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His means but scanty, and his wants but few,
Labour his business and his pleasure too,
Enjoys more comforts in a single hour,
Than ages give the wretch condemn'd to pow'r.
Call'd up by health, he rises with the day,
And goes to work as if he went to play,
Whistling off toils, one half of which might make
The stoutest Atlas of a palace quake;
'Gainst heat and cold, which make us cowards faint,
Harden'd by constant use, without complaint
He bears what we should think it death to bear;
Short are his meals, and homely is his fare;
His thirst he slakes at some pure neighb'ring brook,
Nor asks for sauce where appetite stands cook.
When the dews fall, and when the Sun retires
Behind the mountains, when the village fires,
Which, waken'd all at once, speak supper nigh,
At distance catch and fix his longing eye,
Homeward he hies, and with his manly brood
Of raw-bon'd cubs enjoys that clean, coarse food,
Which, season'd with good-humour, his fond bride
'Gainst his return is happy to provide; [creeps
Then, free from care, and free from thought, he
Into his straw, and till the morning sleeps.

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Not so the king-With anxious cares oppress'd,
His bosom labours, and admits not rest.
A glorious wretch, he sweats beneath the weight
Of majesty, and gives up ease for state.
E'en when his smiles, which, by the fools of pride,
Are treasur'd and preserv'd from side to side,
Fly round the court, e'en when compell'd by form,
He seems most calm, his soul is in a storm!
Care, like a spectre, seen by him alone,
With all her nest of vipers, round his throne
By day crawls full in view; when Night bids Sleep,
Sweet nurse of Nature, o'er the senses creep,
When Misery herself no more complains,
And slaves, if possible, forget their chains,
Though his sense weakens, though his eyes grow dim,
That rest which comes to all, comes not to him.
E'en at that hour, Care, tyrant Care, forbids
The dew of sleep to fall upon his lids;
From night to night she watches at his bed;
Now, as one mop'd, sits brooding o'er his head;
Anon she starts, and, borne on raven's wings,
Croaks forth aloud-" Sleep was not made for kings." |
Thrice hath the Moon, who governs this vast ba!!,
Who rules most absolute o'er me, and all;
To whom by full conviction taught to bow,
At new, at full, I pay the duteous vow;
Thrice hath the Moon her wonted course pursu'd,
Thrice hath she lost her form, and thrice renew'd,
Since (blessed be that season, for before
I was a mere, mere mortal, and no more,
One of the herd, a lump of common clay,
Inform'd with life to die and pass away)
Since I became a king, and Gotham's throne,
With full and ample pow'r, became my own;
Thrice hath the Moon her wonted course pursu'd,
Thrice hath she lost her form, and thrice renew'd,
Since Sleep, kind Sleep, who like a friend supplies
New vigour for new toil, hath clos'd these eyes.
Nor, if my toils are answer'd with success,
And I am made an instrument to bless
The people whom I love, shall I repine;
Theirs be the benefit, the labour mine.

Mindful of that high rank in which I stand,
Of millions lord, sole ruler in the land,
Let me, and Reason shall her aid afford,
Rule my own spirit, of myself be lord.

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With an ill grace that monarch wears his crown,
Who, stern and hard of nature, wears a frown
'Gainst faults in other men, yet all the while
Meets his own vices with a partial smile.
How can a king (yet on record we find
Such kings have been, such curses of mankind)
Enforce that law 'gainst some poor subject elf,
Which Conscience tells him he hath broke himself?
Can he some petty rogue to justice call
For robbing one, when he himself robs all?
Must not, unless extinguish'd, Conscience fly
Into his cheek, and blast his fading eye,

To scourge th' oppressor, when the state, distress'd
And sunk to ruin, is by him oppress'd?
Against himself doth he not sentence give?
If one must die, t' other's not fit to live.

Weak is that throne, and in itself unsound,
Which takes not solid virtue for its ground;
All envy pow'r in others, and complain
Of that which they would perish to obtain.
Nor can those spirits, turbulent and bold,
Not to be aw'd by threats, nor bought with gold,
Be hush'd to peace, but when fair legal sway
Makes it their real int'rest to obey;
When kings, and none but fools can then rebel,
Not less in virtue than in pow'r excel.

