Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick
If they were not his own by finessing and trick:

He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,

For he knew when he pleased he could whistle them back.

Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest, was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.

Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,* and Woodfalls † so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!
How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised,
While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were bepraised!
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,

To act as an angel and mix with the skies:

Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;

Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant creature, And slander itself must allow him good nature; He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper; Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper! Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser? I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser. Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat? His very worst foe can't accuse him of that. Perhaps he confided in men as they go, And so was too foolishly honest? Ah, no! Then what was his failing? come tell it, and burn ye: He was-could he help it ?—a special attorney.

*Mr Hugh Kelly, author of "False Delicacy," "Word to the Wise," "Clementina," "School for Wives," &c., &c.

Mr William Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle.

Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind;
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part,

His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:

To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,

When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing:

When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff, He shifted his trumpet,* and only took snuff.

POSTSCRIPT.

After the fourth edition of this Poem was printed, the publisher received the following epitaph on Mr Whitefoord,t from a friend of the late Dr Goldsmith.

HERE Whitefoord reclines, and deny it who can,

Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man :

Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relish'd a joke, and rejoiced in a pun;
Whose temper was generous, open, sincere;
A stranger to flatt'ry, a stranger to fear;
Who scatter'd around wit and humour at will;
Whose daily bons mots half a column might fill :
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that so lib'ral a mind
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined!
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content "if the table he set in a roar;'

* Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf, as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.

Mr Caleb Whitefoord, author of many humorous essays.

Mr Whitefoord was so notorious a punster, that Dr Goldsmith used to say it was impossible to keep his company without being infected with the itch of punning.

Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall* confess'd him a wit.

Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks!
Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes ;
Ye tame imitators, ye servile herd, come,
Still follow your master, and visit his tomb :
To deck it, bring with you festoons of the vine,
And copious libations bestow on his shrine;
Then strew all around it (you can do no less)
Cross-readings, Ship-news, and Mistakes of the Press.+
Merry Whitefoord, farewell; for thy sake I admit
That a Scot may have humour, I had almost said wit :
This debt to thy mem'ry I cannot refuse,

“Thou best-humour'd man with the worst-humour'd
Muse."

* Mr H. S. Woodfall, printer of the Public Advertiser.

+ Mr Whitefoord had frequently indulged the town with humorous pieces, under those titles, in the Public Advertiser.

"Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, "To tempt the dangerous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom.

"Here to the houseless child of want

My door is open still;

And though my portion is but scant, I give it with good-will.

"Then turn to-night, and freely share

Whate'er my cell bestows;

My rushy couch and frugal fare,

My blessing and repose.

"No flocks that range the valley free, To slaughter I condemn;

Taught by that Power that pities me, I learn to pity them:

“But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring;

A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring.

"Then pilgrim, turn; thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong; 'Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long.""

Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell;
The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure
The lonely mansion lay,

A refuge to the neighbouring poor,
And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch,
Received the harmless pair.

And now, when busy crowds retire
To take their evening rest,
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest.