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Nor witness hir'd, nor jury pick'd,
Prevail to bring him in convict.
"In exile, with a steady heart,
He spent his life's declining part;
Where folly, pride, and faction, sway,
Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay.”—
"Alas, poor Dean! his only scope
Was, to be held a misanthrope;
This into general odium drew him ;
Which if he lik'd, much good may't do him.
His zeal was not to lash our crimes,
But discontent against the times;
For had we made him timely offers
To raise his post, or fill his coffers,
Perhaps he might have truckled down,
Like other brethren of his gown;
For party he would scarce have bled:
say no more-because he's dead.
What writings has he left behind?"

I

"I hear they're of a different kind : A few in verse, but most in prose."

"Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose: All scribbled in the worst of times, To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes; To praise Queen Anne; nay more, defend her, As never favouring the Pretender; Or libels yet conceal'd from sight, Against the court to show his spite. Perhaps his Travels, part the third; A lie at every second wordOffensive to a loyal ear;

But not one sermon, you may swear."

"He knew an hundred pleasing stories, With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: Was cheerful to his dying day,

And friends would let him have his way.
As for his works in verse or prose,
I own myself no judge of those;
Now can I tell what critics thought them,
But this I know-all people bought them,
As with a moral view design'd
To please and to reform mankind:
And, if he often miss'd his aim,
The world must own it to their shame,
The praise is his, and theirs the blame.
He gave the little wealth he had,
To build a house for fools and mad;
To show, by one satiric touch,
No nation wanted it so much.
That kingdom he hath left his debtor,
I wish it soon may have a better:
And since you dread no farther lashes,
Methinks you may forgive his ashes."

$259. The Author. CHURCHILL. ACCURS'D the man whom fate ordains, in spite, And cruel parents teach, to read and write! What need of letters? Wherefore should we spell?

Why write our names? A mark will do as well. Much are the precious hours of youth misspent

In climbing Learning's rugged, steep ascent! When to the top the bold advent'rer's got, He reigns vain monarch o'er a barren spot :

Whilst, in the vale of Ignorance below,
Folly and vice to rank luxuriance grow;
Honors and wealth pour in on every side,
And proud preferment rolls her golden tide.
O'er crabbed authors life's gay prime to waste,
To cramp wild genius in the chains of taste;
To bear the slavish drudgery of schools,
And tamely stoop to ev'ry pedant's rules;
For seven long years debarr'd of lib'ral ease,
To plod in college-trammels to degrees;
Beneath the weight of solemn toys to groan,
Sleep over books, and leave mankind unknown;
To praise each senior blockhead's threadbare
tale,

And laugh till reason blush, and spirits fail;
Manhood with vile submission to disgrace,
And cap the fool whose merit is his place;
Vice-chancellors whose knowledge is but
small,

And chancellors who nothing know at all;
Ill brook'd the gen'rous spirit, in those days
When learning was the certain road to praise,
When nobles, with a love of science bless'd,
Approv'd in others what themselves possess'd.
But now, when Dulness rears aloft her
throne,

When lordly vassals her wide empire own;
When Wit, seduc'd by Envy, starts aside,
And basely leagues with Ignorance and Pride;
What now should tempt us, by false hopes
misled,

Learning's unfashionable paths to tread :
To bear those labors which our fathers bore,
That crown withheld which they in triumph
wore ?

When with much pains this boasted learn

ing's got,

'Tis an affront to those who have it not.
In some it causes hate, in others fear,
Instructs our foes to rail, our friends to sneer.
With prudent haste the worldly-minded fool
Forgets the little which he learn'd at school;
The elder brother, to vast fortunes born,
Looks on all science with an eye of scorn;
Dependent brethren the same features wear,
And younger sons are stupid as the heir.
In senates, at the bar, in church and state,
Genius is vile, and learning out of date.

