Would my good lord but caft up the ac

"count,

And fee to what my revenues amount.
My titles ample! but my gain fo fmall,
That one good vicarage is worth them all :
And very wretched fure is he, that's double
In nothing but his titles and his trouble.

Add to this crying grievance,
you please,
My horfes founder'd on Fermanagh ways;
Ways of well-polish and well-pointed flone,
Where every ftep endangers every bone;
And more to rai è your pity and your wonder,
Two churches-twelve Hibernian miles alune
"der!

1

With complicated cures, I labour hard in, Befides whole fummers abfent from my gar "den!

But that the world would think I play'd the « fool,

I'd change with Charley Grattan for his "fchool*

What he calcades, what viftos, might I make,

Fist in the centre of the Iernian late!

There might I fail delighted, fmooth and fafe, Beneath the conduct of my good Sir Ralpht: There's not a better fteerer in the realm; I hope, my lord, you'll call him to the helm." "Doctor-a glorious fcheme to cafe your "grief!

eafe;

When cures are crofs, a fchool's a fure relief.
You cannot fail of being happy there,
The lake will be the Lethe of your care:
The scheme is for your honour and your
And, doctor, I'll promote it when you pleafe.
Mean-while, allowing things below your me-
"rit,

Yet, doctor, you 've a philofophie spirit ;
Your wants are few, and, like your income,
"fmall,

And you 've enough to gratify them all; You've trees, and fruits, and roots, enough

" in ftore :

And what would a philofopher have more? You cannot wish for coaches, kitchens, cooks My lord, I've not enough to buy me books Or pray, fuppofe my wants were all fupplied, Are there no wants I fhould regard befide? Whofe breaft is fo unmann'd, as not to grieve, Compafs'd with miferies he can't relieve? Who can be happy--who should wish to live, And want the godlike happiness to give? (That I'm a judge of this, you must allow : I had it once and I'm debarr'd it now.) Afk your own heart, my lord, if t be true, Then how unbleft am I how bleft are you!" "'Tis true-but, doctor, let us wave all that Say, if you had your with, what you 'd be at." "Excufe me, good my lord-I won't be « founded,

Nor fhall your favour by my wants be bound❝ed.

AN EPISTLE UPON AN EPISTLE

FROM

A CERTAIN DOCTOR

TO

A CERTAIN GREAT LORDĮ
Being a Christmas-Box for

DR. DELANY.

Aen things of more importance prefs

S Jove will not attend on lefs,

That you, a low Hibernian bard,
You can't, grave Sir, believe it hard,
Should cool your heels awhile, and wait
Unanswer'd at your patron's gate;
And would my lord vouchfafe to grant
This one, poor, humble boon I want,
Free leave to play his Secretary,
As Falstaff acted old King Harry ;
I'd tell of yours in rhyme and print :
Folks fhrug, and cry There's nothing in3t
And, after feveral readings over,
It fhines moit in the marble cover.

How could fo fine a tafte difpenfe,
With mean degrees of wit and fenfe?
Nor will my lord fo far beguile
The wife and learned of our ifle;
To make it pafs upon the nation,
The talk is arduous, patrons find,
By dint of his fole approbation."
To warp the fenfe of all mankind;
Who think your Muse must first aspire,
Ere he advance the doctor higher.

You've cause to fay he meant you well:
That you are thankful, who can tell?
Of his intent; you mean, your merit.
For ftill you 're fhort (which grieves your spirit)

Ah! quanto reclius, tu adepte, Qui nil meliris tam inepte P

Siedley, thou Jonathan of Clogher,
"When thou thy humble lay doft offer
«To Grafton's grace, with grateful heart,
"Thy thanks and verfe devold of art.
Content with what his bounty gave,
No larger income doft thou crave."
But you must have cafcades, and all
ferne's lake for your canal,

Your viftos, barges, and (a pox on
All pride!) our Speaker for your coxon:
It's pity that he can't beftow you
Twelve commoners in caps to row you,

* See a Petition to the Duke of Grafton, p. 326.
Bbb 2

Thus Edgar proud, in days of yore,
Held monarchs labouring at the oar;
And, as he pafs'd, fo fwell'd the Dee,
Enrag'd, as Ern would do at thee.

