Life we might all refign to lawless pow'r,
Nor think it worth the purchase of an hour:
But Envy ne'er thall fix fo foul a ftain
On the fair annals of a Brunswick's reign.
If, flave to party, to revenge, or pride,
If, by frail human error drawn afide,
I break the Law, ftrict rigour let her wear;
Tis her's to punish, and 'tis mine to bear;
Nor by the voice of Justice doom'd to death,
Would I afk mercy with my latest breath.
But, anxious only for my Country's good,
In which my King's, of course, is understood;
Form'd on a plan with fome few patriot friends,
Whilft by just means I aim at nobleft ends,
My fpirits cannot fink; tho' from the tomb
Stern Jeffries should be plac'd in Mansfield's room;
Tho' he should bring, his base designs to aid,
Some black Attorney, for his purpose made,
And shove, whilst Decency and Law retreat,
The modeft Norton from his maiden feat ;
Tho' both, in ill confed'rates, fhould agree,
In damned league, to torture law and me,
Whilft George is King, I cannot fear endure;
Not to be guilty, is to be fecure.
But when, in after-times, (be far remov'd
That day) our monarch, glorious and belov'd,
Sleeps with his fathers, fhould imperious Fate,
In vengeance, with fresh Stuarts curse our state;
Should they, o'erleaping ev'ry fence of law,
Butcher the brave to keep tame fools in awe ;
Should they, by brutal and oppreffive force,
Divert fweet Juftice from her even course;
Should they, of ev'ry other means bereft,
Make my right-hand a witnefs 'gainst my left;
Should they, abroad by Inquifitions taught,
Search out my foul, and damn me a thought;
Still would I keep my courfe,ilf fpek, ftill
write,
'Till death had plung'd me in the fides of night. Thou God of Truth, thou great, all-fearching
To whom our thoughts, our fpirits open lie,
Grant me thy ftrength, and in that needful hour,
(Should it e'er come) when Law fubmits to Pow'r,
With firm refolve my steady bosom steel,
Bravely to fuffer, tho' I deeply feel.
Let me, as hitherto, ftill draw my breath,
In love with life, but not in fear of death;
And, if Oppreffion brings me to the grave,
And marks me dead, the ne'er fhall mark a flave.
Let no unworthy marks of grief be heard,
No wild laments, not one unfeemly word;
Let fober triumphs wait upon my bier,
I won't forgive that friend who drops one tear,
Whether he's ravifh'd in life's early morn,
Or, in old age, drops like an ear of corn,
Full ripe he falls, on Nature's nobleft plan,
Who lives to Reafon, and who dies a Man.
CCURS'D the man, whom Fate ordains in
fpite,
And cruel parents teach, to Read and Write!
What need of letters? Wherefore fhould we fpell!
Why write our names? A mark will do as well,
Much are the precious hours of youth mis-spent,
In climbing Learning's rugged steep afcent ;
When to the top the bold adventurer's got,
He reigns, vain monarch, o'er a barren spot,
Whilst in the vale of Ignorance below,
Folly and Vice to rank luxuriance grow;
Honours and wealth pour in on ev'ry fide,
And proud Preferment rolls her golden tide.
O'er crabbed authors life's gay prime to waste,
To cramp wild genius in the chains of tafte,
To bear the flavish drudgery of schools,
And tamely stoop to ev'ry pedant's rules,
For feven long years debarr'd of lib'ral cafe,
To plod in college trammels to degrees,
Beneath the weight of folemn toys to groan,
Sleep over books, and leave mankind unknown;
To praife each fenior blockhead's thread-bare tale,
And laugh till reafon blush, and fpirits fail,
Manhood with vile fubmiffion to disgrace,
And cap the fool, whofe merit is his place;
Vice-Chancellors, whofe knowledge is but fmall,
And Chancellors, who nothing know at all:
Ill-brook'd the gen'rous spirit in those days
When learning was the certain road to praife,
When nobles, with a love of fcience blefs'd,
Approv'd in others wha: themselves poffefs'd.