Be that my object, that my constant care,
And may my soul's best wishes centre there.
Be it my task to seek, nor seck in vain,
Not only how to live, but how to reign;
And, to those virtues which from Reason spring,
And grace the man, join those which grace the king.
First (for strict duty bids my care extend
And reach to all, who on that care depend,
Bids me with servants keep a steady hand,
And watch o'er all my proxies in the land)
First (and that method Reason shall support)
Before I look into, and purge my court,
Before I cleanse the stable of the state,
Let me fix things which to myself relate.
That done, and all accounts well settled here,
In resolution firm, in honour clear,
Tremble, ye slaves, who dare abuse your trust,
Who dare be villains, when your king is just.

Are there, amongst those officers of state
To whom our sacred pow'r we delegate,
Who hold our place and office in the realm,
Who, in our name commission'd, guide the helm;
Are there, who, trusting to our love of ease,
Oppress our subjects, wrest our just decrees,
And make the laws, warp'd from their fair intent,
To speak a language which they never meant;
Are there such men, and can the fools depend
On holding out in safety to their end?
Can they so much, from thoughts of danger free,
Deceive themselves, so much misdeem of me,
To think that I will prove a statesman's tool,
And live a stranger where I ought to rule?
What, to myself and to my state unjust,
Shall I from ministers take things on trust,
And, sinking low the credit of my throne,
Depend upon dependants of my own?

Shall I, most certain source of future cares,
Not use my judgment, but depend on theirs?
Shall I, true puppet-like, be mock'd with state,
Have nothing but the name of being great;
Attend at councils which I must not weigh;
Do what they bid; and what they dictate say;
Enrob'd, and hoisted up into my chair,
Only to be a royal cipher there?

Perish the thought-'tis treason to my throneAnd who but thinks it, could his thoughts be known, Insults me more, than he, who, leagu'd with Hell, Shall rise in arms, and 'gainst my crown rebel.

The wicked statesman, whose false heart pursues A train of guilt; who acts with double views, And wears a double face; whose base designs Strike at his monarch's throne; who undermines E'en whilst he seems his wishes to support; Who seizes all departments, packs a court, Maintains an agent on the judgment-seat

To screen his crimes, and make his frauds complete;

New-models armies, and around the throne
Will suffer none but creatures of his own;
Conscious of such his baseness, well may try,
Against the light to shut his master's eye,
Te keep him coop'd, and far remov'd from those,
Who, brave and honest, dare his crimes disclose,
Nor ever let him in one place appear,
Where Truth, unwelcome Truth, may wound his ear.
Attempts like these, well weigh'd, themselves pro-
cla'm,

And, whilst they publish, balk their author's aim.
Kings must be blind, into such snares to run;
Or worse, with open eyes must be undone.
The minister of honesty and worth
Demands the day to bring his actions forth;
Calls on the Sun to shine with fiercer rays,
And braves that trial which must end in praise.
None fly the day, and seek the shades of night,
But those whose actions cannot bear the light;
None wish their king in ignorance to hold,
But those who feel that knowledge must unfold
Their hidden guilt, and that dark mist dispell'd
By which their places and their lives are held,
Confusion wait them, and, by Justice led,
In vengeance fall on ev'ry traitor's head.

Aware of this, and caution'd 'gainst the pit
Where kings have oft been lost, shall I submit,
And rust in chains like these? Shall I give way,
And whilst my helpless subjects fall a prey
To pow'r abus'd, in ignorance sit down,
Nor dare assert the honour of my crown?
When stern Rebellion, (if that odious name
Justly belongs to those, whose only aim
Is to preserve their country; who oppose,
In honour leagu'd, none but their country's foes;
Who only seck their own, and found their cause
In due regard for violated laws)
When stern Rebellion, who no longer feels
Nor fears rebuke, a nation at her heels,
A nation up in arms, though strong not proud,
Knocks at the palace-gate, and, calling loud
For due redress, presents, from Truth's fair pen,
A list of wrongs, not to be borne by men;
How must that king be humbled, how disgrace
All that is royal in his name and place,
Who, thus call'd forth to answer, can advance
No other plea but that of ignorance!
A vile defence, which, was his all at stake,
The meanest subject well might blush to make;
A filthy source, from whence shame ever springs;
A stain to all, but most a stain to kings.
The soul, with great and mauly feelings warm'd,
Panting for knowledge, rests not till inform’d:
And shall not I, fir'd with the glorious zeal,
Feel those brave passions which my subjects feel?
Or can a just excuse from ignorance flow
To me, whose first, great duty is-To know ?
VOL. XIV.