How different is this from Smedley!
(His name is up, he may in bed lie)
Who only aiks fome pretty cure,
"In wholefome foil and æther pure;
"The garden ftor'd with artlefs flowers,
"In either angle fhady bowers:
"No gay parterre with cofily green
"Muit in the ambient hedge be feen;,
"But nature freely takes her course,
"Nor fears from him ungrateful force:
"No fheers to check her fprouting vigour,
"Or fhape the yews to antic figure."

"But you, forfooth, your all must squander
On that poor fpot, call'd Dell-viile yonder:
And when you 've been at vaft expences
In whims, parterres, canals, and fences,
Your affets fail, and cafh is wanting;
Nor farther buildings, farther planting:
No wonder, when you raife and level,
Think this wall low, and that wall bevel.
Here a convenient box you found,
Which you demolish'd to the ground:
Then built, then took up with your arbour,
And fet the houfe to Rupert Barber.
You fprang an arch, which, in a fcurvy
Humour, you tumbled topfy-turvy.
You change a circle to a square,
Then to a circle as you were:
Who can imagine whence the fund is,
That you quadrata change retundis ?

To Fame a temple you erect,
A Flora does the dome protect;
Mounts, walks, on higb; and in a hollow
You place the Mufes and Apollo;
There fhining 'midit his train, to grace
Your whimsical poetic place.

Thefe ftories were of old defign'd

As fables; but you have refin'd

The poets' mythologie dreams,

To real Mufes, gods, and fireams.

Who would not fwear, when you contrive thus,
That you 're Don Quixote Redivivus ?

Beneath, a dry canal there lies,
Which only Winter's rain fupplies.
Oh! couldst thou, by fome magic spell,
Hither convey St. Patrick's well!
Here may it re-affu me its ftrcan*,
And take a greater Patrick's naine !

If your expences rife fo high,
What income can your wants fupply?
Yet ftill you fancy you inherit
A fund of fuch fuperior merit,
That you can't fail of more provifion,
All by my lady's kind decifion,
For, the more livings you can fish up,
You think you'll fooner be a bishop :
That could not be my lord's intent,
Nor can it anfer the event.

*See Dr. Swift's verfes on the drying-up of this well, $333.

Moft think what has been heap'd on you,
To other fort of folk was due:
Rewards too great for your flim-flams,
Epifles, riddles, epigrams.

Though now your depth must not be founded,
The time was, when you'd have compounded
For less than Charley Grattan's fchool:
Five hundred pound a year 's no fool!

Take this advice then from your friend:
To your ambition put an end.
Be frugal, Pat: pay what you owe,
Before you build and you beflow.
Be modeft; nor addrefs your betters
With begging, vain, familiar letters.

A palage may be found, I've heard,
Ju fome old Greek or Latin bard,
Which fays; Would crows in filence cat
"Their offals, or their better meat,
"Their generous feeders not provoking
"By loud and unharmonious croaking,
"They might, unhurt by Envy's claws,
"Live on, and ftuff to boot their maws."

A LIBEL

ON THE

REV. DR. DELANY,

AND HIS EXCELLENCY JOHN LORD CARTERET. 1729.

DELUDED mortals, whom the great

Choose for companions tete a tete;

Who at their dinners, en famille,
Get leave to fit whene'er you will;
Then boafting tell us where you din'd,
And how his lordship was fo kind;
How many pleafant things he fpoke,
And how you laughd at every joke :
Swear he's a moft facetious man;
That you and be are cup and can?
You travel with a heavy load,
And quite mistake preferment's road.

Suppofe my lord and you alone;
Hint the leaft interest of your own,
His vifage drops, he knits his brow,
He cannot talk of bufinefs now:
Or, mention but a vacant pejl,

He'll turn it off with," Name your toaft.”
Nor could the nicest artist paint

A countenance with more constraint.

For as, their appetites to querch,
Lords keep a pimp to bring a wench;
So men of wit are but a kind
Of pandars to a vicious mind;
Whe proper objects must provide
To gratify their luft of pride,

When, wearied with intrigues of ftate,
They find an idle hour to prate.

*Hor, Lab, I. Ep. xvii.

