He only breathes Boeotian air
"Oh! what a falling-off was there !”
Hibernia's Helicon is dry,
Invention, Wit, and Humour die;
And what remains against the storm
Of Malice, but an empty form ?
The nodding ruins of a pile,
That stood the bulwark of this isle;
In which the fifterhood was fix'd
Of candid Honour, Truth unmix'd,
Impartial Reafon, Thought profound,
And Charity, diffufing round,
In cheerful rivulets, the flow
Of Fortune to the fons of woe?
Such once, my Nugent, was thy Swift,
Endued with each exalted gift.
But, lo! the pure æthereal flame
Is darken'd by a misty steam :
The balm exhaufted breathes no fmell,
The rofe is wither'd ere it fell.
That godlike fupplement of law,
Which held the wicked world in awe,
And could the tide of faction stem,
Is but a fhell without the gem.
Ye fons of genius, who would aim
To build an everlafting fame,
And, in the field of letter'd arts,
Difplay the trophies of your parts,
To yonder mansion turn ́afide,
And mortify your growing pride.
Behold the brightest of the race,
And Nature's honour, in difgrace :
With humble refignation own,
That all your talents are a loan;
By Providence advanc'd for use,
Which you should ftudy to produce.
Reflect, the mental stock, alas !
However current now it país,
May haply be recall'd from you
Before the Grave demands his due.
Then, while your morning-star proceeds,
Direct your course to worthy deeds,
In fuller day difcharge your debts;
For, when your fun of reafon fets,
The night fucceeds; and all your schemes.
Of glory vanish with your dreams.
Ah! where is now the fupple train,
That danc'd attendance on the Dean?
Say, where are those facetious folks,
Who fhook with laughter at his jokes,
And with attentive rapture hung
On wifdom, dropping from his tongue;
Who look'd with high difdainful pride
On all the bufy world befide,
And rated his productions more
Than treasures of Peruvian ore ?
Good Chriftians! they with bended knees
Ingulph'd the wine, but loath the lees,
Averting (fo the text commands),
With ardent eyes and up-caft hands,
The cup of forrow from their lips,
And fly, like rats from finking fhips.
While some, who by his friendship rose
To wealth, in concert with his foes,
Run counter to their former track,
Like old Acteon's horrid pack
Of yelling mungrils, in requitals
To riot on their master's vitals;
And, where they cannot blast his laurels,
Attempt to ftigmatize his morals;
Through Scandal's magnifying-glass
His foibles view, but virtues pafs,
And on the ruins of his fame
Erect an ignominious name.
So vermin foul, of vile extraction,
The fpawn of dirt and putrefaction,
The founder members traverse o'er,
But fix and fatten on a fore.
Hence! peace, ye wretches, who revile
His wit, his humour, and his ftyle;
Since all the monfters which he drew
Were only meant to copy you ;
And, if the colours be not fainter,
Arraign yourselves, and not the painter.
But, O! that He, who gave him breath,
Dread arbiter of life and death;
That He, the moving foul of all,
The fleeping spirit would recall,
And crown him with triumphant meeds,
For all his paft heroic deeds,
In manfions of unbroken rest,
The bright republick of the blefs'd!
Irradiate his benighted mind
With living light of light refin'd;
And thefe the blank of thought employ
With objects of immortal joy!
Yet, while he drags the fad remains
Of life, flow-creeping through his veins,
Above the views of private ends,
The tributary Muse attends,
To prop his feeble fteps, or fhed
The pious tear around his bed.
So Pilgrims, with devout complaints,
Frequent the graves of martyr'd Saints,
Infcribe their worth in artlefs lines,
And, in their ftead, embrace their fhrines.
INSCRIPTION intended for a MONUMENT. 1765.
AY, to the Drapier's vaft unbounded fame,
What added honours can the Sculptor give? None. - 'Tis a fanction from the Drapier's name Muft bid the Sculptor and his Marble live.
EPIGRAM Occafioned by the above INSCRIPTION.
WHICH gave the Drapier birth two realms contend;
And each afferts her Poet, Patriot, Friend:
Her mitre jealous Britain may deny;
That lofs Iernia's laurel fhall fupply:
Through life's low vale, she, grateful, gave him bread; Her vocal ftones fhall vindicate him dead.
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