To lovesick streams, dissolv'd in air;
Joy, who froın absence seem'd more fair,
Came smiling, freed from slavish Awe;
Loyalty, Liberty, and Law,
Impatient of the galling chain,

And yoke of Pow'r, resum'd their reign;
And burning with the glorious flame
Of public virtue, Mansfield came.

THE CONFERENCE.

GRACE said in form, which sceptics must agree,
When they are told that grace was said by me;.
The servants gone, to break the scurvy jest
On the proud landlord, and his thread-bare guest;
The "king" gone round, tay lady too withdrawn,
My Lord, in usual taste, began to yawn,
And lolling backward in his elbow-chair,
With an insipid kind of stupid stare,
Picking his teeth, twirling his seals about-
"Churchill, you have a poem coming out.
You've my best wishes; but I really fear
Your Muse in general is too severe;
Her spirit seems her int'rest to oppose,
And where she makes one friend, makes twenty foes."
C. Your lordship's fears are just, I feel their force,
But only feel it as a thing of coarse.
The man whose hardy spirit shall engage
To lash the vices of a guilty age,

At his first setting forward ought to know,
That ev'ry rogue he meets must be his foc;
That the rude breath of Satire will provoke
Many who feel, and more who fear the stroke,
But shall the partial rage of selfish men
From stubborn Justice wrench the righteous pen,
Or shall I not my settled course pursue,
Because my foes are foes to Virtue too?

L. What is this boasted Virtue, taught in schools,
And idly drawn froin antiquated rules?
What is her use? Point out one wholesome end:
Will she hurt foes, or can she make a friend?
When from long fasts fierce appetites arise,
Can this same Virtue stifle Nature's cries?
Can she the pittance of a meal afford,
Or bid thee welcome to one great man's board?
When northe winds the rough December arm
With f.ost and snow, can. Virtue keep thee warm?
Can'st thou dismiss the hard unfeeling dun
Barely by saying, thou ar. Virtue's son?

Or by base blund'ring statesmen sent to jail,
Will Manstield take this Virtue for thy bail?
Believe it not, the name is in disgrace,
Virtue and Temple now are out of place.

Quit then this meteor, whose delusive ray
From wealth and honour leads thee far astray.
True Virtue means, let Reason use her eyes,
Nothing with fools, and int'rest with the wise.
Would'st thou be great, her patronage disclaim,
Nor madly triumph in so mean a name:
Let nobler wreaths thy happy brows adorn,
And leave to Virtue poverty and scorn.
Let Prudence be thy guide; who doth not know
How seldom Prudence can with Virtue go?
To be successful try thy utmost force,
And Virtue follows as a thing of course.

Hirco, who knows not Hirco? stains the bed Of that kind master who first gave him bread,

Scatters the seeds of discord through the land, Breaks ev'ry public, ev'ry private band, Beholds with joy a trusting friend undone, Betrays a brother, and would cheat a son: What mortal in his senses can endure

The name of Hirco, for the wretch is poor! "Let him hang, drown, starve, on a dunghill rot, By all detested live, and die forgot;

Let him, a poor return, in ev'ry breath

Feel all Death's pains, yet be whole years in death," Is now the gen'ral cry we all pursue:

Let Fortune change, and Prudence changes too;
Supple and pliant a new system feels,

Throws up her cap, and spaniels at his heels;
"Long live great Hirco," cries, by int'rest taught,
"And let his foes, though I prove one, be nought."
C. Peace to such men, if such men can have peace,
Let their possessions, let their state increase;
Let their base services in courts strike root,
And in the season bring forth golden fruit;
I envy not: let those who have the will,
And, with so littie spirit, so much skill,
With such vile instruments their fortunes carve;
Rogues may grow fat, an honest man dares starve.
1. These stale conceits thrown off, let us advance
For once to real life, and quit romance.
Starve! pretty talking! but I fain would view
That man, that honest man, would do it too.
Bence to yon mountain which outbraves the sky,
And dart from pole to pole thy strengthen'd eye,
Through all that space you shall not view one man,
Not one, who dares to act on such a plan.
Cowards in calms will say, what in a storm
The brave will tremble at, and not perform.
Thine be the proof, and, spite of all you've said,
You'd give your honour for a crust of bread.