But now, when Dullness rears aloft her throne,
When Lordly vaffals her wide empire own,
When Wit, feduc'd by Envy, ftarts afide,
And bafely leagues with Ignorance and Pride,
What now thould tempt us, by falfe hopes mifled,
Learning's unfafhionable paths to tread;
To bear thofe labours, which our fathers bore,
That crown with-held, which they in triumph wore?
When with much pains this boasted learning's got,
"Tis an affront to thofe who have it not.
In fome it caufes hate, in others fear,
Inftructs our foes to rail, our friends to fneer.
With prudent hafte the worldly-minded fool
Forgets the little which he learn'd at school;
The elder brother, to vaft fortunes born,
Looks on all science with an eye of scorn;
Dependent brethren the fame features wear,
And younger fons are stupid as the heir,
In Senates, at the Bar, in Church and State,
Genius is vile, and I.earning out of date.
Is this O death to think! is this the land
Where Merit and Reward went hand in hand,
Where heroes, parent-like, the Poet view'd,
By whom they faw their glorious deeds renew'd ;
Where Poets, true to honour, tun'd their lays,
And by their patron fanétify'd their praise ?
Is this the land, where, on our Spenfer's tongue,
Enamour'd of his voice, description hung;
Where Jonfon rigid gravity beguil'd,
Whilft Reafon thro' her critic fences smil'd ;
Where Nature lift'ning ftood, whilft Shakespeare play'd,
And wonder'd at the work herfelf had made?
Is this the land, where, mindful of her charge
And office high, fair Freedom walk'd at large;
Where, finding in our laws a fure defence,
She mock'd at all restraints, but those of sense;
Where Health and Honour trooping by her fide,
She fpread her facred empire far and wide;
Pointed the way Affliction to beguile,
And bade the face of Sorrow wear a fmile;
Bade thofe, who dare obey the gen'rous call,
Enjoy her bleflings, which God meant for all?
Is this the land, where in fome tyrant's reign,
When a weak, wicked, ministerial train,
The tools of pow'r, the flaves of int'reft, plann'd
Their Country's ruin, and with bribes unmann'd
Thofe wretches, who, ordain'd in Freedom's caufe,
Gave up their liberties, and fold our laws;
When Pow'r was taught by Meannefs where to go,
Nor dar'd to love the virtue of a foe;
When, like a lep'rous plague, from the foul head
To the foul heart her fores Corruption spread,
Her iron arm when ftern Oppreffion rear'd,
And Virtue, from her broad base shaken, fear'd
The fcourge of Vice; when, impotent and vain,
Poor Freedom bow'd the neck to Slavery's chain ;
Is this the land, where in those worst of times,
The hardy Poet rais'd his honeft rimes
To dread rebuke, and bade controulment speak
In guilty blushes on the villain's check,
Bade pow'r turn pale, kept mighty rogues in awe,
And made them fear the Mufe, who fear'd not Law?
How do I laugh, when men of narrow fouls,
Whom folly guides, and prejudice controuls ;
Who, one dull drowfy track of business trad,
Worship their Mammon and neglect their God;
Who, breathing by one mufty fet of rules,
Dote from the birth, and are by fyftem fools;
Who, form'd to dullness from their very youth,
Lies of the day prefer to Gospel truth,
Pick up
their little knowledge from Reviews,
And lay out all their stock of faith in news :
How do I laugh, when creatures, form'd like thefe,
Whom Reason fcorns, and I fhould blush to please,
Rail at all lib'ral arts, deem verfe a crime,
And hold not truth as truth, if told in rime?
