That our most bitter foes (fo much depends
On men of name) are turn'd to cordial friends;
That our offended friends (fuch terror flows
From men of name) dare not appear our foes;
That Credit, gafping in the jaws of death,
And ready to expire with ev'ry breath,
Grows ftronger from difeafe; that thou haft fav'd
Thy drooping Country; that thy name engrav'd
On plates of brafs defies the rage of time;
Than plates of brafs more firm, that facred rime
Embalms thy mem'ry, bids thy glories live,
And gives thee what the Mufe alone can give ;
Thefe heights of Virtue, the rewards of Fame,
With thee in common other patriots claim.

But that poor fickly Science, who had laid
And droop'd for years beneath Neglect's cold shade,
By those who knew her purposely forgot,
And made the jest of those who knew her not.
Whilft Ignorance in pow'r, and pamper'd Pride,
Clad like a prieft, pafs'd by on t' other fide,
Recover'd from her wretched state, at length
Puts on new health, and cloaths herself with ftrength,
To thee we owe, and to thy friendly hand,
Which rais'd, and gave her to poffefs the land.
This praife, tho' in a Court, and near a throne,
This praife is thine, and thine, alas! alone.

With what fond rapture did the Goddess smile,
What bleflings did the promife to this ifle,
What honour to herfelf, and length of reign!
Soon as the heard, that thou did'st not difdain
To be her steward; but what grief, what shame,
What rage, what difappointment fhook her frame,
When her proud children dar'd her will difpute,
When youth was infolent, and age was mute.

That young men fhould be fools, and fome wild
few,

To wisdom deaf, be deaf to int'reft too,
Mov'd not her wonder; but that men grown grey
In fearch of wisdom, men who own'd the sway
Of Reason, men who ftubbornly kept down:
Each rifing paffion, men who wore the gown,
That they should crofs her will, that they should

dare

Against the cause of int`reft to declare,
That they should be so abject and unwife,
Having no fear of lofs before their eyes,
Nor hopes of gain, fcorning the ready means
Of being Vicars, Rectors, Canons, Deans,
With all thofe honours which on Mitres wait,
And mark the virtuous favourites of State;
That they should dare a Hardwicke to fupport,
And talk within the hearing of a Court,
Of that vile beggar Confcience, who undone,
And starv'd herself, ftarves ev'ry wretched fon;
This turn'd her blood to gall, this made her swear
No more to throw away her time and care
On wayward fons who icorn'd her love, no more
To hold her courts on Cam's ungrateful fhore.
Rather than bear fuch infults, which disgrace
Her royalty of nature, birth, and place,
Tho' Dullness there unrivall'd ftate doth keep,
Would the at Winchester with Burton* fleep;
Or, to exchange the mortifying scene

For fomething ftill more dull, and still more mean,
Rather than bear fuch infults, fhe would fly
Far, far beyond the search of English eye,

And reign amongst the Scots: to be a Queen
Is worth ambition, tho' in Aberdeen.

O, ftay thy flight, fair Science! What tho' fome,
Some bafe-born children rebels are become,
All are not rebels; fome are duteous ftill,
Attend thy precepts, and obey thy will;
Thy int'reft is oppos'd by thofe alone,
Who either know not, or oppofe their own.

Of stubborn virtue, marching to thy aid,
Behold in black, the liv'ry of their trade,
Marshall'd by Form, and by Difcretion led,
A grave, grave troop, and Smith is at their head,
Black Smith of Trinity; on Christian ground
For faith in myfteries none more renown'd.

Next (for the beft of caufes now and then Muft beg affiftance from the worft of men) Next (if old ftory lies not) fprung from Greece, Comes Pandarus, but comes without his niece. Her, wretched maid! committed to his truft, To a rank letcher's coarse and bloated luft, The arch, old, hoary hypocrite had fold, And thought himself and her well damn'd for gold. But (to wipe off fuch traces from the mind, And make us in good humour with mankind) Leading on men, who, in a College bred, No woman knew but those which made their bed, Who, planted Virgins on Cam's virtuous shore, Continued ftill Male Virgins at threescore, Comes Sumner 1, wife, and chafte as chafte can be. With Long, as wife, and not lefs chaste than he. Are there not friends, too, enter'd in thy cause, Who, for thy fake, defying penal laws, Were, to fupport thy honourable plan, Smuggled from Jersey and the Isle of Man ? Are there not Philomaths of high degree Who, always dumb before, fhall speak for thee? Are there not Proctors, faithful to thy will, One of full growth, others in embryo still, Who may, perhaps, in fome ten years, or more, Be ascertain'd that two and two make four, Or may a still more happy method find, And, taking one from two, leave none behind? With fuch a mighty pow'r on foot, to yield Were death to manhood; better in the field To leave our carcafes, and die with fame, Than fly, and purchase life on terms of shame. Sackvilles alone anticipate defeat, And, ere they dare the battle, found retreat.