Is this O death to think! is this the land
Where Merit and Reward went hand in hand;
Where heroes parent-like the Poet view'd,
By whom they saw their glorious deeds renew'd;
Where Poets, true to honor, tun'd their lays,
And by their Patrons sanctify'd their praise?
Is this the land where on our Spenser's tongue,
Enamour'd of his voice, Description hung;
Where Jonson rigid gravity beguil'd,
Whilst Reason thro' her critic fences smil'd;
Where Nature list'ning stood while Shakspeare
play'd,

And wonder'd at the work herself had made? Is this the land, where, mindful of her charge And office high, fair Freedom walk'd at large; Where, finding in our laws a sure defence, She mock'd at all restraints, but those of Sense; Where, Health and Honor trooping by her side, She spread her sacred empire far and wide;

Pointed the way Affliction to beguile,
And bade the face of Sorrow wear a smile;
Bade those who dare obey the gen'rous call,
Enjoy her blessings, which God meant for all?
Is this the land, where, in some tyrant's reign,
When a weak, wicked, ministerial train,
The tools of pow'r, the slaves of int'rest, plann'd
Their country's ruin, and with bribes un-
mann'd

Those wretches who, ordain'd in Freedom's cause,

Gave up our liberties, and sold our laws; [go,
When Pow'r was taught by Meanness where to
Nor dar'd to love the virtue of a foe;
When, like a lep'rous plague, from the foul head
To the foul heart her sores Corruption spread;
Her iron arm when stern Oppression rear'd,
And Virtue, from her broad base shaken, fear'd
The scourge of Vice; when, impotent and vain,
Poor Freedom bow'd the neck to Slavery's
chain :-

Is this the land, where, in those worst of times,
The hardy Poet rais'd his honest rhymes
To dread rebuke, and bade controlment speak
In guilty blushes on the villain's cheek:
Bade Pow'r turn pale, kept mighty rogues in awe,
And made them fear the Muse, who fear'd not
Law?

How do I laugh when men of narrow souls, Whom folly guides and prejudice controls; Who one dull drowsy track of business trod, Worship their Mammon, and neglect their God;

Who, breathing by one musty set of rules,
Dote from the birth, and are by system fools;
Who, form'd to dulness from their very youth,
Lies of the day prefer to Gospel truth;
Pick up their little knowledge from Reviews,
And lay out all their stock of faith in news :
How do I laugh, when creatures form'd like
these,
[please,
Whom Reason scorns, and I should blush to
Rail at all lib'ral arts, deem verse a crime,
And hold not Truth as Truth if told in rhyme!
How do I laugh, when Publius, hoary grown
In zeal for Scotland's welfare and his own,
By slow degrees, and course of office, drawn
In mood and figure at the helm to yawn;
Too mean (the worst of curses Heav'n can send)
To have a foe, too proud to have a friend,
Erring by form, which blockheads sacred hold,
Ne'er making new faults, and ne'er mending
old;

Rebukes my spirit, bids the daring Muse
Subjects more equal to her weakness choose;
Bids her frequent the haunts of humble swains,
Nor dare to traffic in ambitious strains;
Bids her, indulging the poetic whim
In quaint-wrought ode, or sonnet pertly trim,
Along the church-way path complain with
Gray,

Or dance with Mason on the first of May!
"All sacred is the name and power of Kings;
And States and Statesmen are those mighty
things,

Which, howsoe'er they out of course may roll, Were never made for Poets to control."

Peace, peace, thou dotard! nor thus vilely deem
Of sacred numbers, and their pow'r blaspheme;
I tell thee, wretch, search all creation round,
In earth, in heav'n, no subject can be found
(Our God alone except), above whose weight
The Poet cannot rise, and hold his state.
The blessed Saints above in numbers speak
The praise of God, though there all praise is
weak;

In numbers here below the Bard shall teach
Virtue to soar beyond the villain's reach;
Shall tear his lab'ring lungs, strain his hoarse
throat,

And raise his voice beyond the trumpet's note,
Should an afflicted country, aw'd by men
Of slavish principles, demand his pen.
This is a great, a glorious point of view,
Fit for an English Poet to pursue,
Undaunted to pursue, though in return
His writings by the common hangman burn.
How do I laugh when men, by fortune plac'd
Above their betters, and by rank disgrac'd;
Who found their pride on titles which they

stain,

And, mean themselves, are of their fathers vain;
Who would a bill of privilege prefer,
And treat a Poet like a creditor;
The gen'rous ardor of the Muse condemn,
And curse the storm they know must break on
them!

"What, shall a reptile Bard, a wretch unknown,

Without one badge of merit but his own, Great Nobles lash, and Lords like common men Smart from the vengeance of a scribbler's pen?" What's in the name of Lord, that I should

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wear,

Follow his steps, and be his virtue's heir.
But if, regardless of the road to Fame,
You start aside, and tread the paths of Shame;
If such thy life, that, should thy sire arise,
The sight of such a son would blast his eyes;
Would make him curse the hour which gave
thee birth;
[earth,
Would drive him, shudd'ring, from the face of
Once more, with shame and sorrow, 'mongst
the dead,

In endless night to hide his rev'rend head;
If such thy life, though king hath made thee

more

Than ever king a scoundrel made before;
Nay, to allow thy pride a deeper spring,
Though God in vengeance had inade thee a
king;

Taking on Virtue's wing her daring flight, The Muse should drag thee trembling to the light,

Probe thy foul wounds, and lay thy bosom bare To the keen question of the searching air.