Hence Ignorance-thy settled, dull, blank eye
Wou'd hurt me, though I knew no reason why-
Hence Ignorance-thy slavish shackles bind
The free-born soul, and lethargy the mind-
Of thee, begot by Pride, who look'd with scorn
On ev'ry meaner match, of thee was born
That grave inflexibility of soul,

Which Reason can't convince, nor Fear control;
Which neither arguments nor pray'rs can reach,
And nothing less than utter ruin teach-
Hence Ignorance-hence to that depth of night
Where thou wast born, where not one gleam of light
May wound thine eye-hence to some dreary cell,
Where monks with Superstition love to dwell;
Or in some college soothe thy lazy pride,
And with the heads of colleges reside;
Fit mate for Royalty thou can'st not be;
And if no mate for kings, no mate for me.

Come Study, like a torrent swell'd with rains,
Which, rushing down the mountains, o'er the plains
Spreads horrour wide, and yet, in horrour kind,
Leaves seeds of future fruitfulness behind ;
Come Study-painful though thy course and slow,
Thy real worth by thy effects we know-
Parent of Knowledge, come!-Not thee I call,
Who, grave and dull, in college or in hall
Dost sit, all solemn sad, and moping weigh
Things, which when found, thy labours can't repay-
Nor, in one hand, fit emblem of thy trade,
A rod; in t' other, gaudily array'd
A hornbook, gilt and letter'd; call I thee,
Who dost in form preside o'er A B C― :
Nor (siren though thou art, and thy strange charms,
As 'twere by magic, lure men to thy arms)
Do I call thee, who through a winding maze,
A labyrinth of puzzling, pleasing ways,
Dost lead us at the last to those rich plains,
Where, in full glory, real Science reigns:
Fair though thou art, and lovely to mine eye,
Though full rewards in thy possession lie
To crown man's wish, and do thy fav'rites grace,
Though (was I station'd in an humbler place)
I could be ever happy in thy sight,

Toil with thee all the day, and through the night Toil on from watch to watch, bidding my eye, Fast rivetted on Science, sleep defy;

Yet (such the hardships which from empire flow)
Must I thy sweet society forego,

And to some happy rival's arms resign
Those charms, which can, alas! no more be mine.
No more, from hour to hour, from day to day,
Shall I pursue thy steps, and urge my way
Where eager love of Science calls; no more
Attempt those paths which man ne'er trod before.
No more the mountain scal'd, the desert crost,
Losing myself, nor knowing I was lost,

Travel through woods, through wilds, from morn

to night,

From night to morn, yet travel with delight,
And having found thee, lay me down content,
Own all my toil well paid, my time well spent.

Farewell, ye Muses too-for such mean things Must not presume to dwell with mighty kingsFarewell, ye Muses-though it cuts my heart L'en to the quick, we must for ever part.

When the fresh morn bade lusty Nature wake; When the birds, sweetly twitt'ring through the brake, Tun'd their soft pipes; when from the neighb`rằng bloom,

Sipping the dew, each Zephyr stole perfume;
A a

When all things with new vigour were inspir'd,
And seem'd to say they never could be tir'd;
How often have we stray'd, whilst sportive rhyme
Deceiv'd the way, and clipp'd the wings of Time,
O'er hill, o'er dale! how often laugh'd to see,
Yourselves made visible to none but me,
The clown, his work suspended, gape and stare,
And seem'd to think that I convers'd with air!
When the Sun, beating on the parched soil,
Seem'd to proclaim an interval of toil;
When a faint languor crept through ev'ry breast,
And things most us'd to labour, wish'd for rest;
How often, underneath a rev'rend oak,

Where safe, and fearless of the impious stroke,
Some sacred Dryad liv'd, or in some grove,
Where with capricious fingers Fancy wove
Her fairy bow'r, whilst Nature all the while
Look'd on, and view'd her mock'ries with a smile,
Have we held converse sweet! how often laid,
Fast by the Thames, in Ham's inspiring shade,
Amongst those poets which make up your train,
And, after death, pour forth the sacred strain,
Have I, at your command, in verse grown grey,
But not impair'd, heard Dryden tune that lay,
Which might have drawn an angel from his sphere,
And kept him from his office list ning here.

