And, to complete the whole, moft strange, but true,
By fome rare magic, makes them fruitful too,
Whilft from their loins, in the due courfe of years,
Flows the rich blood of Guthrie's Engliff: Peers,

Doft thou contrive fome blacker deed of fhame,
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 felfifh 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 Prieft,
But hop'd, I should have been a Dean at least ;
Condemn'd (like many more, and worthier
men,
To whom I pledge the service of my pen),
Condemn'd (whilst 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; fo 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 presence run,
Unless thy rage would wish to be undone.
No ties can hold him, no affection bind,
And fear alone reftrains his coward mind;
Free him from that, no monster is fo 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 easier way,
And make gull'd Virtue fall a furer prey.
Attend his church-his plan of doctrine view-
The Preacher is a Christian, 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 fhelf,
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, whilst he rails at blafphemy, blafphemes.
VOL. VIII.

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 honeft fouls. We scorn preferment which is gain'd by fin, And will, tho' poor without, have within. peace

END OF THE AUTHOR.

THE

DUELLIS T.

TH

IN

THREE BOOKS.

BOOK I.

HE clock ftruck twelve, o'er half the globe
Darkness had fpread 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 aflcep, 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 watching's 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 reflefs Labour; by his fide
Lay Health, a'coarfe, but comely bride.
Virtue, without the doctor's aid,
In the foft arms of fleep was laid,
Whilft Vice, within the guilty breat,
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 foulet deeds, whofe hot defire.
K

O'er honeft bars with ease make way,
Whilft ideat 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,
Whofe reftlefs thoughts ftill form the plan
Of guilt, which wither'd to the root,
Thy lifeless nerves can't execute,
Whilft in thy marrowless 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 save thyself.
Thou fon of Chance! whofe 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 ftake 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 thyfelf, 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 Reafon's fide;
Who, fearing his avengeful rod,
Doft wish not to believe a God;
Whofe hope is founded on a plan,
Which should distract the foul of man,
And make him curse his abject birth;
Whose hope is, once return'd to earth,
There to lie down, for worms a feast,
To rot and perifh, like a beait;
Who doft, of punishment afraid,
And by thy crimes a coward made,
To ev'ry gen'rous foul a curfe,
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 moft
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, thyself wouldıt 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,
Whilst envy makes your blood run cold,
Behold, by pitiless Confcience led,
So Justice wills, that holy bed,
Where Peace her full dominion keeps,
And Innocence with Holland fleeps.

Bid Terror, potting 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 breaft
Inhabit, and infure 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 whofe 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 courfe,
Without or energy or force;
Here felt, enjoy'd, ador'd fhe fprings,
Far, far beyond the reach of kings,

Fresh blooming from our mother earth:
With pride and joy fhe owns her birth
Deriv'd from us, and in return
Bids in our breasts her genius burn;
Bids us with all those bleffings live
Which Liberty alone can give,
Or nobly with that spirit die,
Which makes death more than victory.

Hail thofe old patriots, on whofe tongue Perfuafion in the Senate hung,

Whilft they the facred cause maintain'd!
Hail thofe old chiefs, to honour train'd,
Who fpread, when other methods fail'd,
War's bloody banner, and prevail'd!
Shall men like these unmention'd fleep
Promiscuous with the common heap,
And (gratitude forbid the crime)
Be carried down the ftream of time
In fhoals, unnotic'd and forgot,
On Lethe's stream, like flags, to rot?
No-they fhall live, and each fair name,
Recorded in the book of Fame,
Founded on Honour's bafis, faft
As the round earth to ages laft.
Some virtues vanish with our breath,
Virtue like this lives after death.
Old Time himself, his scythe thrown by,
Himself loft in eternity,

An everlafting crown shall twine
To make a Wilkes and Sidney join.