Gods! with what pride I see the titled slave, Who smarts beneath the stroke which Satire

gave,

Aiming at ease, and with dishonest art Striving to hide the feelings of his heart! How do I laugh, when, with affected air, (Scarce able, through despite, to keep his chair, Whilst on his trembling lip pale anger speaks, And the chaf'd blood flies mounting to his cheeks,) [cures He talks of "Conscience, which good men seFrom all those evil moments guilt endures," And seems to laugh at those who pay regard To the wild ravings of a frantic bard! "Satire, whilst envy and ill humor sway The mind of man, must always make her Nor to a bosom with discretion fraught Is all her malice worth a single thought: The Wise have not the will, nor Fools the pow'r,

way;

To stop her headstrong course: within the hour,
Left to herself, she dies; opposing strife
Gives her fresh vigor, and prolongs her life.
All things her prey, and every man her aim,
I can no patent for exemption claim;

Nor would I wish to stop that harmless dart
Which plays around, but cannot wound, my

heart:

Though pointed at myself, be Satire free;
To her 'tis pleasure, and no pain to me."
Dissembling wretch! hence to the Stoic
school,

And there amongst thy brethren play the fool; There unrebuk'd, these wild, vain doctrines preach :

Lives there a man, whom Satire cannot reach?
Lives there a man, who calmly can stand by,
And see his conscience ripp'd, with steady eye?
When Satire flies abroad on Falsehood's wing,
Short is her life, and impotent her sting;
But when to Truth allied, the wound she gives
Sinks deep, and to remotest ages lives.
When in the tomb thy pamper'd flesh shall rot,
And e'en by friends thy mem'ry be forgot,
Still shalt thou live, recorded for thy crimes,
Live in her page, and stink to after-times.

Hast thou no feeling yet? Come, throw off
pride,

And own those passions which thou shalt not hide.

S, who, from the moment of his birth, Made human nature a reproach on earth; Who never dar'd, nor wish'd, behind to stay, When Folly, Vice, and Meanness, led the way; Would blush, should he be told, by Truth and Wit,

Those actions which he blush'd not to commit: Men the most infamous are fond of fame; And those who fear not guilt, yet start at shame. But whither runs my zeal, whose rapid force, Turning the brain, bears Reason from her course;

Carries me back to times, when poets, bless'd
With courage, grac'd the science they profess'd;
When they, in honor rooted, firmly stood,
The bad to punish, and reward the good;
When, to a flame by Public Virtue wrought,
The foes of Freedom they to justice brought,
And dar'd expose those slaves, who dar'd sup-
port

A tyrant plan, and call'd themselves a Court?
Ah! what are Poets now? As slavish those
Who deal in verse, as those who deal in prose.
Is there an author, search the kingdom round,
In whom true worth and real spirit's found?
The slaves of booksellers, or (doom'd by fate
To baser chains) vile pensioners of State;
Some, dead to shame, and of those shackles
proud

Which Honor scorns, for slavery roar loud;
Others, half-palsied only, mutes become,
And what makes Smollett write makes Johnson
dumb.
[eye
Why turns yon
villain pale? why bends his
Inward, abash'd, when Murphy passes by?
Dost thou sage Murphy for a blockhead take,
Who wages war with Vice for Virtue's sake?
No, no-like other worldlings, you will find
He shifts his sails, and catches ev'ry wind.
His soul the shock of int'rest can't endure;
Give him a pension then, and sin secure.

With laurel'd wreaths the flatt'rer's brows

adorn,

Bid Virtue crouch, bid Vice exalt her horn,
Bid Cowards thrive, put Honesty to flight,
Murphy shall prove, or try to prove, it right.
Try, thou State-Juggler, ev'ry paltry art,
Ransack the inmost closet of my heart,
Swear thou'rt my friend; by that base oath make
way

Into my breast, and flatter to betray:
Or, if those tricks are vain; if wholesome
doubt

Detects the fraud, and points the villain out;
Bribe those who daily at my board are fed,
And make them take my life who eat my bread;
On authors for defence, for praise, depend;
Pay him but well, and Murphy is thy friend.
He, he shall ready stand with venal rhymes,
To varnish guilt and consecrate thy crimes,
To make corruption in false colors shine,
And damn his own good name to rescue thine.