Then, fhall you dare to ask a place,
You forfeit all your patron's grace,
And difappoint the fole defign
For which he fummon'd you to dine.
Thus Congreve spent in writing plays,
And one poor office, half his days:
While Montague, who claim'd the station
To be Mæcenas of the nation,
For poets open table kept,

But ne'er confider'd where they flept:
Himlelf as rich as fiity Jews,
Was eafy, though they wanted fhoes:
And crazy Congreve fcarce could fpare
A fhilling to difcharge his chair;
Till prudence taught him to appeal
From Dean's fire to party zeal,
Not owing to his happy vein
The fortunes of his later fcene,
Took proper principles to thrive ;
And fo might every dunce alive.

Thus Steele, who own'd what others writ,
And flourish'd by imputed wit,
From perils of a hundred jails
Withdrew to ftarve, and die in Wales.

Thus Gay, the hare with many friends,
Twice feven long years the court attends :
Who, under tales conveying truth,
To virtue form'd a princely youth* :
Who paid his courtship with the crowd
As far as modef pride allow'd;
Rejects a fervile usher's place,
And leaves St. James's in difgrace.
Thus Addifon, by lords careft,
Was left in foreign lands diftreft;
Forgot at home, became for hire
A travelling tutor to a squire:
But wifely left the Mufes' hill,
To bufinef's fhap'd the poet's quill,
Let all his barren laurels fade,
Took up himself the courtier's trade,
And, grown a minifier of state,
Saw poets at his levee wait.

Hail, happy Pope! whofe generous mind
Detefting all the statesman kind,
Contemning courts, at courts unfeen,
Refus'd the vifits of a queen.
A foul with every virtue fraught,
By fuges, priests, or poets taught;
Whofe filial piety excels
Whatever Grecian story tells;
A genius for all stations fit;
Whofe meuneft talent is his wit;

His heart too great, though fortune little,
To lick a rafcal „atesman's spittle;
Appealing to the nation's tafte,
Above the reach of want is plac'd:
By Homer dead was taught to thrive,
Which Homer never could alive;
And fits aloft on Pindus' head,
Defpifing faves that cringe for bread,
True politicians only pay
For folid work, but not for play;
Nor ever choose to work with tools
Forg'd up in colleges and schools.

William duke of Cumberland, fon to George II.

Confider how much more is due
To all their journeymen than you:
At table you can Horace quote;
They at a pinch can bribe a vote:
You fhew your skill in Grecian story;
But they can manage Whig and Tory:
You, as a critick, are fo curious
To find a verfe in Virgil fpurious;
But they can fmoke the deep defigns,
When Bolingbroke with Pulteney dines,
Befides, your patron may upbraid ye,
That you have got a place already;
An office for your talents fit,

To flatter, carve, and fhew your wit;
To feuff the lights, and ftir the fire,
And get a dinner for your hire.
What claim have you to place or penfion?
He overpays in condefcenfion.

But, reverend docter, you, we know,
Could never condefcend fo low:
The vice-rey, whom you now attend,
Would, if he durft, be more your friend;
Nor will in you thofe gifts defpife,
By which himself was taught to rise :
When he has virtue to retire,

He'll grieve he did not raife you higher,
And place you in a better ftation,
Although it might have pleas'd the nation.

This may be true-fubmitting ftill
To Walpole's more than royal will;
And what condition can be worfe?
He comes to drain a beggar's purse;
He comes to tie our chains on fafter,'
And fhew us, England is our mafter :
Careffing knaves, and dunces wooing,
To make them work their own undoing.
What has he elfe to bait his traps,
Or bring his vermin in, but feraps?
The offals of a church distrest;
A hungry vicarage at best;
Or fome remote inferior poft,
With forty pounds a year at moft?

:.

But here again you interpofe
Your favourite lord is none of thofe
Who owe their virtues to their ftations,
And characters to dedications:
For keep him in, or turn him out,
His learning none will call in doubt;
His learning, though a peer faid it
Before a play, would lofe no credit:
Nor Pope would dare deny him wit,
Although to praise it Phillips writ.
I own, he hates an action base,
His virtues battling with his place ;.
Nor wants a nice difcerning fpirit
Betwixt a true and fpurious merit;
Can fometimes drop a voter's claim,
And give up party to his fame.
I do the most that friendship can;
I hate the vice-rey, love the man.

But you who, till your fortune's made,
Must be a sweetener by your trade,
Should fwear he never meant us ill;
We fuffer fore against his will;
That, if we could but see his heart,
He would have chofe a milder part ;

We rather should lament his cafe,
Who muft obey, or lofe his place.
Since this reflexion flipt your pen,
Infert it when you write again:
And, to illuftrate it, produce
This fimile for his excule :

"So to deftroy a guilty land "An angel fent by Heaven' command, "While he obeys almighty will, "Perhaps may feel compaffion till; "And with the talk had been affign'd "To fpirits of lefs gentle kind."

But I, in politicks grown old, Whofe thoughts are of a different mould, Who from my foul fincerely hate Both kings and minifters of Hate, Who look on courts with ftricter eyes To fee the feeds of vice arife, Can lend you an allufion fitter, Though flattering knaves may call it bitter; Which, if you durft but give it place, Would fhew you many aatefman's face; Fresh from the tripod of Apollo I had it in the words that follow (Take notice, to avoid offence, I here except his excellence).

"So, to effect his monarch's ends, "From hell a viceroy devil afcends;

His budget with corruptions cramm'd, "The contributions of the damn'd; * Which with unfparing hand he ftrows "Through courts and fenates as he goes; "And then at Beelzebub's black hall "Complains his budget was too fmall." Your fimile may better fine In verfe; but there is truth in mine. For no imaginable things

Can differ more than gods and kings:
And hatefmen by ten thousand odds
Are angels just as kings are gods.

To Dr. DELANY, ON THE
LIBELS WRITTEN AGAINST HIM,

Tanti tibi non fit opaci
Omnis arena Tagi.”

As fome raw youth in country bred,

To arms by thirst of honour led,
When at a firmih first he hears
The bullets whistling round his ears,
Will duck his head afide, will start,
And feel a trembling at his heart?
Till 'fcaping oft' without a wound
Leffens the terror of the found;
Fly bullets now as thick as hops,
He runs into a cannon's chops:
An author thus, who pants for fame,
Begins the world with fear and shame;
When firft in print, you fee him dread
Each pop-gun level'd at his head;

"

Juv.

So when an angel by divine command, &c. Addifon's Campaign.

The lead yon critick's quill contains,
Is deftin'd to beat out his brains:
As if he heard loud thunders roll,
Cries, Lord, have mercy on his foul!
Concluding, that another fhot
Will ftrike him dead upon the fpot.
But, when with squibbing, flashing, popping,
He cannot fee one creature dropping
That, miffing fire, or miffing aim,
His life is fare, I mean his fame;
The danger pat, takes heart of grace,
And looks a critick in the face.

Though splendour gives the fairest mark
To poifon'd arrows from the dark,
Yet, in yourself when smooth and round,
They glance afide without a wound.

'Tis faid, the gods try'd all their art,
How pain they might from pleasure part;
But little could their ftrength avail;
Both ftill are faften'd by the tail.
Thus fame and censure with a tether
By fate are always link'd together.

Why will you aim to be preferr'd
In wit before the common herd;
And yet grow mortify'd and vex'd
To pay the penalty annex'd? '

'Tis eminence makes envy rise ;
As faireft fruits attract the flies.
Should ftupid libels grieve your mind,
You foon a remedy may find;
Lie down obfcure like other folks
Below the lash of fuarlers' jokes.
Their faction is five hundred odds;
For every coxcomb lends them rods,
And fneers as learnedly as they,
Like females o'er their morning tea.

You fay, the Mufe will not contain,
And write you muft, or break a vein.
Then, if you find the terms too hard,
No longer my advice regard :
But raife your fancy on the wing;
The Irish fenate's praises fing ;
How jealous of the nation's freedom,
And for corruptions how they weed 'em;
How each the public good pursues,
How far their hearts from private views ;
Make all true patriots, up to fhoe-boys,
Huzza their brethren at the Blue-boys;
Thus grown a member of the club,
No longer dread the rage of Grub.

