Weather all storms, which jealous Hate
Or frantic Malice may create.
'Tis Conscience, a reward alone,
Conscience, who plac'd on Virtue's throne,
Eyes raging men, or raging seas,
Undaunted, firm, with heart at ease.

From her dark cave, though Envy rise
With hollow cheeks, and jaundic'd eyes,
Though Hatred league with Polly vain,
And Spleen and Rancour join the train;
Shall Virtue shrink, abash'd, afraid,
And tremble at an idle shade?
Fear works upon the fool, or knave,
An honest man is always brave.
While Opposition's fruitless aim
Is as the bellows to the flame,
And, like a pagan persecution,
Enforces faith and resolution.

Though Prejudice in narrow minds, The mental eye of reason blinds;

Though Wit, which not e'en friends will spare,
Affect the sneering, laughing air,
Though Dullness, in her monkish gown,
Display the wisdom of a frown,
Yet Truth, will force herself in spite
Of all their efforts, into light.

See bigot monks in Spain prevail,
See Galilæo dragg'd to jail:

Hear the grave doctors of the schools,
The Golgotha of learned fools,
As damnable and impious brand
That art they cannot understand,
And out of zeal pervert the Bible,
As if it were a standing libel,
On every good and useful plan
That rises in the brain of man.

O Bigotry! whose frantic rage
Has blotted half the classic page,
And in Religion's drunken fit,
Murder'd the Greek and Roman wit;
Who zealous for that Faith's increase,
Whose ways are righteousness and peace,
With rods and whips, and sword and axe,
With prisons, tortures, flames and racks,
With Persecution's fiery goad,
Enforcing some new-fangl'd mode,

Wouldst pluck down Reason from her throne
To raise some phantom of thy own;
Alas! the fury undiscerning,

Which blasts, and stunts, and hews up learning,
Like an ill-judging zealous friend,
Blasphemes that wisdom you defend.

Go, kick the prostituted whores,
The nine stale virgins out of doors;
For let the abbess beat her drum,
Eleven thousand troops shall conie;
All female forms, aud virgins true,
As ever saint or poet knew.

And glorious be the honour'd name
Of Winifrede, of sainted fame,
Who to the church like light'ning sped,
And ran three miles without her head;
(Well might the modest lady run,
Since 'twas to keep her maiden one)
And when before the congregation
The prince fell dead for reparation,
Secure of life as well as honour,

Ran back with both her heads upon her.
No matter of what shape or size,

Gulp down the legendary lies,

Believe, what neither God ordains, -
Nor Christ allows, nor sense maintains;
Make saint of pope, or saint of thief,
Believe almost in unbelief;
Yet with thy solemn priestly air,
By book and bell, and candle swear,
That God has made his own elect
But from your stem and favourite sect;
That he who made the world, has blest
One part alone, to damn the rest,

As if th' Allmerciful and Just,
Who form'd us of one common dust,
Had render'd up his own decree,
And lent his attributes to thee,

Thus his own eyes the bigot blinds,
To shut out light from human minds,
And the clear truth (an emanation
From the great Author of creation,
A beam transmitted from on high,
To bring us nearer to the sky,
While ev'ry path by Science trod,
Leads us with wonder up to God,)
Is doom'd by ignorance to make
Atonement at the martyr's stake;
Though, like pure gold, th' illustrious dame,
Comes forth the brighter from the flame
No persecution will avail;

No inquisition racks, nor jail;

When learning's more enlight'ned ray
Shall drive these sickly fogs away;
A thankful age shall pay her more,
Than all her troubles hurt before.
See shame and scorn await on those
Who poorly dar'd to be her foes,
But will the grateful voice of Fame
Sink truth, and Galilæo's name?

How wilful, obstinate, and blind,
Are the main herd of human kind!
Well said the wit, who well had tried
That malice which his parts defied;
When merit's sun begins to break,
The dunces stretch, and strive to wake,
And amity of dunce with dunce,
Fingers out genius all at once.
As you may find the honey out,
By seeing all the flies about.
All ugly women hate a toast;

The goodliest fruit is pick'd the most;
The ivy winds about the oak,
And to the fairest comes the smoke.