But if thy niggard hands their gifts withhold,
And Vice no longer rains down show'rs of gold,
Expect no mercy; facts, well grounded, teach,
Murphy, if not rewarded, will impeach.
What tho' cach man of nice and juster thought,
Shunning his steps, decrees, by Honor taught,
He ne'er can be a friend who stoops so low
To be the base betrayer of a foe?
What tho', with thine together link'd, his name
Must be with thine transmitted down to shame?
To ev'ry manly feeling callous grown,
Rather than not blast thine, he'll blast his own.

To ope the fountain whence Sedition springs, To slander Government, and libel Kings; With Freedom's name to serve a present hour, Though born and bred to arbitrary pow'r;

To talk of William with insidious art,
Whilst a vile Stuart's lurking in his heart;
And, whilst mean Envy rears her loathsome
head,

Flatt'ring the living, to abuse the dead;
Where is Shebbeare? O, let not foul Reproach,
Travelling hither in a city-coach,

The pill'ry dare to name; the whole intent
Of that parade was fame, not punishment;
And that old staunch Whig Beardmore, stand-
ing by,

Can in full court give that report the lie.

With rude unnat'ral jargon to support,
Half Scotch, half English, a declining Court;
To make most glaring contraries unite,
And prove, beyond dispute, that black is white;
To make firm Honor tamely league with Shame,
Make Vice and Virtue differ but in name;
To prove that chains and freedom are but one,
That to be sav'd must mean to be undone.

Is there not Guthrie? Who, like him, can call
All opposites to proof, and conquer all?
He calls forth living waters from the rock;
He calls forth children from the barren stock;
He, far beyond the springs of Nature led,
Makes women bring forth after they are dead;
He, on a curious, new, and happy plan,
In wedlock's sacred bands joins man to man;
And, to complete the whole, most strange but
true,

By some rare magic makes them fruitful too;
Whilst from their loins, in the due course of

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shame,

Something which Nature shudders but to name,
Something which makes the soul of man retreat,
And the life-blood run backward to her seat;
Dost thou contrive, for some base private end,
Some selfish view, to hang a trusting friend,
To lure him on, e'en to his parting breath,
And promise life to work him surer death;
Grown old in villany, and dead to grace,
Hell in his heart, and Tyburn in his face,
Behold a Parson at thy elbow stands,
Louring damnation, and with open hands,
Ripe to betray his Saviour for reward,
The atheist Chaplain of an atheist Lord!

Bred to the Church, and for the gown de-
creed

Ere it was known that I should learn to read;
(Tho' that was nothing, for myfriends who knew
What mighty Dulness of itself could do,
Never design'd me for a working Priest,
But hop'd I should have been a Dean at least ;)
Condemn'd (like many more, and worthier men,
To whom I pledge the service of my pen),
Condemn'd (whilst proud and pamper'd Sons
of Lawn,

Cramm'd to the throat, in lazy plenty yawn)
In pomp of rev'rend begg'ry to appear,
To pray and starve on forty pounds a year;
My friends, who never felt the galling load,
Lament that I forsook the packhorse-road;

Whilst Virtue to my conduct witness bears,
In throwing off that gown which Francis wears.
What creature's that, so very pert and prim;
So very full of foppery and whim;
So gentle, yet so brisk; so wondrous sweet,
So fit to prattle at a lady's feet;

Who looks as he the Lord's rich vineyard trod,
And by his garb appears a man of God?
Trust not to looks, nor credit outward show;
The villain lurks beneath the cassock'd Beau;
That's an Informer; what avails the name?
Suffice it, that the wretch from Sodom came.

His tongue is deadly-from his presence run,
Unless thy rage would wish to be undone.
No ties can hold him, no affection bind,
And Fear alone restrains his coward mind.
Free him from that, no monster is so fell,
Nor is so sure a blood-hound found in hell.
His silken smiles, his hypocritic air,
His meek demeanour, plausible and fair,
Are only worn to pave Fraud's easier way,
And make gull'd Virtue fall a surer prey.
Attend his church-his plan of doctrine view,
The Preacher is a Christian, dull but true:
But when the hallow'd hour of preaching's o'er,
The plan of doctrine's never thought of more;
Christ is laid by, neglected on the shelf,
And the vile priest is Gospel to himself.