C. What proof might do, what hunger might effect,
What famish'd Nature, looking with neglect
On all she once held dcar, what fear, at strife
With fainting Virtue for the means of life,
Might make this coward flesh, in love with breath,
Shudd'ring at pain, and shrinking back from death,
In treason to my soul, descend to bear,
Trusting to Fate, I neither know nor care.

Once, at this hour those wounds afresh I feel, Which nor prosperity nor time can heal, Those wounds, which Fate severely hath decreed, Mention'd or thought of, must for ever bleed, Those wounds, which humbled all that pride of man, Which brings such mighty aid to Virtue's plan; Once, aw'd by Fortune's most oppressive frown, By legal rapine to the earth bow'd down, My credit at last gasp, my state undone, Trembling to meet the shock I could not shun, Virtue gave ground, and black despair prevail'd; Sinking beneath the storm, iny spirits fail'd, Like Peter's faith; till one, a friend indeed, May all distress find such in time of need! One kind good man, in act, in word, in thought, By Virtue guided, and by Wisdom taught, Image of him whom Christians should adore, Stretch'd forth his hand, and brought me safe to shore. Since, by good fortune into notice rais'd, And for some little merit largely prais'd, Indulg'd in swerving from prudential rules, Hated by rogues, and not belov'd by fools, Plac'd above want, shali abject thirst of wealth So fiercely war 'gainst my soul's dearest health, That, as a boon, I should base shackles crave, And, born to freedom, make myself a slave;

That I should in the train of those appear,
Whom Honour caunot love, nor Manhood fear?
That I no longer skulk from street to street,
Afraid lest duns assail, and bailiffs meet;
That I from place to place this carcass bear,
Walk forth at large, and wander free as air;
That I no longer dread the awkward friend,
Whose very obligations must offend,

Nor, all too forward, with impatience burn,
At suff'ring favours which I can't return;
That, from dependence and from pride secure,
I am not plac'd so high to scorn the poor,
Nor yet so low, that i my lord should fear,
Or hesitate to give him sneer for sneer;
That, whilst sage Prudence my pursuits confirms,
I can enjoy the world on equal terms;
That, kind to others, to myself most true,
Feeling no want, I comfort those who do,
And with the will have power to aid distress:
These, and what other blessings I possess,
From the indulgence of the public rise;
All private patronage my soul defies.
By candour more inclin'd to save, than dann,
A gen'rous PUSLIC made me what I am.
All that I have, they gave; just Mem'sy bears
The grateful stamp, and what I am is theirs.

L. To feign a red-hot zea! for Freedom's cause,
To mouth aloud for liberties and laws,
For public good to bellow all abroad,
Serves well the purposes of private fraud.
Prudence by public good intends her own;
If you mean otherwise, you stand alone.
What do we mean by country and by court?
What is it to oppose, what to support?
Mere words of course, and what is more absurd
Than to pay homage to an empty word?
Majors and minors differ but in name,
Patriots and ministers are much the same;
The only diff'rence, after all their rout,
Is, that the one is in, the other out.

Explore the dark recesses of the mind, In the soul's honest volume read mankind, And own, in wise and simple, great and small, The same grand leading principle in all. Whate'er we talk of wisdom to the wise, Of goodness to the good, of public ties Which to our country link, of private bands Which claim most dear attention at our hands, For parent and for child, for wife and friend, Our first great mover, and our last great end, Is one, and, by whatever name we call The ruling tyrant, Self, is all in all. This, which unwilling Faction shall admit, Guided in diff'rent ways a Bute and Pitt, Made tyrants break, made kings observe the law, And gave the world a Stuart and Nassau.

