But random praise-the task can ne'er be done:
Each mother asks it for her booby son:
Each widow asks it for the best of men;
For him she weeps, for him she weds again.
Praise cannot stoop, like satire, to the ground:
The number inay be hang'd, but not be crown'd.
Enough for half the greatest of these days,
To 'scape my censure, not expect my praise.
Are they not rich? what more can they pretend?
Dare they to hope a poet for their friend
What Richlicu wanted, Louis scarce could gain;
And what young Ammon wish'd, but wish'd in
'vain?

No pow'r the Muse's friendship can command;
Nopow'r, when virtue claims it, can withstand:
To Cato, Virgil pay'd one honest line;
O let my country's friends illumine mine!
-What are you thinking? F. 'Faith, the
thought 's no sin;

I think your friends are out, and would be in. P. If merely to come in, Sir, they go out, The way they take is strangely round about.

F. They too may be corrupted, you'll allow. P. I only call those knaves who are so now. Is that too little? Come then, I'll complySpirit of Arnall! aid me while I lie. Cobham's a coward, Polwart is a slave; And Lyttleton a dark, designing knave; St. John has ever been a wealthy foolBut let me add, Sir Robert 's mighty dull; Has never made a friend in private life, And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife.

But pray, when others praise him, do I Call Verres, Wolsey, any odious name? [blame? Why rail they then, if but a wreath of “mine, O all-accomplish'd St. John! deck thy shrine?

What shall each spur-gall'd hackney of the day, When Paxton gives him double pots and pay; Or each new-pension'd sycophant, pretend To break my windows if I treat a friend :Then wisely plead, to me they meant no hurt But 'twas my guest to whom they threw the Sure, if I spare the Minister, no rules [dirt? Of honor bind me not to maul his tools; Sure, if they cannot cut, it may be said His saws are toothless, and his hatches lead.

;

It anger'd Turenne, once upon a day, To see a footman kick'd that took his pay: But when he heard th' affront the fellow gave, Knew one a man of honor, one a knave; The prudent gen'ral turn'd it to a jest, [rest: And begg'd he'd take the pains to kick the Which not at present having time to do-[you? F. Hold, sir, for God's sake, where 's th' affront to Against your worship when had S―k writ ? Or P-ge pour'd forth the torrent of his wit? Or grant the Bard whose distich all commend

In pow'r a servant, out of pow'r a friend) To W-le guilty of some venial sin; What's that to you, who ne'er was out nor in? The Priest whose flattery be dropp'd theCrown, How hurt he you? he only stain'd the gown. And how did, pray, the florid youth offend, Whose speech you took, and gave it to a friend?

P. 'Faith, it imports not much from whom' it came;

Whoever borrow'd could not be to blame,
Since the whole House did afterwards the same..
Let courtly wits to wits afford supply,
As hog to hog in huts of Westphaly;
If one thro' nature's bounty, or his lord's.
Has what the frugal dirty soil affords,
From him the next receives it, thick or thin,
As pure a mess almost as it came in :
The blessed benefit, not there confin'd,
Drops to the third, who nuzzles close behind:
From tail to mouth they feed and they carouse;
The last full fairly gives it to the House.
F. This filthy simile, this beastly line
Quite turns my stomach-

P. So does flatt'ry mine: And all your courtly Civet-cats can vent, Perfuine to you, to me is excrement. But hear me farther-Japhet, 'tis agreed, Writ not,andChartres scarce could write or read, In all the Courts of Pindus guiltless quite; But pens can forge, my friend, that cannot write;

And must no egg in Japhet's face be thrown,
Because the deed he forg'd was not my own?
Must never Patriot then declaim at gin,
Unless, good man! he has been fairly in?
No zealous pastor blame a failing spouse,
Without a staring reason op his brows?
And each blasphemer quite escape the rod,
Because the insult 's not on man, but God?