By Cleland tutor'd, and with Blacow bred, (Blacow, whom, by a brave resentment led, Oxford, if Oxford had not sunk in fame, Ere this had damn'd to everlasting shame) Their steps he follows, and their crimes par

takes:

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Me! me!-kill me! me, who bore him!

Spare the babe this bosom fed!
Ruffians from my cottage tore him,
Where he earn'd my daily bread.
Warrior, here, with rage unfeeling,
Here behold my white breast bare;
Dye it red, and plunge your steel in,
But my child, poor stripling, spare.
My age's solace!-for his father
Perish'd in the bloody field;
A babe he left me, which I'd rather
Than the gold the Indies yield.
Pledge of his love;-and I did dearly
Love the father, in the child;
Slay us both, I beg sincerely;

Ön us both the earth be pil'd.
They sink; but lo! a wondrous vision,
Cloud-clad ghosts unnumber'd rise;
Pale wan looks, that speak contrition;
Blood-stain'd cheeks and hollow eyes.
More in number than the ocean

Rolls the pebbles on its shore,
See they come! and lo! a motion
From a hand all red with gore!
"Listen, listen, sons of sorrow,

Few and evil were your days;
To-day the cowslip buds, to-morrow
Low the sithe the cowslip lays.
We, like you, O! heed our warning,
Warriors were, all blithe and gay:
But we fell in life's bright morning,

Ere we knew the joys of day.

Sons of men, all doom'd to trouble, Travelling quickly to the grave, Sheath the sword, for fame's a bubble; Live to bless, O live to save!

Life to be enjoy'd was given:

Such the will of him above;
Live and love, make earth a heaven,
God made men to live and love!
Hark! the skies with music ringing,
Silver sounds the concave fill;
Angels' voices sweetly singing,

Peace on Earth, to men good-will.''

§ 261. Written on Occasion of a Ball, in which the Ladies agreed to dress in Silks, for the sake of encouraging the Spitalfields Manufacturers.

WEAVE the web of brightest blus,
Azure as its native sky;
Flow'rets add of ev'ry hue,
Tis the vest of Charity.
Rich the tissue of the loom,
Glossy gleams the artist's dye;
Yet the mantle shall assume
Brighter tints from Charity.
Youth and beauty, lo! advance,
Light and gay as Love can be,
Nimbly tripping in the dance,
Clad in robes of Charity.

Babes and mothers lift the head,
Silk-clad trains of nymphs to see ;
Beauty deals them daily bread,
Deck'd in silks of Charity.
Shiv'ring with the winter's wind,
Age, disease, and infancy,

In warm wool their cold limbs bind;
Silk's the dress of Charity.
Lovely ladies at the ball,

Lovelier still if that can be,
Rob'd in silk, in Pleasure's hall,
Dance the dance of Charity.

$262. On the late Queen of France. If thy breast soft pity knows,

O drop a tear with me; Feel for the unexampled woes Of widow'd royalty.

Fallen, fallen from a throne!

Lo! beauty, grandeur, power;
Hark! 'tis a queen's, a mother's moan,
From yonder dismal tower.

I hear her say, or seem to say,
"Ye who listen to my story,
Learn how transient beauty's day,
How unstable human glory.
And when ye hear that I was frail,
O! think what now I bear :
Heed not the page of scandal's tale,
But blot it with a tear."

§ 263. Verses, by DR. GLYNN.
TEAZE me no more, nor think I care
Though monarchs bow at Kitty's shrine,
Or powder'd coxcombs woo the fair,
Since Kitty is no longer mine.
Indifferent 'tis alike to me,
If my favorite dove be stole,
Whether its dainty feathers be
Pluck'd by the eagle or the owl.
If not for me its blushing lips
The rose-bud opens, what care I
Who the od'rous liquid sips;

The king of bees, or butterfly? Like me, the Indians of Peru,

Rich in mines of golden ore, Dejected, see the merchant's crew Transport it to a foreign shore. Seeks the slave despoil'd, to know, Whether his gold in shape of lace Shine on the coat of birth-day beau,

Or wear the stamp of George's face?

§ 264. Hohenlinden; the Scene of a dreadful Engagement between the French and Imperialists, in which the former conquered. By T. CAMPBELL, Esq.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser rolling rapidly:

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