Hath Nature (strange and wild conceit of pride) Distinguish'd thee from all her sons beside? Doth virtue in thy bosom brighter glow, Or from a spring more pure doth action flow? Is not thy soul bound with those very chains Which shackle us; or is that Self, which reigns O'er kings and beggars, which in all we see Most strong and sov'reign, only weak in thee? Fond man, believe it not; experience tells 'Tis not thy virtue, but thy pride rebels. Think (and for once lay by thy lawless pen) Think, and confess thyself like other men; Think but one hour, and, to thy conscience led By Reason's hand, bow down and hang thy head;

Think on thy private life, recal thy youth,
View thyself now, and own with strictest truth,
That Self hath drawn thee from fair Virtue's way
Further than Folly would have dar'd to stray,
And that the talents lib'ral Nature gave
To make thee free, have made thee more a slave.
Quit then, in prudence quit, that idle train
Of toys, which have so long abus'd thy brain,
And captive led thy pow'rs; with boundless will
Let Self maintain her state and empire still,
But let aer, with more worthy objects caught,
Strain all the faculties and force of thought
To things of higher daring; let her range
Through better pastures, and learn how to change;
Let her, no longer to weak Faction tied,
Wisely revolt, and join our stronger side.

C. Ah! what, my lord, hath private life to do
With things of public nature? Why to view
Would you thus cruelly those scenes unfold,
Which, without pain and horrour to behold,
Must speak me something more or less than man;
Which friends may pardon, but I never can?
Look back! a thought which borders on despair,
Which human nature must, yet cannot bear.
"'is not the babbling of a busy world,
Where praise and censure are at random hurl'd,
Which can the meanest of my thoughts control,
Or shake one settled purpose of my soul.
Free and at large might their wild curses roam,
If all, if all, alas! were well at home,
No-'tis the tale which angry Conscience tells,
When she with more than tragic horrour swells
Each circumstance of guilt; when stern, but
true,

She brings bad actions forth into review;
And, like the dread hand-writing on the wall,
Bids late Remorse awake at Reason's call;
Arm'd at all points bids scorpion Vengeance pass,
And to the mind holds up Reflection's glass;
The mind, which, starting, heaves the heartfelt

groan,

And hates that form she knows to be her own.
Enough of this-let private sorrows rest—
As to the public I dare stard the test;
Dare proudly boast, I feel no wish above
The good of England, and my country's love.
Stranger to party-rage, by Reason's voice,
Unerring guide, directed in my choice,
Not all the tyrant pow'rs of Earth combin'd,
No, nor of Hell, shall make me change my mind.
What! herd with men my honest soul disdains,
Men who, with servile zeal, are forging chains
For Freedom's neck, and lend a helping hand,
To spread destruction o'er my native land.
What! shall I not, e'en to my latest breath,
In the full face of danger and of death,
Exert that little strength which Nature gave,
And boldly stem, or perish in the wave?

L. When I look backward for some fifty years,
And see protesting patriots turn to peers;
Hear men, most loose, for decency declaim,
And talk of character without a name;
See infidels assert the cause of God,
And meek divines wield Persecution's rod;
See men transform'd to brutes, and brutes to men,
See Whitehead' take a place, Ralph change his
pen,

Paul Whitehead.

2

James Ralph. See lord Melcombe's Diary.

I mock the zeal, and deem the men in sport,
Who rail at ministers, and curse a court.
Thee, haughty as thou art, and proud in rhyme,
Sha!! some preferment, offer'd at a time
When Virtue sleeps, some sacrifice to pride,
Or some fair victim, move to change thy side.
Thee shall these eyes behold, to health restor'd,
Using, as Prudence bids, bold Satire's sword,
Gailing thy present friends, and praising those,
Whom now thy frenzy holds thy greatest foes.
C. May I (can worse disgrace on manhood fall?)
Be born a Whitehead, and baptiz'd a Prul;
May I (though to his service deeply tied
By sacred oaths, and now by will allied)
With false feign'd zeal an injur'd God defend,
And use his name for some base private end;
May I (that thought bids double horrours roil
O'er my sick spirits, and unmans my soul)
Ruin the virtue which I held most dear,
And still must hold; may I, through abject fear,
Betray my friend; may to succeeding times,
Engrav'd on plates of adamant, my crimes
Stand blazing forth, whilst mark'd with envious blot,
Each little act of virtue is forgot;