But if perfuafions ineffectual prove, If arguments are vain, nor pray'rs can move, Yet in thy bitterness of frantic woe, Why talk of Burton? Why to Scotland go? Is there not Oxford? She with open arms Shall meet thy with, and yield up all her charms; Shall for thy love her former loves refign, And jilt the banish'd Stuarts, to be thine.

Bow'd to the yoke, and foon as she could read, Tutor'd to get by heart the defpot's creed, She, of fubjection proud, fhall knee thy throne, And have no principles but thine alone;

+Dr. Robert Smith, Master of Trinity-College, Cambridge.

Dr. John Sumner, Provost of King's College, Cambridge.

§ Dr. Roger Long, Master of Pembroke College,

Whilft Virtue, check'd by the cold hand of Scorn,
Seems with'ring on the bed where the was born,
Philofophy fteps in; with fteady hand

She brings her aid, fhe clears th' encumber'd land:
Too virtuous to fpare Vice one ftroke, too wife
One moment to attend to Pity's cries,
See with what godlike, what relentless pow'r
She roots up ev'ry weed

P. and ev'ry flow'r.

Philofophy, a name of meek degree,

Embrac'd, in token of humility,

By the proud fage, who, whilst he ftrove to hide,

In that vain artifice, reveal'd his pride :
Philofophy, whom Nature had defign'd
To purge all errors from the human mind,
Herfelf mifled by the philofopher,

At once her Priest and Mafter, made us err
Pride, pride, like leaven in a mass of flour,
Tainted her laws, and e'en made Virtue four.
Had the, content within her proper sphere,
Taught leffons fuited to the human ear,
Which might fair Virtue's genuine fruits produce,
Made not for ornament, but real use,

The heart of man unrivall'd she had sway'd,
Prais'd by the good, and by the bad obey'd.
But when the, overturning Reafon's throne,
Strove proudly in its place to plant her own ;
When the with apathy the breaft would feel,
And teach us, deeply feeling, not to feel;
When the would wildly all her force employ,
Not to correct our paffions, but deftroy;
When, not content our nature to restore,
As made by. God, the made it all new o'er ;
When, with a ftrange and criminal excefs,
To make us more than men, fhe made us lefs;
The good her dwindled pow'r with pity faw,
The bad with joy, and none but fools with awe,
Truth with a fimple and unvarnith'd tale
E'en from the mouth of N― might prevail,
Could the get there; but Falsehood's fugar'd ftrain
Should pour her fatal blandishments in vain,
Nor make one convert, tho' the firen hung,
Where the too often hings, on-M- tongue.
Should all the Sophs, whom in his course the fun
Hath feen, or paft or prefent, rife in one;
Should he, whilft pleasure in each sentence flows,
Like Plato, give us poetry in profe;
Should he, full orator at once, impart
Th' Athenian's genius with the Roman's art,
Genius and Art should in this instance fail,
Nor Rome tho' join'd with Athens here prevail :
'Tis not in man, 'tis not in more than man,
To make me find one fault in Nature's plan.
Plac'd low ourselves, we cenfure those above,
And, wanting judgment, think that the wants love;
Blamo where we ought in reafon to commend,
And think her mott a foe, when most a friend.
Such be Philofophers their fpecious art,
Tho' Friendship pleads, fhall never warp my heart;
Ne'er make me from this breast one paflion tear,
Which Nature, my best friend, hath planted there.