Ask you what provocation I have had ? The strong antipathy of good to bad. When truth or virtue an affront endures, Th' affront is mine, my friend, and should be Mine, as a foe profest to false pretence, [yours. Who think a Coxcomb's honor like his sense; Mine, as a friend to ev'ry worthy mind; And mine, as man, who feel for all mankind. F. You're strangely proud.

P. So proud, I am no slave; So impudent, I own myself no knave; So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave. Yes, I am proud, I must be proud, to see Men not afraid of God afraid of me? Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne, Yet touch'd and sham'd by ridicule alone. O sacred weapon! left for truth's defence; Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence! To all but Heaven-directed hands denied, The Muse may give thee, but the gods must guide; Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honest zeal; To rouse the watchmen of the public weal, To virtue's work provoke the tardy hall, And goad the Prelate slumb'ring in his stall. Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains, That counts your beauties only by your stains, Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day! The Muse's wing shall brush you all away: All his Grace preaches, all his Lordship sings, All that makes saints of queens, and godsof kings, All, all but truth,drops dead-born from the press, Like the last Gazette, or the last address.

When

When black ambition stains a public cause, A monarch's sword when mad vain-glory draws, Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar, Nor Boileau turn the feather to a star.

Not so, when diadem'd with rays divine, Touch'd with the flame that breaks from irtue's shrine,

Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die,
And opes the temple of Eternity.
There, other trophies deck the truly brave,
Than such as Anstis casts into the grave;
Far other stars than * and ** wear,
And may descend to Mornington from Stair;
(Such as on Hough's unsullied mitre shine,
Or beam, good Digby, from a heart like thine);
LetEnvyhowl, whileheaven's whole chorussings,
And bark at honor not conferr'd by kings;
Let Flatt'ry sick'ning see the incense rise,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies:
Truth guards the Poet, sanctifies the line,
And makes immortal, verse as mean as mine.

Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw, When truth stands trembling on the edge of law; Here, last of Britons! let your names be read; Are none, none living! let me praise the dead; And, for that cause which made your fathers Fall by the votes of their degen'rate line. [shine, F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began, And write next winter more Essays on Man.

§ 22. IMITATIONS OF HORACE.

Pope.

EPISTLE VII.

Imitated in the Manner of Dr. Swift.
Tis true, my Lord, I gave my word
I would be with you, June the third;
Chang'd it to August; and, in short,
Have kept it as you do at Court,
You humor me when I am sick,
Why not when I am splenetic ?
In town what objects could I meet?
The shops shut up in ev'ry street,
And fun'rals black'ning all the doors,
And yet more melancholy whores:
And what a dust in ev'ry place!
And a thin Court that wants your face,
And fevers raging up and down,
And W and H** both in town!

Scatter your favors on a fop,
Ingratitude's the certain crop;
And 'tis but just; I'll tell you wherefore,
You give the things you never care for,
A wise man always is or shou'd
Be mighty ready to do good;
But makes a diff 'rence in his thonght
Betwixt a guinea and a groat.

Now this I'll say; you'll find in me
A safe companion, and a free:
But if you'd have me always near-
A word, in your
Honor's s ear.
pray,
I hope it is your résolution
To give me back my Constitution!
The sprightly wit, the lively eye,
Th' engaging smile, the gaiety,
That laugh'd down many a summer sun,
And kept you up so oft till one;
And all that voluntary vein,
As when Belinda rais'd my strain.

A weazel once was made to slink In at a corn-loft thro'a chink; But, having amply stuff'd his skin, Could not get out as he got in: Which one belonging to the house (Twas not a man, it was a mouse) Observing, cried, "You 'scape not so ; "Lean as you came, sir, you must go."