Of all those evils which, to stamp men ours'd,
Hell keeps in store for vengeance, may the worst
Light on my head, and in my day of woe,
To make the cup of bitterness o'erflow,
May I be scorn'd by ev'ry man of worth,
Wander, like Cain, a vagabond on Earth,
Bearing about a Heli in my own mind,
Or be to Scotland for my life confin'd,
If I am one among the many known,
Whom Shelburne fled, and Calcraft blush'd to own.
L Do you reflect what men you make your foes?
C. I do, and that's the reason I oppose.
Friends I have made, whom Envy must commend,
But not one foe, whom I would wish a friend.
What if ten thousand Butes and Hollands bawl,
One Wilkes hath made a large amends for all.
'Tis not the title, whether handed down
From age to age, or flowing from the crown
In copious streams on recent men, who came
From stems unknown, and sires without a name;
'Tis not the star, which our great Edward gave
To mark the virtuous, and reward the brave,
Blazing without, whilst a base heart within
Is rotten to the core with filth and sin;
'Tis not the tinsel grandeur, taught to wait,
At Custom's call, to mark a fool of state
From fools of lesser note, that soul can awe
Whose pride is reason, whose defence is law.
L. Suppose (a thing scarce possible in art,
Were it thy cue to play a common part;)
Suppose thy writings so well fene'd in law,
That Norton 3 cannot find, nor make a flaw,
Hast thou not heard, that 'mongst our ancient tribes,
By party warpt, or lull'd asleep by bribes,
Or trembling at the ruffian hand of Force,
Law hath suspended stood, or chang'd its course?
Art thou assur'd, that, for destruction ripe,
Thou may'st not smart beneath the self-same gripe?
What sanction hast thou, frantic in thy rhymes,
Thy life, thy freedom to secure?.........

......C. The times. 'Tis not on law, a system great and good, By wisdom penn'd, and bought by noblest blood,

Sir Fletcher Norton, attorney-general.

Ny faith relies: by wicked men and vain,
Law, once abus'd, may be abus'd again.
No, on our great Law-giver I depend,

Who knows and guides her to her proper end;
Whose royalty of nature blazes out

So fierce, 'twere sin to entertain a doubt-
Did tyrant Stuarts now the laws dispense,
(Best be the hour and hand which sent them
hence)

For something, or for nothing, for a word,
Or thought, I might be doom'd to death, unheard.
Life we might all resign to lawless pow'r,
Nor think it worth the purchase of an hour;
But Envy ne'er shall fix so foul a stain
On the fair annals of a Brunswick's reign.
If, slave to party, to revenge, or pride,
If, by frail human errour drawn aside,
I break the law,, strict rigour let her wear;
'Tis her's to punish, and 'tis mine to bear;
Nor by the voice of Justice doom'd to death,
Would I ask mercy with my latest breath.
But, anxious only for my country's good,
in which my king's, of course, is understood;
Form'd on a plan with some few patriot friends,
Whilst by just means I aim at noblest ends,
My spirits cannot sink; though from the tomb
Stern. Jeffries should be plac'd in Mansfield's room;
Though he should bring, his base designs to aid,
Some black attorney, for his purpose made,
And shove, whilst Decency and Law retreat,
The modest Norton from his maiden seat;
Though both, in all confed'rates, should agree,
In damned league, to torture law and me,
Whilst George is king, I cannot fear endure;
Not to be guilty, is to be secure.

But when, in after-times, (be far remov'd
That day) our monarch, glorious and belov'd,
Sleeps with his fathers, should imperious Fate,
In vengeance, with fresh Stuarts curse our state;
Should they, o'erleaping ev'ry fence of law,
Butcher the brave to keep tame fools in awe;
Should they, by brutal and oppressive force,
Divert sweet Justice from her even course;
Should they, of ev'ry other means bereft,
Make my right-hand a witness 'gainst my left;
Should they, abroad by Inquisitions taught,
Search out my soul, and damn me for a thought;
Still would I keep my course, still speak, still
write,

Till Death had plung'd me in the shades of night.
Thou God of Truth, thou great, all-searching eye,
To whom our thoughts, our spirits open lie,
Grant me thy strength, and in that needful hour,
(Should it e'er come) when Law submits to Pow'r,
With firm resolve my steady bosom steel,
Bravely to suffer, though I deeply feel.