When dreary Night, with Morpheus in her train,
Led on by Silence to resume her reign,
With darkness covering, as with a robe,
This scene of levity, blank'd half the globe;
How oft, enchanted with your heav'nly strains,
Which stole me from myself, which in soft chains
Of music bound my soul, how oft have I,
Sounds more than human floating through the sky,
Attentive sat, whilst Night, against her will,
Transported with the harmony, stood still!
How oft in raptures, which man scarce could bear,
Have I, when gone, still thought the Muses there;
Still heard their music, and, as mute as Death,
Sat all attention, drew in ev'ry breath,
Lest, breathing all too rudely, I should wound,
And mar that magic excellence of sound:
Then, Sense returning with return of day,
Have chid the Night, which fled so fast away.
Such my pursuits, and such my joys of yore,
Such were my mates, but now my mates no more.
Plac'd out of Envy's walk, (for Envy sure
Would never haunt the cottage of the poor,
Would never stoop to wound my homespun lays)
With some few friends, and some small share of
Beneath oppression, undisturb'd by strife, [praise,
peace I trod the humble vale of life.
Farewell these scenes of ease, this tranquil state;
Welcome the troubles which on empire wait.
Light toys from this day forth I disavow,
They pleas'd me once, but camot suit ine now;
To common men all common things are free,
What honours them might fix disgrace on me.
Call'd to a throne, and o'er a mighty land
Ordain'd to rule, my head, my heart, my hand
Are all engross'd, each private view withstood,
And task'd to labour for the public good;
Be this my study, to this one great end
May ev'ry thought, may ev'ry action tend.
Let me the page of History turn o'er,
Th' instructive page, and heedfully explore
What faithful pens of former times have wrote
Of former kings; what they did worthy note,
What worthy blame; and from the sacred tonıb
Whererighteous monarchs sleep,where laurels bloom

In

Unhurt by time, let me a garland twine,
Which, robbing not their fame, may add to mine.
Nor let me with a vain and idle eye
Glance o'er those scenes, and in a hurry fly
Quick as a post which travels day and night;
Nor let me dwell there, lur'd by false delight,
And, into barren theory betray'd,

Forget that monarchs are for action made.
When am'rous Spring, repairing all his charms,
Calls Nature forth from hoary Winter's arins,
Where, like a virgin to some letcher sold,
Three wretched months she lay benumb'd, and cold;
When the weak flow'r, which, shrinking from the
breath

Of the rude North, and timorous of Death,
To its kind mother Earth for shelter fled,
And on her bosom hid its tender head,
Peeps forth afresh, and, cheer'd by milder skies,
Bids in full splendour all her beauties rise;
The hive is up in arms-expert to teach,
Nor, proudly, to be taught unwilling, each
Seems from her fellow a new zeal to catch:
Strength in her limbs, and on her wings dispatch,
The bee goes forth; from herb to herb she flies,
From flow'r to flow'r, and loads her lab'ring thighs
With treasur'd sweets; robbing those flow'rs, which
left,