F. Forgiving, as a friend, what, whilft I live,
As a Philofopher I can't forgive,
In this one point at last I join with you;
To Nature pay all that is Nature's due;
But let not clouded Reason fink fo low,
To fancy debts the does not, cannot owe,

Bear, to full manhood grown, thofe fhackles bear,
Which Nature meant us for a time to wear
As we wear leading-ftrings, which, useless grown,
Are laid afide, when we can walk alone.
But on thyfelf, by peevish humour sway'd,
Wilt thou lay burdens Nature never laid?
Wilt thou make faults, whilft Judgment weakly errs,
And then defend, miftaking them for her's?
Dar'ft thou to fay, in our enlighten'd age,
That this grand mafter paffion, this brave rage,
Which flames out for thy Country, was imprett
And fix'd by Nature in the human breast?

If you prefer the place where you was born,
And hold all others in contempt and fcorn
On für comparifon; if on that land
With lib'ral and a more than equal hand
Her gifts as in profufion Plenty fends:

If Virtue meets with more and better friends;
If Science finds a patron 'mongst the great;
If Honefty is Minister of State;

If Pow'r, the guardian of our rights design'd,
Is to that great, that only end confin'd;
If riches are employ'd to blefs the poo:;
If Law is facred, Liberty fecure;

Let but thefe facts depend on proofs of weight,
Reafon declares, thy love can't be too great;
And in this light could he our Country view,
A very Hottentot muft love it too.

But if, by Fate's decrees, you owe your birth
To fome moft barren and penurious earth,
Where, ev'ry comfort of this Life denied,
Her real wants are fcantily fupplied,
Where Pow'r is Reafon, Liberty a joke,
Laws never made, or made but to be broke;
To fix thy love on fuch a wretched spot,
Because in Lutt's wild fever there begot,
Becaufe, thy weight no longer fit to bear,
By chance, not choice, thy mother dropt the
there,

Is, Folly, which admits not of defence;
It can't be Nature, for it is not Senfe.
By the fame argument which here you hold,
(When Falsehood's infolent let Truth be bold)
If propagation can in torments dwell,

A Devil muft, if born there, love his hell.

P. Had Fate, to whofe decrees I lowly bend,
And e'en in punishment confess a friend,
Ordain'd my birth in some place yet untry'd,
On purpose made to mortify my pride,
Where the Sun never gave one glimpse of day,
Where Science never yet could dart one ray;
Had I been born on fome bleak, blafted plain
Of barren Scotland, in a Stuart's reign;
Or in fome kingdom, where men, weak or worse,
Turn'd Nature's ev'ry bleffing to a curse,
Where crowns of Freedom by the fathers won,
Dropp'd leaf by leaf from each degen’rate fon;
In fpite of all the wisdom you display,
All you have faid, and yet may have to fay,
My weaknefs here, if weakness, I confess,
I, as my Country, had not lov'd her lefs.

Whether strict Reason bears me out in this,
Let thofe who, always feeking, always mifs
The ways of Reason, doubt with precious zeal ;
Their's be the praise to argue, mine to feel.
With we to trace this paffion to the root,
We, like a tree, may know it by its fruit,

From its rich ftem ten thousand virtues fpring,
Ten thousand bleffings on its branches cling;
Yet in the circle of revolving years,
Not one misfortune, not one vice appears.
Hence then, and what you Reafon call adore ;
.This, if not Reason, must be something more.
But, (for I wish not others to confine,
Be their opinions unrestrain'd as mine)
Whether this love's of good or evil growth,
A vige, á virtue, or 1 fpice of both,
Let men of nicer argument decide:
If it is virtuous, foothe an honeft pride
With lib'ral praise, if vicious, be content,

It is a vice I never can repent;

A vice which, weigh'd in heav'n, shall more avail Than ten cold virtues in the other scale.

F. This wild, untemper'd zeal (which after all
We, Candour unimpeach'd, might madness call)
Is it a virtue.? That you scarce pretend:
Or can it be a vice, like Virtue's friend,
Which draws us off from and diffolves the force
Of private ties, nay ftops us in our course
To that grand object of the human foul,
That nobler love which comprehends the whole ?
Coop'd in the limits of this petty ifle,

This nook, which scarce deserves a frown or smile,
Weigh'd with Creation, you, by whim undone,
Give all your thoughts to what is fearce worth one.
The gen'rous Soul, by Nature taught to foar,
Her strength confirm'd in philofophic lore,
At one grand view takes in a world with cafe,
And, feeing all mankind, loves all the fees.

