And all their brother-dunces lafh,

Who croud the prefs with hourly trash.

O Grub-street! how do I bemoan thee,

Whose graceless children fcorn to own thee !
Their filial piety forgot,

Deny their country, like a Scot;

Though, by their idiom and grimace,

They foon betray their native place :
Yet thou haft greater cause to be

355

360

Afham'd of them, than they of thee,

Degenerate from their ancient brood,

365

Since first the court allow'd them food.
Remains a difficulty ftill,

To purchase fame by writing ill.

From Flecknoe down to Howard's time,
How few have reach'd the low fublime!

370

For when our high-born Howard dy'd,
Blackmore alone his place fupply'd:
And, left a chasm should intervene,

When death had finish'd Blackmore's reign,
The leaden crown devolv'd to thee,

375

Great poet of the hollow tree.
But ah! how unfecure thy throne !
A thousand bards thy right disown:
They plot to turn, in factious zeal,
Duncenia to a common-weal;
And with rebellious arms pretend

380

An equal privilege to defcend.

In bulk there are not more degrees

From elephants to mites in cheese,

Than

Than what a curious eye may trace
In creatures of the rhyming race.

From bad to worfe, and worfe they falls
But who can reach the worst of all!

For though, in nature, depth and wigja <Are equally held infinite:

In poetry, the height we know;
'Tis only infinite below.

For inftance: when you rafhly des
No rhymer.can like Welfted fox,
His merits balanc'd, you fhall find
The Laureat leaves him far behind.
Concannen, more aspiring bard,
Soars downwards deeper by a yard.
Smart Jemmy Moor with vigour cojas
The reft purfue as thick as mops,

With heads to points the gulph day exter,
Link'd perpendicular to the centre;

And, as their heels clated rife,

Their heads attempt the nether skies.

O, what indignity and flame,

To prostitute the Mufe's name !

By flattering kings, whom Heaven defign'd

The plagues and fcourges of mankind;

Bred up in ignorance and floth,

And every vice that nurses both.

Fair Britain, in thy monarch bleft, Whofe virtues. bear the ftrictest test; Whom never faction could befpatter, Nor minifter nor poet flatter;

495

419

What

415

What justice in rewarding merit!
What magnanimity of fpirit!
What lineaments divine we trace

Through all his figure, mien, and face!

Though peace with olive bind his hands,

Confefs'd the conquering hero ftands.
Hydafpes, Indus, and the Ganges,

Dread from his hand impending changes.

420

From him the Tartar and Chinese,
Short by the knees, intreat for peace.
The confort of his throne and bed,
A perfect goddess born and bred,
Appointed fovereign judge to fir
On learning, eloquence, and wit.
Our eldest hope, divine Iülus,

425

(Late, very late, O may he rule us !)

430

Bright goddeffes, in number five;
Duke William, fweetest prince alive.
Now fing the minister of state,
Who fhines alone without a mate.
Obferve with what majestic port

449

This Atlas ftands to prop the court:

When on thy breafts and fides Herculean,
He fix'd the far and firing cerulean.

Say, port, in what other nation

Shone ever fuch a conftellation 4

Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays,
And tune your harps, and ftrow your bays ↑
Your panegyricks here provide;
You cannot err on flattery's fide.
Above the ftars exalt your ftyle,
You ftill are low ten thousand mile
On Lewis all his bards beftow'd
Of incenfe many a thoufand load;

But Europe mortify'd his pride,
And fwore the fawning rafcals ly'd.
Yet what the world refus'd to Lewis,
Apply'd to George, exactly true is.
Exactly true invidious poet!

475

"Tis fifty thoufand times below it.

480

Tranflate me now fome lines, if you can,

From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan.

They could all power in Heaven divide,

485

And do no wrong on either fide;
They teach you how to fplit a hair,
Give George and Jove an equal fhare.
Yet why should we be lac'd fo ftrait ?
I'll give my monarch butter-weight.
And reafon good, for many a year
Jove never intermeddled here :
Nor, though his pricfts be duly paid,
Did ever we defire his aid

We now can better do without him,

Since Woolfton gave us arms to rout him.
Cætera defiderantur.

4༡༠

HORACE, BOOK IV. ODE XIX. IMITATED. TO HUMPHRY FRENCH, ESQ.*. 1733.

PATRON of the tuneful throng,

O too nice, and too fevere !

Think not, that my country fong
Shall difpleafe thy honeft car.

* Lord mayor of Dublin. N.

Chofen