Bred up in ignorance and sloth,
And every vice that nurses both.
Perhaps you say Augustus shines,
Immortal made in Virgil's lines,
And Horace brought the tuneful quire
To sing his virtues on the lyre,
Without reproach for flattery; true,
Because their praises were his due :
For in those ages kings we find
Were animals of human-kind,
But now go search all Europe round
Among the savage monsters
With vice polluting every throne
(I mean all--s except our own)
In vain you make the strictest view
To find a in all the crew
With whom a footman out of place
Would not conceive an high disgrace,
A burning shame, a crying sin,
To take his morning's cup of gin.
'Thus all are destin'd to obey
Some beast of burden or of prey.
"Tis sung Prometheus, forming man,
Through all the brutal species ran,
Each proper quality to find
Adapted to an human mind,
A mingled mass of good and bad,
The best and worst that could be had,
Then from a clay of mixture base
He shap'd a to rule the race,
Endued with gifts from every brute
That best the nature suit.
Thus think ons, the name denotes
Hogs, asses, wolves, baboons, and goats,
To represent in figure just,
Sloth, folly, rapine, mischief, lust.
Oh! were they all but Neb-cadnezers,
What herds of --s would turn to grazers! Fair Britain! in thy monarch blest,
Whose virtues bear the strictest test,
Whom never faction could bespatter,
Nor minister nor poet flatter.
What justice in rewarding merit!
What magnanimity of spirit!
What lineaments divine we trace
Through all his figure, mien, and face!
Though peace with olive binds his hands,
Confess'd the conquering hero stands:
Hydaspes, Indus, and the Ganges,
Dread from his hand impending changes:
From him the Tartar and Chinese,
Short by the knees entreat for peace;
The consort of his throne and bed,
A perfect goddess born and bred,
Appointed sovereign judge to sit
On learning, eloquence, and wit.
Our eldest hope, divine Iülus,
(Late, very late, O may he rule us!)
What early manhood has he shown,
Before his downy beard was grown!
Then think what wonders will be done
By going on as he begun;
An heir for Britain to secure
As long as sun and moon endure.
The remnant of the royal blood
Comes pouring on me like a flood;
Bright goddesses, in number five;
Duke William, sweetest prince alive!
Now sing the minister of state*,
Who shines alone without a mate.
Observe with what majestic port
This Atlas stands to prop the court,
Intent the public debts to pay,
Like prudent Fabius, by delay.
Thou great vicegerent of the king!
Thy praises every Muse shall sing.
In all affairs thou sole director,
Of wit and learning chief protector!
Sir Robert Walpole, afterwards Earl of Orford,
Though small the time thou hast to spare, The church is thy peculiar care.
Of pious prelates what a stock
You choose to rule the sable flock!
You raise the honour of the peerage,
Proud to attend you at the steerage.
You dignify the noble race,
Content yourself with humbler place.
Now learning, valour, virtue, sense,
To titles give the sole pretence.
St. George beheld thee with delight
Vouchsafe to be an azure knight,
When on thy breast and sides Herculean
He fix'd the star and string cerulean.
Say, poet! in what other nation
Shone ever such a constellation!
Attend, ye Popes! and Youngs! and Gays!
And tune your harps and strow your bays:
Your panegyrics here provide;
You cannot err on flattery's side:
Above the stars exalt your style,
You still are low ten thousand mile.
On Lewis all his bards bestow'd
Of incense many a thousand load,
But Europe mortified his pride,
And swore the fawning rascals ly'd:
Yet what the world refus'd to Lewis,
Applied to George, exactly true is.
Exactly true! invidious poet!
"Tis fifty thousand times below it.
Translate me now some lines if you can, From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan; They could all power in heav'n divide, And do no wrong to either side: They teach you how to split a hair, Give George and Jove an equal share. Yet why should we be lac'd so strait? I'll give my monarch butter-weight. And reason good; for many a year Jove never intermeddled here;
Nor, though his priests be duly paid,
Did ever we desire his aid:
We now can better do without him,
Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him.
Cetera desiderantur.
ON THE DEATH OF DR. SWIFT,
Occasioned by reading the following Maxim in Rochefoucault.
Dans l'adversite de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous deplait pas.
In the adversity of our best friends we always find something that doth not displease us.'
S'Rouchefoucault his Maxims drew
From Nature, I believe them true;
They argue no corrupted mind
In him; the fault is in mankind.
This maxim more than all the rest
Is thought too base for human breast,
In all distresses of our friends
We first consult our private ends,
While Nature, kindly bent to ease us,
Points out some circumstance to please us.'
If this perhaps your patience move,
Let reason and experience prove.
We all behold with envious eyes
Our equals rais'd above our size.
Who would not at a crowded show
Stand high himself, keep others low?
I love my friend as well as you,
But why should he obstruct my view;
Then let me have the higher post,
Suppose it but an inch at most.
If in a battle you should find
One whom you love of all mankind
Had some heroic action done,
A champion kill'd, or trophy won,
Rather than thus be overtopt,
Would you not wish his laurels cropt?
Dear honest Ned is in the gout,
Lies rack'd with pain, and you without;
How patiently you hear him groan !
How glad the case is not your own!
What poet would not grieve to see
His brother write as well as he?
But rather than they should excel,
Would wish his rivals all in hell?
Her end when Emulation misses,
She turns to envy, stings, and hisses.
The strongest friendship yields to pride,
Unless the odds be on our side.
Vain human-kind! fantastic race! Thy various follies who can trace? Self-love, ambition, envy, pride, Their empire in our hearts divide. Give others riches, power, and station, "Tis all on me an usurpation.
I have no title to aspire,
Yet when you sink I seem the higher.
In Pope I cannot read a line
But, with a sigh, I wish it mine:
When he can in one couplet fix
More sense than I can do in six,
It gives me such a jealous fit,
I cry, Pox take him and his wit.'
I grieve to be outdone by Gay
In my own humorous biting way,
Arbuthnot is no more my friend,
Who dares to irony pretend,
Which I was born to introduce,
Refin'd it first, and show'd its use.
St. John, as well as Pulteney, knows
That I had some repute for prose,
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