Find not themselves made poorer by the theft,
Their scents as lively, and their looks as fair,
As if the pillager had not been there.
Ne'er doth she flit on Pleasure's silken wing,
Ne'er doth she, loit'ring, let the bloom of Spring
Unrifled pass, and on the downy breast
Of some fair flow'r indulge untimely rest.
Ne'er doth she, drinking deep of those rich dews
Which chymist Night prepar'd, that faith abuse
Due to the hive, and, selfish in her toils,
To her own private use convert the spoils.
Love of the stock first call'd her forth to roam,
And to the stock she brings her booty home.
Be this my pattern-As becomes a king,
Let me by all abroad on Reason's wing;
Let mine eye, like the lightning, through the Earth
Run to and fro, nor let one deed of worth,
In any place and time, nor let one man
Whose actions may enrich dominion's plan,
Escape my note: be all, from the first day
Of Nature to this hour, be all my prey.
From those, whom Time at the desire of Fame
Hath spar'd, let. Virtue catch an equal flame;
From t. ese, who not in mercy, but in rage,
Time hath repriev'd to damn from age to age,
Let me take warning, lesson'd to distill,
And, imitating Heav'n, draw good from ill.
Nor let these great researches in my breast
A monument of useless labour rest ;
No-let them spread-th' effects let Gotham
And reap the harvest of their monarch's care:
Be other times and other countries known,
Only to give fresh blessings to my own.

Let me (and may that God to whom I fly,
On whom for needful succour I rely
In this great hour, that glorious God of truth!
Through whom I reign, in mercy to my youth
Assist my weakness, and direct me right;
From ev'ry speck which hangs upon the sight
Purge my mind's eye, nor let one cloud rema'n
To spread the shades of errour o'er my brain)
Let me, impartial, with unwearied thought
Try men and things; let me, as monarchs ought,

Examine well on what my pow'r depends;
What are the gen'ral principles and ends
Of government; how empire first began;
And wherefore man was rais'd to reign o'er man.
Let me consider, as from one great source
We see a thousand rivers take their course,
Dispers'd, and into diff'rent channels led,
Yet by their parent still supply'd and fed,
That government,(though branch'd out far and wide,
In various modes to various lands apply'd)
Howe'er it differs in its outward frame,

In the main groundwork's ev'ry where the same;
The same her view, though different her plan,
Her grand and gen'ral view the good of man.

Let me find out, by Reason's sacred beams,
What system in itself most perfect seems,
Most worthy man, most likely to conduce
To all the purposes of gen'ral use:
Let me find, too, where, by fair Reason try'd,
It fails when to particulars apply'd;
Why in that mode all nations do not join,
And, chiefly, why it cannot suit with mine.

Let me the gradual rise of empires trace,
Till they seen founded on Perfection's base;
Then (for when human things have made their way
To excellence they hasten to decay)
Let me, whilst Observation lends her clue,
Step by step to their quick decline pursue,
Enabled by a chain of facts to tell,

Not only how they rose, but how they fell.

Let me not only the distempers know
Which in all states from common causes grow,
But likewise those which, by the will of Fate,
On each peculiar mode of empire wait;
Which in its very constitution lurk,
Too sure at last to do its destin'd work:

Let me, forewarn'd, each sign, each system learn,
That I my people's danger may discern,
Ere 'tis too late wish'd health to reassure,
And, if it can be found, find out a cure.

Let me, (though great grave brethren of the gown Preach all faith up, and preach all reason down, Making those jar whom Reason meant to join, And vesting in themselves a right divine)

Let me through Reason's glass, with searching eye, Into the depth of that religion pry

Which law hath sanction'd; let me find out there What's form, what's essence; what, like vagrant air,

We well may change; and what, without a crime,
Cannot be chang'd to the last hour of time;
Nor let me suffer that outrageous zeal
Which without knowledge furious bigots feel,
Fair in pretence, though at the heart unsound,
These sep'rate points at random to confound.
The times have been when priests have dar'd to
tread,

Proud and insulting, on their monarch's head;
When whilst they made religion a pretence,
Out of the world they banish'd common sense;
When some soft king, too open to deceit,
Easy and unsuspecting join'd the cheat,
Dup'd by mock piety, and gave his name
To serve the vilest purposes of shame.
Fear not, my people! where no cause of fear
Can justly rise-your king secures you here;
Your king, who scorns the haughty prelate's nod,
Nor deems the voice of priests the voice of God.

Let me, (though lawyers may perhaps forbid
Their monarch to behold what they wish hid,

And for the purposes of knavish gain,
Would have their trade a mystery remain)
Let me, disdaining all such slavish awe,
Dive to the very bottom of the law;
Let me (the weak dead letter left behind)
Search out the principles, the spirit find,
Till from the parts made master of the whole,
I see the Constitution's very soul.