Escap'd the dangers of the deep,
When Guiliyer fell fast asleep,
Stretch'd on the Lilliputian strand,
A giant in a pigmy land;

Watchful against impending harms,
All Lilliput cried out, "To arms;"
The trumpets echoed all around,
The captain slept exceeding sound,
Though crowds of undistinguish'd size,
Assail'd his body, legs, and thighs,
While clouds of arrows flew apace,
And fell like feathers on his face.

THE WHIM.

AN EPISTLE TO MR. W. WOTTY.

THE praise of genius will offend
A foe no doubt, sometimes a friend;

But curse on genius, wit, and parts;
The thirst of science, love of arts,
If inconsistent with the plan
Of social good from man to man.

For me, who will, may wear the bays,
I value not such idle praise:
Let wrangling wits abuse, defame,
And quarrel for an empty name,
What's in this shuffling pace of rhyme,
Or grand pas stride of stiff sublime,
That Vanity her trump should blow,
And look with scorn on folks below?
Are wit and folly close ally'd,
And match'd, like poverty, with pride?
When rival bards for fame contend,
The poet often spoils the friend;
Genius self-center'd feels alone
That merit he esteems his own,
And cold, o'er-jealous, and severe,
Hates, like a Turk, a brother near;
Malice steps in, good nature flies,
Folly prevails, and friendship dies.
Peace to all such, if peace can dwell
With those who bear about a hell,
Who blast all worth with envy's breath,
By their own feelings stung to death.
None but a weak and brainless fool,
Undisciplin'd in fortune's school,
Can hope for favours from the wit;
He pleads prescription to forget,
Unnotic'd let him live or rot,
And, as forgetful, be forgot,

Most wags, whose pleasure is to smoke,
Would rather lose their friend, thau joke;
A man in rags looks something queer,
And there's vast humour in a sneer;
That jest, alike all witlings suits,
Which lies no further than the boots,
Give me the man whose open mind
Means social good to all mankind;

Who when his friend, from fortune's round,
Is toppled headlong to the ground,
Can meet him with a warm embrace,
And wipe the tear from sorrow's face;
Who, not self-taught and proudly wise,
Seeks more to comfort than advise,
Who less intent to shine than please,
Wears his own mirth with native ease,
And is from sense, from Nature's plan,
The jovial guest, the honest man;
In short, whose picture, painted true,
In ev'ry point resembles
you.

And will my friend for once excuse
This off'ring of a lazy Muse?
Most lazy, lest you think her not,
I'll draw her picture on the spot.
A perfect ease the dame enjoys;
Three chairs her indolence employs:
On one she squats her cushion'd bum,

Which would not rise, though kings should come;
An arm lolls dangling o'er another,

A leg lies couchant on its brother.
To make her look supremely wise,
At least like wisdom in disguise,

The weed, which first by Raleigh brought,
Gives thinking look instead of thought,

She smokes, and smokes; without all feeling,

Save as the eddies climb the cieling,
And waft about their mild perfume,

She marks their passage round the room.

When pipe forsakes the vacant mouth,
A pot of beer prevents her drowth,
Which with potations pottle deep

Lulls the poor maudlin Muse to sleep.
Her books of which sh'as wond'rous need,
But neither pow'r nor will to read,
In scatter'd tomes lie all around
Upon the lowest shelf-the ground.

Such ease no doubt suits easy rhyme;
Folks walk about who write sublime,
While Recitation's pompous sound
Drawls words sonorous all around,
And Action waves her hand and head,
As those who bread and butter spread.
You bards who feel not fancy's dearth,
Who strike the roof, and kick the earth,
Whose Muse superlatively high
Takes lodgings always near the sky;
And like the lark with daring flight
Still soars and sings beyond our sight;
May trumpet forth your grand sublime
And scorn our lazy lounging rhyme.
Yet though the lark in ether floats,
And trills no doubt diviner notes,
Carelesly perch'd on yonder spray,
The linnet sings a pretty lay.

What horrid, what tremendous sight
Shakes all my fabric with affright!
With Argus' hundred eyes he marks,
With triple mouth the monster barks;
And while he scatters flaming brands
Briareus lends him all his hands.