How do I laugh, when Publius, hoary groan
In zeal for Scotland's welfare and his own,
By flow degrees, and courfe of office, drawn
In mood and figure at the helm to yawn,
Too mean (the worst of curfes Heav'n can send)
To have a foe, too proud to have a friend,
Erring by form, which blockheads facred hold,
Ne'er making new faults, and ne'er mending old,
Rebukes my fpirit, bids the daring Mufe
Subject more equal to her weakness chufe;
Bids her frequent the haunts of humble fwains,
Nor dare to traffick in ambitious ftrains;
Bids her, indulging the poetic whim
In quais at-wrought Ode, or Sonnet pertly trim,
Along the church-way path complain with Gray,
Or dan ce with Mafon on the firft of May?
"All facred is the name and pow'r of Kings,
"All States and Statefmen are thofe mighty things
"Which, howfoe'er they out of course may roll,
"Were never made for Poets to controul."
Peace, peace, thou dotard, nor thus vilely deem Of facred numbers, and their pow'r blafpheme: I tell thee, wretch, fearch all creation round, In earth, in heav'n, no fubject can be found (Our God alone except) above whofe weight The Poet cannot rife, and hold his state. The bleffed Saints above in numbers speak The praife of God, tho' there all praise is weak; in numbers here below the Bard shall teach Virtue to foar beyond the villains reach; Shall tear his lab'ring lungs, ftrain his hoarfe throat, And raife his voice beyond the trumpet's note, Should an afflicted Country, aw'd by men Of flavish principles demand his pen. This is a great, a glorious point of view, Fit for an English Poet to pursue, Undaunted to pursue, tho' in return, His writings by the common hangman burn.
How do I laugh, when men, by fortune plac' Above their betters, and by rank difgrac'd, Who found their pride on titles which they stain, And, mean themfelves, are of their fathers vain; Who would a bill of privilege prefer,
And treat a Poet like a creditor,
The gen'rous ardour of the Mufe condemn,
And curfe the ftorm they know must break on them. "What, fhall a reptile Bard, a wretch unknown, "Without one badge of merit, but his own, "Great Nobles lafh, and Lords, like common
"Smart from the vengeance of a fcribbler's p
What's in this name of Lord, that I fhould fear To bring their vices to the public car? Flows not the honeft blood of humble fwains Quick as the tide which fwells a monarch's veins ? Monarchs, who wealth and titles can bestow, Cannot make virtues in fucceffion flow. Would't thou, proud man, be fafely plac'd above The cenfure of the Mufe, deferve her love, Act as thy birth demands, as nobles ought; Look back, and by thy worthy father taught, Who carn'd thofe honours, thou wert born to wear, Follow his steps, and be his Virtues' heir. But if, regardless of the road to fame, You start afide, and tread the paths of fhame; If fuch thy life, that should thy fire arife, The fight of fuch a fon would blaft his eyes, Would make him curfe the hour which gave thee birth,
Would drive him, fhudd'ring, from the face of earth.
Once more, with fhame and forrow, 'mongst the dead
In endlefs night to hide his rev'rend head;
If fuch thy life, tho' Kings had made thee more
Than ever King a fcoundrel made before;
Nay, to allow thy pride a deeper fpring,
Tho' God in vengeance had made thee a King,
Taking on Virtue's wing her daring flight,
The Mufe fhould drag thee trembling to the light,
Probe thy foul wounds, and lay thy bofom bare
To the keen queftion of the fearching air.
Gods! with what pride I fee the titled flave,
Who fmarts beneath the ftroke which Satire gave,
Aiming at eafe, and with difhoneft art,
Striving to hide the feelings of his heart!
How do I laugh, when with affected air,
(Scarce able thro' defpite to keep his chair,
Whilft on his trembling lip pale anger speaks, And the chaf'd blood flies mounting to his cheeks) He talks of confcience, which good men fecures From all thofe evil moments guilt endures, And feems to laugh at thofe, who pay regard To the wild ravings of a frantic bard. "Satire, whilft envy and ill-humour fway "The mind of man, muit always make her way; "Nor to a befom, with discretion fraught, "Is all her malice worth a fingle thought. "The Wife have not the will, nor Fools the pow'r "Toftop her headstrong course; within the hour, 1 "Left to herself, the dies; oppofing ftrife "Gives her fresh vigour, and longs her life. "All things her prey, and ev'ry man her aim, "I can no patent for exemption claim, "Nor would I with to ftop that harmless dart "Which plays around, but cannot wound my heart; "Tho' pointed at myfelf, be Satire free; "To her 'tis pleasure, and no pain to me."
