Of Ministers what mighty matters tell?
They give, we know, but neither buy nor sell.

Add we to what we've said, this little more,
That all that can be wrote, is wrote before;
That pool of knowledge fish'd, poach'd, dragg'd and
drain’d,

Till nothing bigger than a grig remain'd;
And painful writers think it a good day,
If they can hook a news-paper essay,

And must remain so till blank years of grace,
Suspending future writing, shall take place ;
Put down our piddling, bobbing, and allow
The spawn and fry of Science time to grow.

But while we're on this subject, 'tis worth thinking, How little salt has kept this world from stinking; 'Tis the same wit, at different times alive, Sunk at Whitehall, to rise up at Queenhithe.

Born in whatever clime, whatever age, We trace it first from the Athenian stage,

Where Liberty a little licence claim'd,

There, just as somewhere else, that shan't be nam'd;

Taught all her sons this fav'rite to adore,

Much for itself, because abusive more;

For every comic writer braided it,

Two threads of Scandal to one thread of Wit:
O'er all, see Aristophanes preside,

And flash his lightnings round on every side,
Struck the sham patriot, the swoln Poet wasted,
Alas! e'en Socrates himself he blasted.

What was the burst directly over head,

So loud its echo, now its fires so red,

Tho' oft thro' Time's thick cloud the trembling gleam

We only catch, but miss the vivid beam ;

While half-seen thoughts, like meteors, twinkle light, And draw their lucid trails athwart the night.

Hither, unto their fountain, other stars
Repairing, swell their own peculiars,
By tincture or reflection; Lucian hence,
His golden urn replenish'd, and long since
Rabelais from both his urinal drew full;

From him, and them, Swift crowded his close-stool.
Howe'er it came, with the strange passion stung,
To raise his choicest fruit on rankest dung;

Fully convinc'd his jessamine and rose
Smelt sweetest, planted by his little house:
Yet still some cleaner parts distinguish'd lay,
Like cherry-stones upon a child's c-c--.

The nasty lines, my Lord, demand excuse, Happ'ly the times are free from that abuse : Our decent manners all obsceneness flout,

And Wit is at one entrance quite shut out.

From hence, my Lord, Wit took a tour about, Residing in few countries on his rout,

Appear'd in places, but ne'er took his seat in

One spot of earth, except Greece, France, and Britain. The rest a single trophy only bear,

And just enough to show he had been there.

As Nature's ideot never fails to hit,

Once in his life, on some sheer strokes of Wit;

Then stoops ten thousand fathoms down behind,
Plump in his own vacuity of mind,

A like excursion never to repeat

To the warm regions of aetherial heat.

Yet when we look at home, my Lord, at best,
We find but little that will stand the test;

But then the boasted days of Charles the Second,
Unless Debauchery for Wit is reckon'd,
Most that they had appears, by looking back,
A fungus growing on their butt of sack.
E'en my good cousin Rochester's but barren,
From wholesome meat if you deduct the carrion.

In the next reigns how could it flourish much?
Bigotry, Revolution, and the Dutch,
Damp'd, like wet blankets, its aspiring flame,
And if not quite extinguish'd, kept it tame,
Till orient Anna lighted all its fires,

And the glad stars responsive tun'd their choirs;
Pity she e'er left any in the lurch,

To follow those who lighted her to church.

Then Halifax, my Lord, as you do yet, Stood forth the friend of Poetry and Wit; Sought silent Merit in its secret cell,

And Heav'n, nay even man repaid him well. Man, in the praise of every grateful quill, And Heav'n in him, who bears his title still; Who, on a kingdom to his virtues won, Reflects the glories of our British Sun.

EPISTLE VI.

TO A.

YOUNG LADY,

WITH FENTON's MISCELLANIES.

FROM

WALTER HARTE, M. A.

THESE various strains, where every talent charms,
Where humor pleases, or where passion warms :
(Strains, where the tender and sublime conspire,
A Sappho's sweetness, and a Homer's fire)
Attend their doom, and wait, with glad surprise,
Th' impartial justice of Cleora's eyes.

'Tis hard to say what mysteries of fate,
What turns of fortune, on good writers wait.
The party slave will wound them as he can,
And damns the merit, if he hates the man.
Nay, ev'n the Bards with wit and laurels crown'd,
Bless'd in each strain, in every art renown'd:

Misled by pride, and taught to sin by power,
Still search around for those they may devour;
Like savage monarchs on a guilty throne,

Who, crush all might that can invade their own.