Let me, as hitherto, still draw my breath,
In love with life, but not in fear of death;
And, if Oppression brings me to the grave,
And marks me dead, she ne'er shall mark a slave.
Let no unworthy marks of grief be heard,
No wild laments, not one unseemly word;
Let sober triumphs wait upon my bier,

I won't forgive that friend who drops one tear.
Whether he's ravish'd in life's early morn,
Or, in old age, drops like an ear of corn,
Full ripe he fails, on Nature's noblest plan,
Who lives to Reason, and who dies a Man.

THE AUTHOR.

ACCURS'D the man, whom Fate ordains in spite,
And cruel parents teach, to read and write!
What need of letters? Wherefore should we spell?
Why write our names? A mark will do as well.

Much are the precious hours of youth misspent,
In climbing Learning's rugged steep ascent;
When to the top the bold advent'rer's got,
He reigns, vain monarch, o'er a barren spot,
Whilst in the vale of Ignorance below,
Folly and Vice to rank luxuriance grow;
Honours and wealth pour in on ev'ry side,
And proud Preferment rolls her golden tide.

O'er crabbed authors life's gay prime to waste, To cramp wild genius in the chains of taste, To bear the slavish drudgery of schools, And tamely stoop to ev'ry pedant's rules, For seven long years debarr'd of lib'ral ease, To plod in college trammels to degrees, Beneath the weight of solemn toys to groan, Sleep over books, and leave mankind unknown; To praise each senior blockhead's thread-bare tale, And laugh till reason blush, and spirits fail, Manhood with vile submission to disgrace, And cap the fool, whose merit is his place; Vice-chancellors, whose knowledge is but small, And chancellors, who nothing know at all: Ill-brook'd the gen'rous spirit in those days When learning was the certain road to praise, When nobles, with a love of science blest, Approv'd in others what themselves possess'd.

But now, when Dullness rears aloft her throne,
When lordly vassals her wide empire own,
When Wit, seduc'd by Envy, starts aside,
And basely leagues with Ignorance and Pride,
What now should tempt us, by false hopes misled,
Learning's unfashionable paths to tread;
To bear those labours, which our fathers bore,
That crown withheld, which they in triumph wore?
When with much pains this boasted learning's got,
'Tis an affront to those who have it not.
In some it causes hate, in others fear,
Instructs our foes to rail, our friends to sneer.
With prudent haste the worldly-minded fool
Forgets the little which he learn'd at school;
The elder brother, to vast fortunes born,
Looks on all science with an eye of scorn;
Dependent brethren the same features wear,
And younger sons are stupid as the heir.
In senates, at the bar, in church and state,
Genius is vile, and learning out of date.
Is this-O death to think ! is this the land
Where Merit and Reward went hand in hand,
Where heroes, parent-like, the poet view'd,
By whom they saw their glorious deeds renew'd;
Where poets, true to honour, tun'd their lays,
And by their patrons sanctify'd their praise?
Is this the land, where, on our Spenser's tongue,
Enamour'd of his voice, description hung;
Where Jonson rigid gravity beguil'd,
Whilst Reason through her critic fences smil'd;
Where Nature list'ning stood, whilst Shakspeare
play'd,

And wonder'd at the work herself had made?
Is this the land, where, mindful of her charge
And office high, fair Freedom walk'd at large;
Where, finding in our laws a sure defence,
She mock'd at all restraints, but those of sense;

Where Health and Honour trooping by her side,
She spread her sacred empire far and wide;
Pointed the way affliction to beguile,
And bade the face of Sorrow wear a smile;
Bade those, who dare obey the gen'rous call,
Enjoy her blessings, which God meant for all?
Is this the land, where in some tyrant's reign,
When a weak, wicked, ministerial train,

The tools of pow'r, the slaves of int'rest, plann'd
Their country's ruin, and with bribes unmann'd
Those wretches, who, ordain'd in Freedom's cause,
Gave up their liberties, and sold our laws;
When Pow'r was taught by Meanness where to go,
Nor dar'd to love the virtue of a foe;
When, like a lep'rous plague, from the foul head
To the foul heart her sores Corruption spread,
Her iron arm when stern Oppression rear'd,
And Virtue, from her broad base shaken, fear'd
The scourge of Vice; when, impotent and vain,
Poor Freedom bow'd the neck to Slav'ry's chain;
Is this the land, where in those worst of times,
The hardy poet rais'd his honest rhymes
To dread rebuke, and bade controlment speak
In guilty blushes on the villain's cheek,
Bade Pow'r turn pale, kept mighty rogues in awe,
And made them fear the Muse, who fear'd not law?