Diffembling wretch! hence to the Stoic school, And there amongst thy brethren play the fool; There, unrebuk d, thefe wild, vain doctrines preach; Lives there a man, whom Satire cannot reach? Lives there a man, who calmly can stand by, And fee his confcience ripp'd with steady eye? When Satire flies abroad on Falfhood's wing, Short is her life, and impotent her fting; But, when to Truth allied, the wound the gives Sinks deep, and to remoteft ages lives. When in the tomb thy pamper'd flesh shall rot, And e'en by friends thy mem'ry be forgot, Still fhalt thou live, recorded for thy crimes, Live in her page, and stink to after-times.
Haft thou no feeling yet? Come throw off pride, And own those paffions which thou shalt not hide. S, who from the moment of his birth, Made human nature a reproach on earth; Who never dar'd, nor with'd behind to stay, When Folly, Vice, and Meanness led the way, Would blush, fhould he be told, by Truth and Wit, Thofe actions which he blush'd not to commit; Men the most infamous are fond of fame, And those who fear not guilt, yet start at shame.
But whither runs my zeal, whofe rapid force, Turning the brain, bears Reason from her course; Carries me back to times, when Poets, blefs'd With courage, grac'd the science they profefs'd; When they, in honour rooted, firmly stood The bad to punish, and reward the good; When, to a flame by public Virtue wrought, The foes of Freedom they to justice brought, And dar'd expose those slaves who dar'd fupport A tyrant plan, and call'd themfelves a Court? Ah! what are Poets now? As flavish those Who deal in verfe, as those who deal in profe. Is there an Author, search the kingdom round, In whom true worth and real spirit's found? The flaves of booksellers, or (doom'd by Fate To bafer chains) vile penfioners of State; Some, dead to fhame, and of those shackles proud Which Honour scorns, for flav'ry roar aloud; Others half-palfied only, mutes become, And what makes Smollet write, makes Johnfon
Why turns yon villain pale? Why bends his eye Inward, abah'd, when Murphy paties by ?
Doft thou fage Murphy for a blockhead take,
Who wages war with Vice for Virtue's fake?
No, no-like other worldlings, you will find
He shifts his fails, and catches ev'ry wind.
His foul the fhock of int'reft can't endure:
Give him a penfion then, and fin secure.
With laurell'd wreaths the flatt'rer's brows adorn,
Pid Virtue crouch, bid Vice exalt her horn,
Bid Cowards thrive, put Honefty to flight,
Murphy fhall prove, or try to prove it right.
Try, thou State-Juggler, ev'ry paltry art,
Ranfack the inmoft clofet of my heart,
Swear thou'rt my friend; by that base oath make way
Into my breaft, and flatter to betray:
Or, if thofe tricks are vain, if wholefome doubt
Detects the fraud, and points the villain out,
Bribe those who daily at my board are fed,
And make them take my life who eat my bread;
On authors for defence, for praife depend;
Pay him but well, and Murphy is thy friend.
He, he shall ready ftand with venal rimes,
To varnish guilt, and confecrate thy crimes;
To make Corruption in falfe colours shine,
And damn his own good name, to rescue thine.
But if thy niggard hands their gifts with-hold,
And Vice no longer rains down show'rs of gold,
Expect no mercy; facts, well grounded, teach,
Murphy, if not rewarded, will impeach.
What tho' each man of nice and jufter thought,
Shunning his fteps, decrees, by Honour taught,
He ne'er can be a friend, who ftoops fo low
To be the bafe betrayer of a foe;
What tho', with thine together link'd, his name
Must be with thine transmitted down to fhame,
To ev'ry manly feeling callous grown,
Rather than not blaft thine, he'll blaft his own.