Sir, you may spare your application,
I'm no such beast, nor his relation;
Nor one that temperance advance,
Cramm'd to the throat with Ortolans
Extremely ready to resign

All that may make me none of mine.
Sonth-sea subscriptions take who please,
Leave me but liberty and ease.
"Twas what I said to Craggs and Child,
Who prais'd my modesty, and smil’d.
Give me, I cried (enough for me),
My bread, and independency!
So bought an annual rent or two,
And liv'd-just as you see I do ;
Near fifty, and without a wife,
I trust that sinking fund, my life.
Can I retrench? Yes, mighty well;
Shrink back to my paternal cell,
A little house, with trees a-row,
And, like its master, very low.
There died my father, no man's debtor-
And there I'll die, nor worse nor better.
To set this matter full before ve,
Our old friend Swift will tell his

66

story: Harley, the nation's great suppon," But you may read it, I stop short.

Well, now I have all this and more, I ask not to increase my store;

• But here a grievance seems to lie,

·

All this is mine but till I die;

·

I can't but think 't would sound more clever "To me, and to my heirs for ever." If I ne'er got or lost a groat By any trick or any fault;

And if I pray by reason's rules,

And not like forty other fools,

As thus: "Vouchsafe, O gracious Maker! "To grant me this and t'other acre; "Or if it be thy will and pleasure, "Direct my plough to find a treasure ;" But only what my station fits, And to be kept in my right wits: Preserve, Almighty Providence! Just what you gave me, competence: And let me in the shades compose Something in verse as true as prose; Remov'd from all th' ambitious scene, Nor puff'd by pride, nor sunk by spleen.' In short, I 'in perfectly content, Let me but live on this side Trent; Nor cross the Channel twice a-year, To spend six months with statesmen here.

I must by all means come to town, 'Tis for the service of the crown. "Lewis, the Dean will be of use; "Send for him up, take no excuse." The toil, the danger of the seas, Great ministers ne'er think of these; Or let it cost five hundred pound, No matter where the money 's found: It is but so much more in debt, And that they ne'er consider'd yet.

"Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown, "Let my Lord know you 're come to town." I hurry me in haste away, Not thinking it is levec-day; And find his Honor in a pound, Hemm'd by a triple circle round, Chequer'd with ribbons blue and green; How should I thrust myself between? Some wag observes me much perplex'd, And smiling, whispers to the next,

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I thought the Dean had been too proud "To jostle here among a crowd." Another, in a surly fit,

Tells me I have niore zeal than wit: "So eager to express your love, "You ne'er consider whom you shove, "But rudely press before a Duke." I own I am pleas'd with this rebuke, And take it kindly meant to show What I desire the world should know.

"To-morrow my appcal comes on;
66 Without your help the cause is gone-"
The Duke expects my Lord and you,
About some great affairs, a two-
“Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind,
"To get my warrant quickly sign'd:
"Consider, 'tis my first request."
Be satisfied, I'll do my best:
Then presently he falls to tease.

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You may for certain, if you please; doubt not, if his Lordship knew"And, Mr. Dean, one word from you-" "Tis (let me see) three years and more (October next it will be four) Since Harley bid me first attend, And chose me for a humble friend; Would take me in his coach to chat, And question me of this and that; As, What's o'clock,' and How's the wind?' Whose chariot 's that we left behind?' Or gravely try to read the lines Writ underneath the country signs; Or, Have you nothing new to-day From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay?' Such tattle often entertains My Lord and me as far as Stains; As once a week we travel down To Windsor, and again to Town, Where all that passes inter nos Might be proclaim'd at Charing-Cross. Yet some I know with envy swell, Because they see me used so well:

66

How think you of our friend the Dean? "I wonder what some people mean; "My Lord and he are grown so great, Always together tête-à-tête ;

""

What, they admire him for his jokes
"See but the fortune of some folks!"
There flies about a strange report
Of some express arriv'd at Court:
I'm stopp'd by all the fools I meet,
And catechis'd in ev'ry street.

46

1 get a whisper, and withdraw; When twenty fools I never saw Come with petitions fairly penn'd, Desiring I would stand their friend.