Let me (though statesmen will no doubt resist,
And to my eyes present a fearful list
Of men whose wills are opposite to mine,
Of men, great men! determin'd to resign)
Let me (with firmness, which becomes a king,
Conscious from what a source my actions spring,
Determin'd not by worlds to be withstood,
When my grand object is my country's good)
Unravel all low ministerial scenes,

Destroy their jobs, lay bare their ways and means,
And trap them step by step; let me well know
How places, pensions, and preferments, go;
Why guilt's provided for when worth is not,
And why one man of merit is forgot;
Let me in peace, in war, supreme preside,
And dare to know my way without a guide.

Let me, (though Dignity, by nature proud,
Retires from view, and swells behind a cloud,
As if the Sun shone with less pow'rful ray,
Less grace, less glory, shining ev'ry day,
Though when she comes forth into public sight,
Unbending as a ghost she stalks upright,
With such an air as we have often seen,
And often laugh'd at in a tragic queen,
Nor at her presence, though base myriads crook
The supple knee, vouchsafes a single look)
Let me (all vain parade, all empty pride,
All terrours of dominion laid aside,

All ornament, and needless helps of art,

All those big looks which speak a little heart)
Know (which few kings, alas! have ever known)
How Affability becomes a throne,

Destroys all fear, bids Love with Rev'rence live,
And gives those graces Pride can never give.
Let the stern tyrant keep a distant state,
And, hating all men, fear return of hate,
Conscious of guilt, retreat behind his throne,
Secure from all upbraidings but his own:
Let all my subjects have access to me,
Be my ears open as my heart is free;
In full fair tide let information flow;
That evil is half cur'd whose cause we know.

And thou, where'er thou art, thou wretched thing!
Who art afraid to look up to a king,
Lay by thy fears-make but thy grievance plain,
Aud, if I not redress thee, may my reign
Close up that very moment-To prevent
The course of Justice from her fair intent,
In vain my nearest, dearest friend shall plead,
In vain my mother kneel-my soul may bleed,
But must not change-When Justice draws the dart,
Though it is doom'd to pierce a favourite's heart,
'Tis mine to give it force, to give it aim-
I know it duty, and feel it fame.

THE CANDIDATE.

Exovan of actors-let them play the play'r,
And, free from censure, fret, sweat, strut, and stare.
Garrick abroad, what motives can engage

To waste one couplet on a barren stage?

Ungrateful Garrick! When these tasty days,
In justice to themselves, allow'd thee praise;
When, at thy bidding, Sense, for twenty years,
Indulg'd in laughter, or dissolv'd in tears;
When, in return for labour, time, and health,
The town had giv'n some little share of wealth,
Could'st thou repine at being still a s'ave?
Dar'st thou presume t' enjoy that wealth she gave?
Could'st thou repine at laws ordain'd by those,
Whom nothing but thy merit made thy foes;
Whom, too refin'd for honesty and trade,

By Need made tradesmen, Pride had bankrupts made;

Whom Fear made drunkards, and by modern rules,
Whom Drink made wits, though Nature made them
With such, beyond all pardon is thy crime, [fools?
In such a manner, and at such a time,
To quit the stage; but men of real sense,
Who neither lightly give nor take offence,
Shall own thee clear, or pass an act of grace,
Since thou hast left a Powell in thy place.

Enough of authors-Why, when scribblers fail, Must other scribblers spread the hateful tale? Why must they pity, why contempt express, And why insult a brother in distress?

Let those, who boast th' uncommon gift of brains,
The laurel pluck, and wear it for their pains;
Fresh on their brows for ages let it bloom,
And, ages past, still flourish round their tomb.
Let those, who without genius write, and write,
Versemen or prosemen, all in Nature's spite,
The pen laid down, their course of folly run
In peace, unread, unmention'd, be undone.
Why should I tell, to cross the will of Fate,
That Francis once endeavour'd to translate?
Why, sweet oblivion winding round his head,
Should I recall poor Murphy from the dead?
Why may not Langhorne, simple in his lay,
Effusion on effusion pour away 2;
With friendship and with fancy trifle here,
Or sleep in pastoral at Belvedere 3?