To ope the fountain whence fedition fprings,
To flander Government, and libel Kings,
With Freedom's name to ferve a prefent hour,
Tho' born and bred to arbitrary pow'r,
To talk of William with infidious art,
Whilft a vile Stuart's lurking in his heart,
And, whilst mean Envy rears her loathfome head,
Flatt'ring the living, to abufe the dead,
Where is Shebbeare? O, let not foul reproach,
Travelling thither in a City coach,
The pill'ry dare to name; the whole intent
Of that parade was Fame, not Punishment,
And that old ftaunch Whig Beardmore ftanding by
Can in full Court give that report the lye.
With rude unnat'ral jargon to fupport,
Half Scotch, half English, a declining Court;
To make moft glaring contraries unite,
And prove, beyond difpute, that black is white;
To make firm Honour tamely league with Shame,
Make Vice and Virtue differ but in name
e;
To prove that Chains and Freedom are but one,
That to be fav'd muit mean to be undone,
Is there not Guthric? Who, like him can call
All oppofites to proof, and conquer all?
He calls forth living waters from the rock;
He calls forth children from the barren stock;
He, far beyond the fprings of Nature led,
Makes women bring forth after they are dead
He, on a curious, new, and happy plan,
In wedlc's facred bande joins man to man ;
And, to complete the whole, most strange, but true,
By fome rare magic, makes them fruitful too,
Whilft from their loins, in the due course of years,
Flows the rich blood of Guthrie's English Peers,
Doft thou contrive fome blacker deed of shame,
Something which Nature fhudders but to name,
Something which makes the foul of man retreat,
And the life-blood run backward to her feat?
Doft thou contrive for fome base private end,
Some felfish view, to hang a trufting friend,
To lure him on, e'en to his parting breath,
And promife life, to work him furer death?
Grown old in villainy, and dead to grace,
Hell in his heart, and Tyburn in his face;
Behold, a Parfon at thy elbow ftands,
Low'ring damnation, and with open hands
Ripe to betray his Saviour for reward;
The Atheist Chaplain of an Atheist Lord.
Bred to the Church, and for the gown decreed,
Ere it was known that I should learn to read;
Tho' that was nothing, for my friends, who knew
What mighty Dullness of itself could do,
Never defign'd me for a working Priest,
But hop'd, I fhould have been a Dean at least;
Condemn'd (like many more, and worthier men,
To whom I pledge the fervice of my pen),
Condemn'd (whilft proud and pamper'd fons of lawn,
Cramm'd to the throat, in lazy plenty yawn)
In pomp of rev'rend beggary to appear,
To pray, and ftarve on forty pounds a year;
My fr ends, who never felt the galling load,
Lament that I forfook the packhorse road,
Whilft Virtue to my conduct witness bears
In throwing off that gown which Francis wears.
What creature's that, fo very pert and prim;
So very full of foppery, and whim;
So gentle, yet fo brifk; so wond'rous sweet,
So fit to prattle at a lady's feet,
Who looks, as he the Lord's rich vineyard trod,
And by his garb appears a man of God?
Truft not to looks, nor credit outward show;
The villain lurks beneath the caflock'd beau;
That's an informer; what avails the name?
Suffice it that the wretch from Sodom came.
His tongue is deadly-from his prefence run,
Unless thy rage would wish to be undone.
No ties can hold him, no affection bind,
And fear alone restrains his coward mind;
Free him from that, no monster is so fell,
Nor is fo fure a blood-hound found in hell.
His filken fmiles, his hypocritic air,
His meek demeanor, plaufible and fair,
Are only worn to pave Fraud's eafier way,
And make gull'd Virtue fall a furer prey.