This humbly offers me his case, That begs my int'rest for a place : A hundred other men's affairs, Like bees, are humming in my ears.

66

You, Mr. Dean, frequent the Great; "Inform us, will the Emp'ror treat? "Or do the prints and papers lie?" Faith, Sir, you know as much as I. "Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest! "Tis now no secret" - I protest 'Tis one to me -" Then tell us, pray, "When are the troops to have their pay?" And, tho' I solemnly declare

I know no more than my Lord Mayor, They stand amaz'd, and think me grown The closest mortal ever known.

My friends above, my folks below,
Chatting and laughing all a-row,
The beans and bacon set before 'em,
The grace-cup serv'd with all decorum :
Each willing to be pleas'd, and please,
And even the very dogs at ease!
Here no man prates of idle things,
How this or that Italian sings,
A neighbour's madness, or his spouse's,
Or what's in either of the houses:
But something much more our concern,
And quite a scandal not to learn:
Which is the happier, or the wiser,
A man of merit, or a miser?
Whether we ought to choose our friends
For their own worth, or our own ends?
What good, or better, we may call,
And what, the very best of all?

Our friend Dan Prior told (you know) A tale extremely à propos : Name a town life, and in a trice He had a story of two mice. Once on a time, so runs the fable, A country mouse, right hospitable, Receiv'd a town mouse at his board, Just as a farmer might a lord. A frugal mouse upon the whole, Yet lov'd his friend, and had a soul: Knew what was handsome, and would do 't, On just occasion, coute qui coute. He brought him bacon (nothing lean), Pudding that might have pleas'd a dean; Cheese, such as men in Suffolk make, But wish'd it Stilton for his sake; Yet, to his guest, tho' no way sparing, He ate himself the rind and paring. Our courtier scarce would touch a bit, Bat show'd his breeding and his wit: He did his best and seem'd to eat, And cried: "I vow you 're mighty neat. But, Lord! my friend, the savage scene! For God's sake, come and live with men: Consider, mice like men must die,

46

Both sinall and great, both you and I: Then spend your life in joy and sport; "This doctrine, friend, I learn'd at court."

The verfest hermit in the nation May yield, God knows, to strong temptation. Away they come, thro' thick and thin, To a tall house near Lincoln's-Inn: "Twas on the night of a debate, When all their lordships had sate late.

Behold the place where, if a poet Shin'd in description, he might show it; Tell how the moon-beam trembling falls, And tips with silver all the walls⚫ Palladian walls, Venetian doors, Gotesco roofs, and stucco floors: But let it, in a word, be said, The moon was up, and men a bed, The napkin white, the carpet red: The guests withdrawn had left the treat, And down the mice sat, léte-à-léte.

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Our courtier walks from dish dish, Tastes for his friend of fowl and ish; Tells all their names, lays down he law, Que ça est bon! Ah, goutez a ! "That jelly's rich, this malmese healing; "Pray dip your whiskers and you tail in." Was ever such a happy swain? He stuffs and swills; and stuffs agin. "I'm quite asham'd-'tis might rude "To eat so much-but all 's so good! "I have a thousand thanks to give

66

My lord alone knows how to live." No sooner said, but from the hall Rush chaplain, butler, dogs and all . “A rat! a rat! clap to the door."The cat comes bouncing on the floor! O for the heart of Homer's mice, Or gods, to save them in a trice! (It was by Providence, they think, For your damn'd stucco has no chink.) "An't please your Honor," quoth the peasant, "This same dessert is not so pleasant : "Give me again my hollow tree, "A crust of bread and liberty!"