How do I laugh, when men of narrow souls,
Whom folly guides, and prejudice controls;
Who, one dull drowsy track of business trod,
Worship their Mainmon, and neglect their God;
Who, breathing by one musty set of rules,
Dote from the birth, and are by system fools;
Who, form'd to dullness from their very youth,
Lies of the day prefer to gospel truth.
Pick up their little knowledge from Reviews,
And lay out all their stock of faith in news:
How do I laugh, when creatures, form'd like these,
Whom Reason scorns, and I should blush to please,
Rail at all lib'ral arts, deem verse a crime,
And hold not truth as truth, if told in rhyme?

How do I laugh, when Publius, hoary grown In zeal for Scotland's welfare, and his own, By slow degrees, and course of office, drawn In mood and figure at the helm to yawn, Too mean (the worst of curses Heav'n can send) To have a foe, too proud to have a friend, Erring by form, which blockheads sacred hold, Ne'er making new faults, and ne'er mending old, Rebukes my spirit, bids the daring Muse Subjects more equal to her weakness choose; Bids her frequent the haunts of humble swains, Nor dare to traffic in ambitious strains; Bids her, indulging the poetic whim In quaint-wrought ode, or sonnet pertly trim, Along the church-way path complain with Gray, Or dance with Mason on the first of May? "All sacred is the name and pow'r of kings, All states and statesmen are those mighty things Which, howsoe'er they out of course may roll, Were never made for poets to control."

Peace, peace, thou dotard, nor thus vilely deem Of sacred numbers, and their pow'r blaspheme: I tell thee, wretch, search all creation round, In Earth, in Heav'n, no subject can be found (Our God alone except) above whose weight The poet cannot rise, and hold his state. The blessed saints above in numbers speak The praise of God, though there all praise is weak; In numbers here below the bard shall teach Virtue to soar beyond the villain's reach;

Shall tear his lab'ring lungs, strain his hoarse throat,
And raise his voice beyond the trumpet's note,
Should an afflicted country, aw'd by men
Of slavish principles, demand his pen;
This is a great, a glorious point of view,
Fit for an English poet to pursue,
Undaunted to pursue, though, in return,
His writing by the common hangman burn.

How do I laugh, when men, by fortune plac'd
Above their betters, and by rank disgrac'd,
Who found their pride on titles which they stain,
And, mean themselves, are of their fathers vain;
Who would a bill of privilege prefer,
And treat a poet like a creditor,

The gen'rous ardour of the Muse condemn,
And curse the storm they know must break on them.
What, shall a reptile bard, a wretch unknown,
Without one badge of merit, but his own,
Great nobles lash, and lords, like common men,
Smart from the vengeance of a scribbler's pen?"
What's in this name of lord, that I should fear
To bring their vices to the public ear?
Flows not the honest blood of humble swains
Quick as the tide which swells a monarch's veins?
Monarchs, who wealth and titles can bestow,
Cannot make virtues in succession flow.
Would'st thou, proud man, be safely plac'd above
The censure of the Muse, deserve her love,
Act as thy birth demands, as nobles ought;
Look back, and by thy worthy father taught,
Who earn'd those honours, thou wert born to wear,
Follow his steps, and be his virtues' heir.
But if, regardless of the road to fame,
You start aside, and tread the paths of shame;
If such thy life, that should thy sire arise,
The sight of such a son would blast his eyes,
Would make him curse the hour which gave thee
birth,

Would drive him, shudd'ring, from the face of Earth Once more, with shame and sorrow, 'mongst the dead

In endless night to hide his rev'rend head;

If such thy life, though kings had made thee more
Than ever king a scoundrel made before;
Nay, to allow thy pride a deeper spring,
Though God in vengeance had made thee a king,
Taking on Virtue's wing her daring flight,
The Muse should drag thee trembling to the light,
Probe thy foul wounds, and lay thy bosom bare
To the keen question of the searching air.