Attend his church-his plan of doctrine view-
The Preacher is a Chriftian, dull, but true;
But when the hallow'd hour of preaching's o'er,
That plan of doctrine's never thought of more;
Chrift is laid by neglected on the shelf,
And the vile Prieft is Gospel to himself.
By Cleland tutor'd, and with Blacow bred,
(Blacow, whom by a brave refentment led,
Oxford, if Oxford had not funk in fame,
Ere this, had damn'd to everlasting shame)
Their fteps he follows, and their crimes partakes,
To Virtue loft, to Vice alone he wakes,
Moft lusciously declaims 'gainst luscious themes,
And, whilft he rails at blafphemy, blafphemes.
VOL. VHI
Are these the arts, which policy fupplies ? Are these the steps, by which grave Churchmen rife ? Forbid it, Heav'n; or, fhould it turn out fo, Let me and mine continue mean and low. Such be their arts, whom interest controls; Kidgell and I have free and honest souls. We fcorn preferment which is gain'd by fin, And will, tho' poor without, have peace within.
HE clock ftruck twelve, o'er half the globe
Darkness had spread her pitchy robe;
Morpheus, his feet with velvet fhod,
Treading as if in fear he trod,
Gentle as dews at even-tide,
Diftill'd his poppies far and wide.
Ambition, who, when waking, dreams
Of mighty, but phantaftic, fchemes,
Who, when afleep, ne'er knows that reit
With which the humbler foul is bleft,
Was building caftles in the air,
Goodly to look upon and fair,
But, on a bad foundation laid,
Doom'd at return of morn to fade.
Pale Study, by the taper's light,
Wearing away the watch of night,
Sat reading; but, with o'ercharg'd head,
Remember'd nothing that he read.
Starving 'midft plenty, with a face
Which might the Court of Famine grace,
Ragged, and filthy to behold,
Grey Av'rice nodded o'er his gold.
Jealoufy, his quick eye half-clos'd,
With watchings worn, reluctant doz'd,
And mean diftruft not quite forgot,
Slumber'd as if he flumber'd not,
Stretch'd at his length on the bare ground,
His hardy offspring fleeping round,
Snor'd reftlefs Labour; by his fide
Lay Health, a coarse, but comely bride.
Virtue, without the doctor's aid,
In the foft arms of fleep was laid,
Whilst Vice, within the guilty breast,
Could not be phyfick'd into reft,
Thou bloody Man! whofe ruffian knife
Is drawn against thy neighbour's life,
And never fcruples to defcend
Into the bofom of a friend.
A firm, fast friend, by vice allied,
And to thy fecret service tied,
In whom ten murders breed no awe,
If properly fecur'd from law.
Thou man of Luft! whom paffion fires
To fouleft deeds, whofe hot defires
K
O'er honeft bars with eafe make way,
Whilft ideot beauty falls a prey,
And to indulge thy brutal flame,
A Lucrece must be brought to fhame;
Who doft, a brave, bold finner, bear
Rank inceft to the open air,
And rapes, full blown upon thy crown,
Enough to weigh a nation down.
Thou fimular of Luft! vain man,
Whose reftlefs thoughts ftill form the plan
Of guilt, which wither'd to the root,
Thy lifeless nerves can't execute,
Whilft in thy marrowlefs dry bones,
Defire without enjoyment groans.
Thou perjur'd Wretch! whom falfhood cloaths
E'en like a garment; who with oaths
Doft trifle, as with brokers, meant
To ferve thy ev'ry vile intent,
In the days broad and searching eye
Making God witness to a lye,
Blafpheming Heav'n and Earth for pelf,
And hanging friends to fave thyself.
Thou fon of Chance! whose glorious foul
On the four aces doom'd to roll,
Was never yet with Honour caught,
Nor on poor Virtue loft one thought;
Who doft thy wife, thy children fet,
Thy all, upon a single bet,
Rifquing, the defp'rate stake to try,
Here, and hereafter on a die;
Who, thy own private fortune loft,
Doft game on at thy country's coft,
And, grown expert in sharping rules,
First fool'd thyself, now prey'ft on fools.
