past, his cheek was cold; that tuneful tongue, Ye kings! would ye true greatness understand, Which Isis charm'd with its melodious song, Read Seneca grown rich in Granville's hand ? Now languish’d, wanted strength to speak his pain,

Behold the glories of your life complete! Scarce rais'd a feeble groan, and sunk again : Still at a flow, and permanently great;

Each art of life, in which he bore a part, New moments shed new pleasures as they fly, Shot like an arrow through my bleeding heart. And yet your greatest is, that you must die. To what serv'd all his promis'd wealth and power,

Thus Anna saw, and rais'd you to the seat But more to load that most unhappy hour? Of honour, and confess'd her servant great;

Yet still prevail'd the greatness of his mind; Confess'd, not made him such; for faithful Fame That, not in health, or life itself confin'd, Her trumpet swell'd long since with Granville's Felt through his mortal pangs Britannia's peace, name;

Mounted to joy, and smil'd in Death's embrace. Though you in modesty the title wear,

His spirit now just ready to resign, Your name shall be the title of your heir;

No longer now his own, no longer mine, Farther than ermin make his glory known,

He grasps my hand, bis swimming eye-balls roll, And cast in shades the favour of a throne.

My hand he grasps, and enters in my soul : From thrones the beam of high distinction springs; Then with a groan—Support me, 01 beware The soul's endowments froin the King of kings, Of holding worth, however great, too dear 4! Lo! one great day calls fortlı ten mighty peers! Pardon, my lord, the privilege of grief, Produce ten Granvilles in five thousand years; That in untimely freedom seeks relief; Anna, be thou content to fix the fate Of various kingdoms, and control the great ;

3 His lordship’s nephew, who took orders. But 0! to bid thy Granville brighter sline!

Young. To him that great prerogative resign,

4 The author here bewails that most ingenjvus

gentleman, Mr. William Harrison, fellow of New. ! See his lordship's tragedy entitled “ Heroic College, Oxon. . Young. (See a more particular Love."-YOUNG.

account of him in the Supplement to Swift.]

CONCERNING

MDCC XXX .

To better fate your love I recommend,

Rich, poor, male, female, young, old, gay, or sad; 0! may you never lose so dear a friend !

Whether extremely witty, or quite mad;
Niay nothing interrupt your happy hours; Profoundly dull, or shallowly polite;
Enjoy the blessiugs peace on Europe showers : Men that read well, or men that only write;
Nor yet disdain those blessings to adorn ;

Whether peers, porters, tailors, tune the reeds,
To make the Mue imınortal, you was born. And ineasuring words to measuring shapes succeeds;
Sing; and in latest time. when story is dark, For bankrupts write, when ruin'i shops are shut,
This period your surviving fame shall mark;

As magzots crawl from out a perish'd nut.
Save from the gulf of years this glorious age,

His hanner this, and trat his trowel quits,
And thus illustrate their bistorian's page.

And, wanting sense for tradesmen, serve for wits.
The crown of Spain in doubtful balance hung, By thriving men subsists each other trade;
And Anna Britain sway'd, when Granville sung:

Of evers l'roken craft a writer's male:
That noted year Europa sheath'd her sword, Thus his material, paper. takes its birth
When this great man was first saluted lord. From tatter'd rags of all the stuff on Earth.

Hail, fruitful isle! to thee alın. belong
Million; of wits, and brokers in vid song;

Thee well a land of liberty we pame,
TWO EPISTLES

Where all are free to scandal and to shame;

Thy sons, by print, may set their hearts at ease, TO MR. POPE,

And be mankind's contempt, whene'er they picase;

Like trodden filth, their vile and abject sense
THE AUTHORS OF THE AGE.

Is unperceiv'd, but when it gives offence :
Their heavy prose our injur'd reason tires;
Tbeir verse immortal kindles loose desires :
Our age they puzzle, and corrupt our prime,

Our sport and pity, punishment and crime.
EPISTLE 1.

What glorious motives urge our authors on,
Wuust you at Twickenham plan the future wood, Thus toʻundo, and thus to be undone !
Or turn the volumes of the wise and good,

One loses his estate, and down he sits,
Our senate meets; at parties, parties bawl, To show (in vain !) he still retains bis wits :
And pamphlets stun the streets, and load the stall. Another marries, and his dear proves keen;
Zo rushing tides bring things obscene to light, He writes as an hypnotic for the spleen:
Foul wrecks emerge, and dead dogs swim in sight; Some write, confin’d by physic; some, by debt ;
The civil torrent foams, the tumult reigns,

Some, for 't is Sunday; some, because 't is wet;
And Codrus' prose works up, and Lico's strains. Through private pique some do the public right,
Lo! what from cellars rise, what rush from high, And love their king and country out of spite :
Where speculation roosted near the sky;

Another writes because his father writ,
Letters, essays, sock, buskin, satire, song, And proves himself a bastard by his wit.
And all the garret thunders on the throng!

Has Lico learning, humour, thought profound?
O Pope! I burst; nor can, nor will, refrain; Neither: why write then? He wants twenty pound :
I'll write ; let others, in their tum, complain : His belly, not his brains, this impulse give;
Truce, truce, ye Vandals ! my tormented ear He'll grow immortal; for he cannot live:
Less dreads a pillory than a pamphleteer ;

He rubs his awful front, and takes his ream, I've heard myself to death; and, plagu'd each | With no provision made, but of his theme; hour,

Perhaps a title has his fancy smit,
Sha'n't I return the vengeance in my power ? Or a quaint motto, which he thinks has wit:
For who can write the true absurd like me? He writes, in inspiration puts his trust,
Thy pardon, Codrus / who, I mean, but thee? Though wrong his thoughts, the gods will make
Pope! if like mine, or Codrus', were thy style,

them just;
The blood of vipers bad not stain'd thy tile; Genius directly from the gods descends,
Merit less solid, less despite had bred;

And who by labour would distrust his friends!
They had not bit, and then they had not bled. Thus having reason'd with consummate skill,
Fame is a public mistress, none enjoys,

In immortality he dips his quill :
But, more or less, his rival's peace destroys; And, since blank paper is deny'd the press,
With fame, in just proportion, envy grows; He mingles the whole alphabet by gucss:
The man that makes a character, makes foes : In various sets, which various words compose,
Slight, peevish insects round a genius rise,

Of wbich, he hopes, mankind the meaning knows.
As a bright day awakes the world of flies;

So sounds spontaneous from the Sibyl broke, With hearty malice, but with feeble wing,

Dark to herself the wonders which she spoke;
(To show they live) they futter, and they sting: The priests found out the meaning, if they could;
But as by depredations wasps proclaim

And nations star'd at what none understood.
The fairest fruit, so these the fairest fame.

Clodio dress'd, danc'd, drank, visited, (the whole
Shall we not censure all the motley train, And great concern of an immortal soul!)
Whether with ale irriguous, or Champain?

Oft bave I said “ Awake! exist! and strive
Whether they tread the vale of prose, or climb, For birth! nor think to loiter is to live !"
And whet their appetites on cliffs of rhyme; As oft I overheard the demon say,
The college sloven, or embroider'd spark;

Who daily met the loiterer in bis way,
The purple prelate, or the parish clerk ;

“I'll meet thee, youth, at White's:" the youth The quiet quidnunc, or demanding prig;

replies, The plaintiff tory, or defendant whig;

“I'll meet thee there," and falls his sacrifice;

LI

VOL, XIII.