Hist! 'tis a critic.-Yes-'tis he
What would your graceless form with me?
It is t' upbraid me with the crime
Of spinning unlaborious rhyme,
Of stringing various thoughts together
In verse, or prose, or both, or neither?
A vein, which though it must offend
You lofty sirs who can't descend,
To fame has often made its way
From Butler, Prior, Swift, and Gay;
Is it for this your brow austere
Frowns me to stone for very fear?
Hear my just reason first, and then
Approve me right, or split my pen.

I seek not by more labour'd lays
To catch the slipp'ry tail of praise,
Nor will I run a mad career
'Gainst genius which I most revere;
When Phoebus bursts with genuine fire,
The little stars at once retire;
Who cares a farthing for those lays
Which you can neither blame, nor praise?
I cannot match a Churchill's skill,
But may be Langhorne when I will:

Let the mere mimic, for each season bears
Your mimic bards as well as mimic play'rs,
Creep servilely along, and with dull pains
Lash his slow steed, in whose enfeebled veins
The cold blood lags, let him with fruitless aim
By borrow'd plumes assume a borrow'd fame,
With studied forms th' incautious car beguile,
And ape the numbers of a Churchill's style.
Slaves may some fame from imitation hope;
Who'd be Paul Whitehead, tho' he honours Pope?
If clinking couplets in one endless chime
Be the sole beauty, and the praise of rhyme;
If found alone an easy triumph gains,

While Fancy bleeds, and Sense is hung in chains,

Ye happy triflers hail the rising mode;
See, all Parnassus is a turnpike road,
Where each may travel in the highway track
On true bred hunter, or on common hack,
who labour with poetic sin,

For me,
Who often woo the Muse I cannot win,
Whom pleasure first a willing poet made,
And folly spoilt by taking up the trade,
Pleas'd I behold superior genius shine,
Nor ting'd with envy wish that genius mine.

To Churchill's Muse can bow with decent awe,
Admire his mode, nor make that mode my law:
Both may, perhaps, have various pow'rs to pleas e
Be his the strength of numbers, mine the ease,
Ease that rejects not, but betrays no care:
Less of the coxcomb than the sloven's air.

Your taste, as mine, all metre must offend
When imitation is its only end.

I could perhaps that servile task pursue,
And copy Churchill as I'd copy you,

But that my flippant Muse, too saucy grown,
Prefers that manner she can call her own.

ODE TO GENIUS.

THOU child of Nature, Genius strong,
Thou master of the poet's song,
Before whose light, Art's dim and feeble ray
Gleams like the taper in the blaze of day:
Thou lov'st to steal along the secret shade,

Where Fancy, bright aërial maid!
Awaits thee with her thousand charms,
And revels in thy wanton arms;
She to thy bed, in days of yore,
The sweetly-warbling Shakspeare bore;
Whom every Muse endow'd with every skill,
And dipt him in that sacred rill,
Whose silver streams flow musical along,
Where Phoebus' hallow'd mount resounds with
raptur'd song.

Forsake not thou the vocal choir,
Their breasts revisit with thy genial fire,
Else vain the studied sounds of mimic art,
Tickle the car, but come not near the heart.
Vain every phrase in curious order set,

On each side leaning on the [stop-gap] epithet.
Vain the quick rhyme, still tinkling in the close,
While pure description shines in measur'd prose,

dain,

Thou bear'st aloof, and look'st with high disUpon the dull mechanic train; Whose nerveless strains flag on in languid tone, Lifeless and lumpish as the bagpipe's drowzy

drone.

No longer now thy altars blaze,

No poet offers up his lays;

Inspir'd with energy divine,

To worship at thy sacred shrine.
Since Taste', with absolute domain,
Extending wide her leaden reign,
Kills with her melancholy shade,

The blooming seyons of fair Fancy's tree;
Which erst full wantonly have stray'd

In many a wreath of richest poesie.

By Taste, is here meant the modern affectation of it.

[ventus,

EST Schola rhetorices, celebrat quam crebra ju-
Et tumido inflatos ejicit ore sonos.
Quà quisque assumit tragicas novus histrio partes,
Nec loquitur, verbum quin sapit omne, pathos.
Ingenia hic crescunt, mox successura theatris,
Regis, amatoris, prompta subire vices.
Multus ibi furiis Macbetha agitatus iniquis,
Elusâ telum prendit inane manu.

Multus ibi, infuscat cui vultus suber adustum
Immodicis sævit raucus Othello minis.
Omnia queis tragicis opus est, hic arma parantur;
Auribus insidiæ sunt, oculisque suæ:
Conatus manuumque, pedumque, orisque rotundi,
Certatim et vultus vis, laterumque labor.

Quam sibi, dum gestu stat fixus quisque silenti,
Quam placet a speculo forma reflexa sui!
Hac studeant, cordi quibus ars et pompa theatri !
Non tamen est nobis inde petendus honor.
Ingenua ut pubes vultum sibi sumat apertum,
Et sensim assuescat fortius ore loqui;
Ne dubiis tandem verba eluctantia labris
Occludat timidus præpediatque pudor,
Ingredimur scenam; nec clam vos, docta corona,
Commoda ab hoc tenui quanta labore fluant.
Hinc sapere et fari discit generosa juventus,
Dum pavida accendit pectora laudis amor.
Freti his, majorem mox ingrediemur arenam ;
Hic stabilita vigent curia, rostra, forum.

-Heus! nemòn' audit?-fac sursum aulea trahantur!

-En! qualis qualis sit, nova scena patet. En Illæ, quas vos semper coluistis, Athenæ,

Gratia quas voluit, quas sibi Musa domum. Hic sese ostendunt prisci monumenta laboris, Queis usa est modulis Vitruviana manus; Hic stat Ventorum, Thesei hic venerabile Fanum, Hic arce in summâ, Casta Minerva tuum. Omnia jam votis respondent. Attica jam sunt Omnia. Persona, fabula, scena, sales. Quoque etiam magis hæ nostræ lætentur Athenæ, Cecropidas jactant vos, recoluntque suos.

PROLOGUS. IN ADELPHOS. 1759. CUM patres populumque dolor communis haberet, Fleret et Æmilium Maxima Roma suum, Funebres inter ludos, bis dicitur ipsis

Scenis extinctum condecorâsse ducem. Ecquis adest, scenam nocte hâc qui spectet eanNec nobis luctum sentiet esse parem? [dem, Utcunque arrisit pulchris victoria cæptis, Quà Sol extremas visit uterque plagas, Successus etiam medio de fonte Britannis

Surgit amari aliquid, legitimusque dolor. Si famæ generosa sitis, si bellica virtus, Ingenium felix, intemerata fides, Difficiles laurus, ipsoque in flore juventæ Heu! nimium lethi præcipitata dies, Si quid habent pulchrum hæc, vel si quid amabile, Esto tua hæc, Wolfi, laus, propriumque decus. Nec moriere omnis-2uin usque corona vigebit,

[jure

Unanimis Britonûm quam tibi nectit amor. Regia quin pietas marmor tibi nobile ponet, Quod tua perpetuis prædicet acta notis. Confluet huc studio visendi martia pubes, Sentiet et flammâ corda calere pari; Dumque legit mediis cecidisse heroa triumphis, Dicet, sic detur vincere, sic moriar.

EPILOGUS IN ADELPHOS. 1759.

SYRUS LOQUITUR.

QUANTA intus turba est! quanto molimine sudat, Accinctus cuitro et forcipe, quisque coquus! Monstrum informe maris-Testudo-in prandia fertur,

Quæ, varia, et simplex, omnia sola sapit. Pullina esca placet?-vitulina?-suilla?-bovina? Præsto est. Hæc quadrupes singula pisces habet. De gente Æthiopum conducitur Archimagirus,

Qui secet, et coquat, et concoquat, arte novâ. Qui doctè contundat aromata; misceat aptè

Thus, apium, thyma, sal, cinnama, cepe, piper, 2ui jecur et pulmonem in frusta minutula scindat, Curetque ut penitus sint saturata mero. Multo ut ventriculus pulchré flavescat ab ovo; Ut tremulus, circum viscera, vernet adeps. His rité instructis conchæ sint fercula! nam tu, Testudo! et patinis suflicis, atque cibo. Quám cuperem in laudes utriusque excurrere conSed vereor Calipash dicere-vel Calipee. [chæ! Vos etiam ad cænam mecum appellare juvaret,

Vellem et rellicuas participare dapum. At sunt convivæ tam multi, tamque gulosi, Restabit, metuo, nil nisi concha mihi.