Thou noble Gamefter, whofe high place
Gives too much credit to difgrace;
Who, with the motion of a die,
Doft make a mighty island fly,
The fums, I mean, of good French gold
For which a mighty island fold;
Who doft betray intelligence,
Abuse the dearest confidence,
And, private fortune to create,
Moft falfely play the game of State;
Who doft within the Alley Sport
Sums, which might beggar a whole Court,
And make us bankrupts all, if Care,
With good Earl Talbot, was not there.
Thou daring Infidel ! whom pride
And fin have drawn from Reason's fide;
Who, fearing his avengeful rod,
Doft with not to believe a God;
Whofe hope is founded on a plan,
Which fhould distract the foul of man,
And make him curse his abject birth;
Whofe hope is, once return'd to earth,
There to lie down, for worms a feast,
To rot and perish, like a beat;
Who doft, of punishment afraid,
And by thy crimes a coward made,
To ev'ry gen'rous foul a curse,
Than hell and all her torments worse,
When crawling to thy latter end,
Call on deftruction as a friend,
Chufing to crumble into duft,
Rather than rife, tho' rife you must.
Thou Hypocrite! who doft prophane,
And take the patriot's name in vain,
Then moft thy Country's foe, when most
Of love and loyalty you boast;
Who for the filthy love of gold,
Thy friend, thy King, thy God haft fold,
And, mocking the just claim of Hell,
Were bidders found, thyfelf wouldft fell.
Ye Villains! of whatever name,
Whatever rank, to whom the claim
Of Hell is certain, on whofe lids
That worm which never dies, forbids
Sweet fleep to fall, come and behold,
Whilft envy makes your blood run cold,
Behold, by pitiless Confcience led,
So Juftice wills, that holy bed,
Where Peace her full dominion keeps,
And Innocence with Holland fleeps.
Bid Terror, pofting on the wind,
Affray the fpirits of mankind,
Bid earthquakes heaving for a vent,
Rive their concealing continent,
And, forcing an untimely birth
Thro' the vast bowels of the earth,
Endeavour in her monstrous womb
At once all Nature to entomb;
Bid all that's horrible and dire,
All that man hates and fears, confpire
To make night hideous, as they can ;
Still is thy fleep, thou virtuous man,
Pure as the thoughts, which in thy breast
Inhabit, and insure thy reft;
Still fhall thy Ayliff, taught, tho' late,
Thy friendly juftice in his fate,
Turn'd to a guardian angel, fpread
Sweet dreams of comfort round thy head.
Dark was the night by Fate decreed
For the contrivance of a deed
More black than common, which might make
This land from her foundations shake
Might tear up Freedom from the root,
Destroy a Wilkes, and fix a Bute.
Deep Horror held her wide domain;
The fky in fullen drops of rain
Forewept the morn, and thro' the air,
Which, op'ning, laid its bofom bare,
Loud thunders roll'd, and lightning stream'd;
The owl at Freedom's window fcream'd,
The fcreech-owl, prophet dire, whose breath
Brings fickness, and whose note is death;
The church-yard teem'd, and from the tomb,
All fad and filent, thro' the gloom,
The ghofts of men, in former times
Whofe public virtues were their crimes,
Indignant ftalk'd; forrow and rage
Blank'd their pale cheek; in his own age
The prop of Freedom, Hampden there
Felt after death the gen'rous care;
Sidney by grief from Heav'n was kept,
And for his brother patriot wept :
All friends of Liberty, when Fate
Prepar'd to fhorten Wilkes's date,
Heav'd, deeply hurt, the heart-felt groan,
And knew that wound to be their own.
Hail, LIBERTY! a glorious word,
In other countries scarcely heard,
Or heard but as a thing of course,
Without or energy or force;
Here felt, enjoy'd, ador'd the fprings,
Far, far beyond the reach of kings,
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