P. Was it moft fure, which yet a doubt endures,
Not found in Reafon's creed, tho' found in yours,
That these two fervices, like what we're told
And know of God's and Mammon's, cannot hold
And draw together; that however loth,

We neither serve, attempting to ferve both;
I could not doubt a moment which to thufe,
And which in common reafon to refuse.

Invented oft for purposes of art,

Born of the head, tho' father'd on the heart,
'This grand love of the world must be confeft
A barren fpeculation at the best.
Not one man in a thousand, fhould he live
Beyond the ufual term of life, could give,
So rare occafion comes, and to fo few,
Proof whether his regards are feign'd or true.
The love we bear our Country, is a root
Which never fails to bring forth golden fruit ;
'Tis in the mind an everlasting spring
Of glorious actions, which become a King,
Nor lefs become a subject; 'tis a debt

Which bad men, tho' they pay not, can't forget;
A duty, which the good delight to pay,
And ev'ry man can practife ev'ry day.

Nor, for my life (so very dim my eye,
Or dull your argument), can I defcry
What you with faith affert, how that dear love
Which binds me to my Country can remove,
And make me of neceffity forego,
That gen'ral love which to the world I owe.
Thofeties of private nature, small extent,
In which the mind of narrow caft is pent,
Are only steps on which the gen'rous foul
Mounts by degrees 'till the includes the whole.
That fpring of love, which in the human mind,
Founded on felf, flows narrow and confin'd,

Enlarges as it rolls, and comprehends
The focial charities of blood, and friends,
"Till smaller streams included, not o'erpaft,
It rifes to our Country's love at laft;
And he, with lib'ral and enlarged mind,
Who loves his Country, cannot hate mankind.
F. Friend as you would appear to Common Senfe,
Tell me, or think no more of a defence,
Is it a proof of love by choice to run
A vagrant from your Country?

P. Can the fon, (Shame, fhame, on all fuch fons) with ruthless

eye,

And heart more patient than the flint, stand by,
And by fonte ruffian, from all fhame divorc'd,
All virtue, fee his honour'd mother forc'd!
Then, no, by Him that made me, not e'en then,
Could I with patience, by the worst of men,
Behold my Country plunder'd, beggar'd, loft
Beyond redemption, all her glories crofs'd
E'en when occafion made them ripe, her fame
Fled like a dream, while fhe awakes to fhame.
F. Is it not more the office of a friend,
The office of a patron, to defend
Her finking ftate, than bafely to decline,
So great a caufe, and in defpair refign?

P. Beyond my reach, alas! the grievance lies,
And, whilft more able patriots doubt, the dies.
From a foul fource, more deep than we suppose,
Fatally deep and dark, this grievance flows.
"Tis not that Peace our glorious hopes defeats,
'Tis not the voice of Faction in the streets,
'Tis not a grofs attack on Freedom made,
"Tis not the arm of Privilege difplay'd
Against the fubject, whilst the wears no fting
To disappoint the purpose of a King;
Thefe are no ills, or trifles, if compar'd
With thofe, which are contriv'd, tho' not declar'd,
Tell me, Philofopher, is it a crime,
To pry into the fecret womb of Time;
Or, born in ignorance, inuft we despair
To reach events, and read the future there?
Why, be it foftill 'tis the right of man,
Imparted by his Maker, where he can,
To former times and men his eye to caft,
And judge of what's to come, by what is past.
Should there be found in fome not diftant year
(O how I wish to be no prophet here),
Amongst our British Lords fhould there be found
Some great in pow'r, in principles unfound,
Who look on Freedom with an evil-eye,
In whom the fprings of loyalty are dry;
Who wish to foar on wild Ambition's wings,
Who hate the Commons, and who love not Kings;
Who would divide the People and the Throne
To fet up fep'rate int'refts of their own;
Who hate whatever aids their wholesome growth,
And only join with, to deftroy them both;
Should there be found fuch men in after-times,
May Heav'n in mercy to our grievous crimes
Allot fome milder vengeance, nor to them
And to their rage this wretched land condemn.

Thou God above, on whom all States depend,
Who knoweft from the first their rife and end,
If there's a day mark'd in the Book of Fate
When ruin must involve our equal State;
When law, alas! must be no more, and we,
To Freedom borny must be no longer free ;