RECTE STATUIT BAXTERUS DE SOMNI-
ORUM PHÆNOMENIS.

CUM nox tellurem fuscis amplectitur alis,
Mabba atomos jungit celeres, et vecta per auras
Inchoat assuetos simulatrix regia ludos.
Huic auriga culex tortum quatit usque flagellum,
Acceleratque fugam tardis; retinacula currûs
Eruca sunt texta levis, radiique rotarum
Cruscula areneoli; currus, quem dente sciurus
Finxerat e coryli fructu, primæva vetustas
Hunc Mabbæ artificem memorat: sub nocte silenti
Hoc instructa modo egreditur, neque cernitur ulli.
Nonnunquam leviter cerebrum perstringit Amantis;
Somniat ille faces jaculari et vulnera ocellos,
Malarum labrique rosas, perfusaque collo
Lilia: mox Medici digitos titillat, avarus
Mercedis dextram qui pandit, et acritur aurum
Ter captat; ter vana manus eludit imago.
Nunc quoque sopitæ demulcet labra Puellæ ;
Somniat illa procum, pulvinoque oscula libans
Abseus absentem teneris amplectitur ulnis;
Væ tibi, si Lemurum videat regina colorem
Mentitum fuco, vultusque ex arte nitentes!
Præcipites aget ira manus, lacerabit acuto
Ungue genas, simul amissâ dulcedine somni,
Osculaque, et tenues vanescit amator in auras.
Ampla Sacerdotis nonnunquam transvolat ora;
Continuo rostrum conscendens hic thema trinas
Dividet in partes, exponendoque laborat,
Vel vigilem credas, adeo dormitat. Ad aures

Militis hinc migrat; turbatur imagine belli

Fortis eques, gemitusque audit, strepitusque, tubasque,

Exilit, et paulum trepidans, insomnia diris
Devovet, in lecto prolabitur,-obdormiscit.
Nunc rabulam palmâ mulcet, qui litibus aptus,
Defensoris agit causam, actorisque peritus,
Innectensque moras ad finem decipit ambos.
Sin casu visat facilis regina poetam,
Hunc sibi plaudentem deludit amabilis error,
Et riguos fontes, et amænos somniat hortos;
Cum vero vigil ille domum exploraverit omnem,
Viderit et tristis quam sit sibi curta supellex,
Quam vellet semper dormire!-Volubilis inde
Jnd ces invehitur trans nasum, et naribus illi
Enuncto subolet cansa. Interdum Dea fes:0,
Blanditur Servo, qui libertate vagatur,
Exultans redit at patriam carosque penates,
Et gremio uxoris longis amplexibus hæret.
Deinde rotâ strepitante fremit per colla Tyrann';
Umbrarum ante oculos surgit chorus, improbus

orco

Quas dedit insontes; fariis agitatur acerbis
Conscia mens, lectoque quies simul exulat. Inde
Si currus flectat, placidissima munera somni
Quà carpit Sceleris Purus; non territus ille
Spectrorum est cætu, et furiarum ultricibus iris,
Sed molli potitur requie, aut si somniat umbræ
Delectant oculos gratæ; prædulcis imago
Virtutis reficit mentem, et telure relictâ
Radit iter liquidem cæli, fruiturque deorum
Colloquio felix. O tu! quicunque beatum
Te velis, et tuto tranquillum carpere somnum;
I, pete, quo virtus ducit! ne vindice curru
Mabba ferox instet, vexentque cubilia curæ.
I, pete, quo virtus ducet! te numine molli
Mabba teget, radetque levi tua pectora curru.
In Comitiis Posteribus, Apr. 5, 1753.