Sense may they seek, and less engage
In papers fill'd with party rage:
But, if their riches spoil their vein,

Ye Muses, make them poor again!

Now bring the weapon, yonder blade, With which my tuneful pens are made.

I strike the scales that arm thee round,

And twice and thrice I print the wound; The sacred altar floats with red,

And now he dies-and now he's dead.

How like the son of Jove I stand, This Hydra stretch'd beneath my hand! Lay bare the monster's entrails here, To see what dangers threat the year: Ye gods! what sonnets on a wench! What lean translations out of French! 'Tis plain, this lobe is so unsound, Sprints before the months go round.

F 4

But hold-before I close the scene,

The sacred altar should be clean.
Oh, had I Shadwell's second bays,
Or, Tate, thy pert and humble lays!
(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow
I never miss'd your works till now)
I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine
(That only way you please the Nine);
But since I chance to want these two,
I'll make the songs of Durfey do.

Rent from the corps, on yonder pin
I hang the scales that brac'd it in;
I hang my studious morning gown,
And write my own inscription down:

"This trophy from the Python won, "This robe in which the deed was done, "These Parnell, glorying in the feat,

66

Hung on these shelves, the Muses' seat.

"Here Ignorance and Hunger found

"Large realms of Wit to ravage round;

"Here Ignorance, and Hunger fell, "Two foes in one, I sent to Hell! "Ye poets, who my labours see, "Come share the triumph all with me! "Ye critics! born to vex the Muse,

"To mourn the grand ally you lose."

EPISTLE

ΤΟ

A YOUNG GENTLEMAN, ON HIS LEAVING

SINCE

ETON SCHOOL.

BY DR. ROBERTS.

now a nobler scene awakes thy care,

Since manhood dawning, to fair Granta's tow'rs,
Where once in life's gay spring I lov'd to roam,
Invites thy willing steps; accept, dear youth,
This parting strain; accept the fervent pray'r
Of him who loves thee with a passion pure
As ever Friendship dropp'd in human heart;
The prayer, that he who guides the hand of youth
Through all the puzzled and perplexed round
Of life's meand'ring path, upon thy head

May shower down every blessing, every joy

Which health, which virtue, and which fame can give!

Yet think not I will deign to flatter thee:

Shall he, the guardian of thy faith and truth,

The guide, the pilot of thy tender years, Teach thy young heart to feel a spurious glow At undeserved praise? Perish the slave

Whose venal breath in youth's unpractis'd ear Pours poison'd flattery, and corrupts the soul With vain conceit; whose base ungenerous art Fawns on the vice, which some with honest hand Have torn for ever from the bleeding breast!

Say, gentle youth, remember'st thou the day
When o'er thy tender shoulders first I hung
The golden lyre, and taught thy trembling hand
To touch th' accordant strings? From that blest
hour

I've seen thee panting up the hill of fame;
Thy little heart beat high with honest praise,
Thy cheek was flush'd, and oft thy sparkling eye
Shot flames of young ambition. Never quench
That generous ardour in thy virtuous breast.
Sweet is the concord of harmonious sounds,
When the soft lute or pealing organ strikes
The well-attemper'd ear; sweet is the breath