How oft am I for rhyme to feek!
To drefs a thought, may toil a week:
And then how thankful to the town,
If all my pains will earn a crown!
Whilft every critick can deyour
My work and me in half an hour.
Would men of genius ceafe to write,
The rogues muft die for want and spite
Muft die for want of food and raiment,
If fcandal did not find them payment.
How cheerfully the hawkers cry
A fatire, and the gentry buy!
While my hard-labour'd poem pines
Unfold upon the printer's lines.
A genius in the reverend gown
Muft ever keep its owner down

ris an unnatural conjunction,
and fpoils the credit of the function.
tound all your brethren caft your eyes;
'cint out the fureft men to rife:
hat club of candidates in black,
The leaft deferving of the pack,
fpiring, factious, fierce, and loud,
With grace and learning unendow'd,
an turn their hands to every job,
The fittest tools to work for Bob;
Vill fooner coin a thoufand lies,
han fuffer men of parts to rife;
They crowd about preferment's gate,
and prefs you down with all their weight.
or as, of old, mathematicians
Vere by the vulgar thought magicians;
o academic dull ale-drinkers
'ronounce all men of wit free-thinkers.
Wit, as the chief of virtue's friends,
ifdains to ferve ignoble ends.
bferve what loads of ftupid rhymes
Opprefs us in corrupted times:
What pamphlets in a court's defence
hew reafon, grammar, truth, or sense?
or though the Mufe delights in fiction,
he ne'er inspires against conviction.
Then keep your virtue ftill unmixt,
Add let not faction come betwixt :
by party-steps no grandeur climb at,

Though it would make you England's primate : irft learn the fcience to be dull,

You then may foon your confcience lull;
f not, however feated high,
Your genius in your face will fly.

When Jove was from his teeming head
Of Wit's fair goddess brought to bed,
There follow'd at his lying-in
Fer after birth a Sooterkin;
Which, as the nurfe purfued to kill,
Attained by flight the Mufes' hill,
There in the foil began to root,
And litter'd at Parnaffus' foot.
From hence the critic vermin fprung,
With harpy claws and poisonous tongue,
Who fatten on poetic scraps,
Too cunning to be caught in traps.
Dame Nature, as the learned fhow,
Provides each animal its foe:
Hounds hunt the hare; the wily fox
Devours your geefe, the wolf your flocks.
Thus Envy pleads a natural claim
To perfecute the Mufes' fame;
In poets in all times abusive,
From Homer down to Pope inclufive.
Yet what avails it to complain?
You try to take revenge in vain.
Arat your utmoft rage defies,
That fafe behind the wainscot lies.
Say, did you ever know by fight
n cheese an individual mite ?
Shew me the fame numeric fiea,
That bit your neck but yesterday:
You then may boldly go in queft
To £nd the Grub-street poet's neft;
What fpunging-house, in dread of jail,
Receives them, while they wait for bail;

What alley they are nestled in,
To flourish o'er a cup of gin;
Find the last garret where they lay,
Or cellar where they ftarve to-day.
Suppofe you had them all trepann'd,
With each a libel in his hand,
What punishment would you inflict?
Or call them rogues, or get them kickt?
These they have often try'd before;
You but oblige them fo much more:
Theinfelves would be the first to tell,
To make their trafh the better fell.

You have been libel'd-Let us know,
What fool officious told you fo?
Will you regard the hawker's cries,
Who in his titles always lies?
Whate'er the noify scoundrel fays,
It might be something in your praise :
And praife beflow'd on Grub-street rhymes
Would vex one more a thousand times.
Till criticks blame, and judges praise,
The poet cannot claim his bays.
On me when dunces are fatiric,
I take it for a panegyrick.
Hated by fools, and fools to hate,
Be that my motto, and my fate.

DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING A BIRTH-DAY SONG.

1729.

To form a juft and finish'd piece,

1ake twenty gods of Rome or Greece, Whofe godships are in chief request, And fit your present subject best: And, fhould it be your hero's cafe, To have both male and female race, Your bufinefs must be to provide. A fcore of godde fles befide.

Some call their monarchs fons of Saturn,
For which they bring a modern pattern:
Because they might have heard of one,
Who often long'd to eat his fon :
But this, I think, will not go down,
For here the father kept his crown.
Why, then, appoint him fon of Jove,
Who met his mother in a grove :
To this we freely fhall confent,
Well knowing what the poets meant;
And in their fenfe, 'twixt me and you,
It may be literally true.

Next, as the laws of verfe require,
He must be greater than his fre¿
For Jove, as every school-boy knows,
Was able Saturn to depofe:

And fure no Chriftian poet breathing

Would be more fcrupulous than a Heathen!

Or, if to blafphemy it tends,
That's but a trifle among friends.

Your Hero now another Mars is,
Makes mighty armies turn their as.
Behold his glittering falchion mow
Whole fquadrons at a fingle blow;