ON THE ART OF PREACHING.

A FRAGMENT.

In imitation of Horace's Art of Poetry.

"6 Pendent opera interrupta.

SHOULD fome fam'd hand, in this fantastic age,
Draw Rich, as Rich appears upon the stage,
With all his poftures, in one motley plan,
The god, the hound, the monkey, and the man;
Here o'er his head high brandishing a leg,
And there juft hatch'd, and breaking from his egg
While monfter crouds on monfter through the piece,
Who could help laughing at a fight like this?
Or as a drunkard's dream together brings
A court of coblers, and a mob of kings;
Such is a fermon, where, confus'dly dark,

Join Hoadly, Sharp, South, Sherlock, Wake, and
Clarke.

So eggs of different parishes will run

To batter, when you beat fix yolks to one;
So fix bright chemic liquors if you mix,
In one dark fhadow vanish all the fix.

This licence priests and painters ever had,
To run bold lengths, but never to run mad;
For those can't reconcile God's grace to fin,
Nor these paint tigers in an afs's skin;
No common dauber in one piece would join,
A fox and goofe,-unless upon a fign.

U 3

Some

Some teal a page of sense from Tillotson,
And then conclude divinely with their own ;
Like oil on water mounts the prelate up,
His grace is always fure to be at top;
That vein of mercury its beams will spread,
And shine more strongly through a mine of lead.
With fuch low arts your hearers never bilk,
For who can bear a fuftian lin'd with filk?
Sooner than preach such stuff, I'd walk the town,
Without my scarf, in Whifton's draggled gown;
Ply at the Chapter, and at Child's, to read
For pence, and bury for a groat a head.

Some easy fubject chuse, within your power,
Or you will ne'er hold out for half an hour.
Still to your hearers all your sermons fort;
Who'd preach against corruption at a court?
Against church power at visitations bawl?
Or talk about damnation at Whitehall?
Harangue the Horfe-guards on a cure of fouls
Condemn the quirks of Chancery at the Rolls?
Or rail at hoods and organs at St. Pauls ?
Or be, like David Jones, so indiscreet,
To rave at ufurers in Lombard-street?

Begin with care, nor, like that curate vile, Set out in this high prancing ftumbling flyle: "Whoever with a piercing eye can see

Through the past records of futurity ?"
All gape, no meaning :-the puft orator
Talks much, and says just nothing for an hour.

}

Truth

Truth and the text he labours to display,
Till both are quite interpreted away:

So frugal dames infipid water pour,
Till green, bohea, or coffee, are no more.
His arguments in giddy circles run

Still round and round, and end where they begun:
So the poor turnfpit, as the wheel runs round,
The more he gains, the more he lofes ground.
No
parts diftinct, or general fcheme we find,
But one wild fhapeless monster of the mind:
So when old Bruin teems, her children fail
Of limbs, form, figure, features, head, or tail;
Nay, though the licks the ruins, all her cares
Scarce mend the lumps, and bring them but to bears.
Ye country vicars, when you preach in town

If

A turn at Paul's, to pay your journey down,
you
would fhun the fneer of every prig,
Lay by the little band, and rufty wig:
But yet be fure, your proper language know,
Nor talk as born within the found of Bow.
Speak not the phrase that Drury-lane affords,
Nor from Change-alley steal a cant of words.
Coachmen will criticise your ftyle; nay further,
Porters will bring it in for wilful murther:
The dregs of the canaille will look askew,
To hear the language of the town from you;
Nay, my lord mayor, with merriment poffeft,
Will break his nap, and laugh among the reft,

And jog the aldermen to hear the jest.

}

AN EPITAPH.

Infcribed on a ftone, that covers his Father, Mother, and Brother.

E facred fpirits! while your friends distress'd

YE

Weep o'er your ashes, and lament the bless'd; O let the penfive Muse inscribe that stone,

And with the general forrows mix her own:

The penfive Mufe!-who, from this mournful hour,
Shall raise her voice, and wake the ftring no more!
Of love, of duty, this last pledge receive;
'Tis all a brother, all a fon can give.

A POEM

A POEM on the DEATH of the late Earl STANHOP E. Humbly inscribed to the Countess of STANHOP E.

"At length, grim fate, thy dreadful triumphs cease: "Lock up the tomb, and feal the grave in peace."

N

OW from thy riot of deftruction breathe,

Call in thy raging plagues, thou tyrant death: Too mean 's the conquest which thy arms bestow, Too mean to sweep a nation at a blow. No, thy unbounded triumphs higher run, And feem to ftrike at all mankind in one; Since Stanhope is thy prey, the great, the brave, A nobler prey was never paid the grave. We feem to feel from this thy daring crime, A blank in nature, and a pause in time. He stood fo high in reafon's towering sphere, As high as man unglorify'd could bear. In arms, and eloquence, like Cæfar, fhone So bright, that each Minerva was his own. How could fo vaft a fund of learning lie Shut up in fuch a short mortality? One world of fcience nobly travell'd o'er, Like Philip's glorious fon, he wept for more.

And now, refign'd to tears, th' angelic choirs, With drooping heads, unftring their golden lyres, Wrapt in a cloud of grief, they figh to view Their facred image laid by death so low :

And