Sleep let them all, with Dullness on her throne,
Secure from any malice but their own.

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Enough of critics-let them, if they please, Fond of new pomp, each month pass new decrees; Wide and extensive be their infant state, Their subjects many, and those subjects great, Whilst all their mandates as sound law succeed, With fools who write, and greater fools who read. What though they lay the realms of Genius waste, Fetter the fancy, and debauch the taste; Though they, like doctors, to approve their skill, Consult not how to cure, but how to kill; Though by whim, envy, or resentment led, They damn those authors whom they never read; Though, other rules unknown, one rule they hold, To deal out so much praise for so much gold; Though Scot with See, in damned close intrigues, Against the commonwealth of letters leagues; Uncensur'd let them pilot at the helm, And rule in letters, as they rul'd the realm. Ours be the curse, the mean tame coward's curse, (Nor could ingenious Malice make a worse,

Dr. Philip Francis, the translator of Horace and Demosthenes.

* See the Effusions of Friendship and Fancy, by Dr. Langhorne, 2 vols. 12mo. 1763.

3 See the Enlargement of the Mind, Langhorne's

poems.

To do our sense and honour deep despite) To credit what they say, read what they write. Enough of Scotland-let her rest in peace, The cause remov'd, effects of course should cease. Why should I tell, how Tweed, too mighty grown, And proudly swell'd with waters not his own, Burst o'er his banks, and by destruction led, | O'er our faint England desolation spread, Whilst riding on his waves, Ambition, plum'd In tenfold pride, the port of Bute assum'd, Now that the river god, convine'd, though late, And yielding, though reluctantly, to Fate, Holds his fair course, and with more humble tides, In tribute to the sea, as usual, glides. Enough of states, and such-like trifling things; Enough of kinglings, and enough of kings; Henceforth, secure, let ambush'd statesmen lie, Spread the court web, and catch the patriot fly; Henceforth, unwhipt of Justice, uncontrol'd By fear or shame, let Vice, secure and bold, Lord it with all her sons, whilst Virtue's groan Meets with compassion only from the throne. Enough of patriots-all I ask of man,

Is only to be honest as he can.

Some have deceiv'd, and some may still deceive;
'Tis the fool's curse at random to believe.
Would those, who, by opinion plac'd on high,
Stand fair and perfect in their country's eye,
Maintain that honour, let me in their ear
Hint this essential doctrine-persevere.
Should they (which Heav'n forbid) to win the grace
Of some proud courtier, or to gain the place,
Their king and country fell, with endless shame
Th' avenging Muse shall mark each traitorous name;
But if, to Honour true, they scorn to bend,
And, proudly honest, hold out to the end,
Their grateful country shall their fame record,
And I myself descend to praise a lord.

Enough of Wakes-with good and honest men
His actions speak much stronger than my pen,
And future ages shall his name adore,
When he can act, and I can write no more.
England may prove ungrateful and unjust,
But fost'ring France shall ne'er betray her trust;
'Tis a brave debt which gods on men impose,
To pay with praise the merit e'en of foes.
When the great warrior of Amilcar's race
Made Rome's wide empire tremble to her base,
To prove her virtue, though it gall'd her pride,
Rome gave that fame which Carthage had deny 'd.
Enough of self-that darling luscious theme,
O'er which philosophers in raptures dream;
Of which with seeming disregard they write,
Then prizing most, when most they seem to slight;
Vain proof of folly tinctur'd strong with pride!
What man can from himself himself divide?
For me, (nor dare I lie) my leading aim
(Conscience first satisfied) is love of fame.
Some little fame deriv'd from some brave few,
Who prizing Honour, prize her vot'ries too.
Let all (nor shall resentment flush my cheek)
Who know me well, what they know, freely speak,
So those (the greatest curse I meet below)
Who know me not, may not pretend to know.
Let none of those, whom bless'd with parts above
My feeble genius, still I dare to love,
Doing more mischief than a thousand foes,
Fosthumous nonsense to the world expose,
And call it mine, for mine though never known,
Or which, if mine, I Lving blush'd to own.

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