Gods! with what pride I see the titled slave,
Who smarts beneath the stroke which Satire gave,
Aiming at ease, and, with dishonest art,
Striving to hide the feelings of his heart!
How do I laugh, when with affected air,
(Scarce able through despite to keep his chair,
Whilst on his trembling lip pale anger speaks,
And the chaf'd blood flies mounting to his cheeks)
He talks of conscience, which good men secures
From all those evil moments guilt endures,
And seems to laugh at those, who pay regard
To the wild ravings of a frantic bard.
"Satire, whilst envy and ill-humour sway
The mind of man, must always make her way;
Nor to a bosom, with discretion fraught,
Is all her malice worth a single thought.
The wise have not the will, nor fools the pow'r
To stop her headstrong course; within the hour,
Left to herself, she dies; opposing strife
Gives her fresh vigour, and prolongs her life.

All things her prey, and ev'ry man her aim, I can no patent for exemption claim,

Nor would I wish to stop that harmless dart
Which plays around, but cannot wound my heart;
Though pointed at myself, be Satire free;
To her 'tis pleasure, and no pain to me."

Dissembling wretch! hence to the stoic school,
And there amongst thy brethren play the fool;
There, unrebuk'd, these wild, vain doctrines preach;
Lives there a man, whom Satire cannot reach ?
Lives there a man, who calmly can stand by,
And see his conscience ripp'd with steady eye?
When Satire flies abroad on Falsehood's wing,
Short is her life, and impotent her sting;
But, when to Truth allied, the wound she gives
Siaks deep, and to remotest ages lives.
When in the tomb thy pamper'd flesh shall rot,
And e'en by friends thy mem'ry be forgot,
Still shalt thou live, recorded for thy crimes,
Live in her page, and stink to after-times.

Hast thou no feeling yet? Come throw off pride, And own those passions which thou shalt not hide. S who from the moment of his birth, Made human nature a reproach on Earth; Who never dar'd, nor wish'd behind to stay, When Folly, Vice, and Meanness led the way, Would blush, should he be told, by Truth and Wit, Those actions which he blush'd not to commit; Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt, yet start at shame.

But whither runs my zeal, whose rapid force, Turning the brain, bears Reason from her course; Carries me back to times, when poets, bless'd With courage, grac'd the science they profess'd; When they, in honour rooted, firmly stood The bad to punish, and reward the good; Wheu, to a flame by public virtue wrought, The foes of freedom they to justice brought, And dar'd expose those slaves who dar'd support A tyrant plan, and call'd themselves a court? Ah! what are poets now? As slavish those Who deal in verse, as those who deal in prose. Is there an author, search the kingdom round, In whom true worth and real spirit's found? The slaves of booksellers, or (doom'd by Fate To baser chains) vile pensioners of state; Some, dead to shame, and of those shackles proud Which Honour scorns, for slav'ry roar aloud; Others half-palsied only, mutes become, And what makes Smollet write, makes Johnson dumb. Why turns yon villain pale? Why bends his eye Inward, abash'd, when Murphy passes by? Dost thou sage Murphy for a blockhead take, Who wages war with Vice for Virtue's sake? No, no-like other worldlings, you will find He shifts his sails, and catches ev'ry wind. His soul the shock of int'rest can't endure: Give him a pension then, and sin secure.

With laurell'd wreaths the flatt'rer's brows adorn, Bid Virtue crouch, bid Vice exalt her horn, Bid cowards thrive, put Honesty to flight, Murphy shall prove, or try to prove it right. Try, thou state-juggler, ev'ry paltry art, Ransack the inmost closet of my heart, Swear thou'rt my friend; by that base oath make way Into my breast, and flatter to betray: Or, if those tricks are vain, if wholesome doubt Detects the fraud, and points the villain out, Bribe those who daily at my board are fed, And make them take my life who eat my bread;