LEST you should think that verse shall die,
Which sounds the silver Thames along,
Taught on the wings of truth to fly,
Above the reach of vulgar song.
Tho' daring Milton sits sublime,

In Spenser native muses play;
Nor yet shall Waller yield to time,

Nor pensive Cowley's moral lay. Sages and chiefs long since had birth,

Ere Cæsar was, or Newton nam'd; These rais'd new empires o'er the earth,

And those new heavens and systems fram'd. Vain was the chief's, the sage's pride! They had no poet, and died; In vain they schem'd, in vain they bled! They had no poet, and are dead.

§ 23. A Panegyric to my Lord Protector, of the present Greatness, and joint Interest of his Highness and this Nation. Waller. WHILE with a strong, and yet a gentle hand, You bridle faction, and our hearts command, Protect us from ourselves, and from the foe, Make us unite, and make us conquer too. Let partial spirits still aloud complain, Think themselves injur'd that they cannot reign; And own no liberty, but where they may Without control upon their fellows prey.

Whether this portion of the world were rent
By the rude ocean from the continent,
Or thus created; it was sure design'd
To be the sacred refuge of mankind.
Hither th' oppressed shall henceforth resorts
Justice to crave, and succour, at your court;
And then your Highness, not for ours alone,
But for the world's Protector shall be known.
Fame, swifter than your wing'd navy, flies
Through ev'ry land that near the ocean lies;
Sounding your naine, and telling dreadful news
To all that piracy and rapine use.
With such a Chief the meanest nation blest,
Might hope to lift her head above the rest;
What may be thought impossible to do
By us, embraced by the Sea and You?
Lords of the world's great waste, the ocean, we
Whole forests send to reign upon the sea;
And ev'ry coast may trouble or relieve;
But none can visit us without your leave.
Angels and we have this prerogative,
That none can at our happy seats arrive;
While we descend at pleasure to invade
The bad with vengeance, and the good to aid.
Our little world, the image of the great,
Like that, amidst the boundless ocean set,
Of her own growth hath all that nature craves;
And all that 's rare, as tribute from the waves.
As Egypt does not on the clouds rely,
But to the Nile owes more than to the sky;
So what our earth, and what our heaven, denies
Our ever-constant friend, the sea, supplies.
The taste of hot Arabia's spice we know,
Free from the scorching-sun that makes it grow;
Without the worm, in Persian silks we shine;
And, without planting, drink of ev'ry vine.
To dig for wealth we weary not our limbs ;
Gold, though the heaviest metal, hither swims:
Ours is the harvest where the Indians mow;
We plough the deep, and reap what others sow.
Things of the noblest kind our own soil breeds;
Stout are our men, and warlike are our steeds:
Rome, tho' her eagle thro' the world had flown,
Could never make this island all her own.
Here the third Edward, and the Black Prince too,
France-conqu'ring Henry, flourish'd; and now
You;

Above the waves as Neptune show'd his face
To chide the winds and save the Trojan race,
So has your Highness, rais'd above the rest,
Storms of ambition, tossing us, repress'd.
Your drooping country, torn with civil hate,
Restor'd by you, is made a giorious state;
The seat of empire, where the Irish come,
And the unwilling Scots, to fetch their doom.
The sea's our own: and now all nations greet,
With bending sails, each vessel of our fleet:
Your pow'r extends as far as winds can blow,
Or swelling sails upon the globe may go.
Heaven (that hath plac'd this island to give law,
To balance Europe, and her states to awe)
In this conjunction doth on Britain snaile;
The greatest Leader, and the greatest Isle !

For whom we stay'd, as did the Grecian state,
Till Alexander came to urge their fate.
When for more worlds the Macedonian cried,
He wist not Thetis in her lap did hide
Another yet; a world reserv'd for you
To make more great than that he did subdue.
He safely might old troops to battle lead,
Against th' unwarlike Persian and the Mede;
Whose hasty flight did, from a bloodless field,
More spoils than honor to the victor yield.
A race unconquer'd, by their clime made bold,
The Caledonians, arm'd with want and cold,
Have, by a fate indulgent to your famne,
Been from all ages kept for you to tame.

Whom