But should some slave-got villain dare
Chains for his Country to prepare,
And, by his birth to slav'ry broke,
Make her to feel the galling yoke,
May he be evermore accurs'd,
Amongst bad men be rank'd the worst ;
May he be ftill himself, and ftill
Go on in vice, and perfect ill;
May his broad crimes each day increase,
'Till he can't live, nor die in peace;
May he be plung'd fo deep in shame
That Satan may'nt endure his name,
And hear, fcarce crawling on the earth,
His children curse him for their birth;
May Liberty, beyond the grave,
Ordain him to be still a flave,
Grant him what here he most requires,
And damn him with his own defires!
But should some villain, in fupport
And zeal for a despairing Court,
Placing in craft his confidence,
And making honour a prètence
To do a deed of deepest shame,
Whilft filthy lucre is his aim;

Should fuch a wretch, with fword or knife,
Contrive to practise 'gainst the life
Of one, who honour'd thro' the land,
For Freedom made a glorious ftand;
Whofe chief, perhaps his only crime,
Is (if plain Truth at fuch a time
May dare her fentiments to tell)
That he his Country loves too well;
May he-but words are all too weak
The feelings of my heart to speak-
May he-O for a noble curfe
Which might his very marrow pierce-
The general contempt engage,
And be the Martin of his age.

END OF THE FIRST BOOK.

DE

BOOK 11.

EEP in the bofom of a wood, Out of the road, a Temple ftood; Antient, and much the worfe for wear, It call'd aloud for quick repair, And, tottering from fide to fide, Menac'd deftruction far and wide, Nor able feem'd, unlefs made stronger, To hold out four or five years longer. Four hundred pillars, from the ground Rifing in order, most unfound, Some rotten to the heart aloof, Seem'd to fupport the tott'ring roof, But to inspection nearer laid, Inftead of giving wanted aid.

The structure, rare and curious, made
By men moft famous in their trade,
A work of years, admir'd by all,
Was fuffer'd into duft to fall;
Or, just to make it hang together,
And keep off the effects of weather,
Was patch'd and patch'd from time to time
By wretches, whom it were a crime,
A crime, which Art would treason hold,
To mention with those names of old.

Builders, who had the pile furvey'd,
And those not Flitcrofts in their trade
Doubted (the wife hand in a doubt
Merely fometimes to hand her out)
Whether (like churches in a brief,
Taught wifely to obtain relief
Thro' Chancery, who gives her fees
To this and other charities)

It must not, in all parts unfound,
Be ripp'd, and pull'd down to the ground;
Whether (tho' after-ages ne'er
Shall raife a building to compare)
Art, if they fhould their art employ,
Meant to preferve, might not destroy
As human bodies, worn away,
Batter'd and hasting to decay,
Bidding the pow'r of Art despair,
Cannot thofe very medicines bear,
Which, and which only can restore,
And make them healthy as before.

TO LIBERTY, whofe gracious smile
Shed peace and plenty o'er the isle,
Our grateful ancestors, her plain
But faithful children, rais'd this fane.

Full in the front, ftretch'd out in length,
Where Nature put forth all her strength
In fpring eternal, lay a plain,

Where our brave father's us'd to train Their fons to arms, to teach the art and fteel the infant heart.

Of war,

Labour, their hardy nurse, when young,
Their joints had knit, their nerves had strung;
Abftinence, foe declar'd to death,

Had, from the time they first drew breath,
The best of doctors, with plain food,
Kept pure the channel of their blood;
Health in their cheeks bade colour rife,
And Glory sparkled in her eyes.

* Henry Flitcroft was the architect of St. Giles's in the Fields, St. Olave Southwark, &c.

K 2

The inftruments of husbandry,
As in contempt, were all thrown by,
And, flattering a manly pride,
War's keener tools their place fupplied.
Their arrows to the head they drew :
Swift to the point their javelins flew ;
They grafp'd the fword, they shook the spear ;
Their fathers felt a pleasing fear;
And even Courage, standing by,
Scarcely beheld with steady eye.
Each tripling, leffon'd by his fire,
Knew when to elofe, when to retire,
When near at hand, when from afar
To fight, and was himfelt a War,

Their wives, their mothers all around,
Careless of order, on the ground,
Breath'd forth to Heav'n the pious vow,
And for a fon's or husband's brow,
With eager fingers laurel wove;
Laurel, which in the facred grove,
Flinted by LIBERTY, they find,
The brows of conquerors to bind,
To give them pride and fpirits, fit
To make a world in arms fubmit.

What raptures did the bofom fire
Of the young, rugged, peasant fire,
When from the toil of mimic fight,
Returning with return of night,
He saw his babe refign the breast,
And, fmiling, ftroke thofe arms in jeft,
With which hereafter he fhall make
The proudeft heart in Gallia quake!

Gods! with what joy, what honest pride,
Did each fond, wifhing, ruftic bride
Behold her manly fwain return!
How did her love-fick bofom burn,
Tho' on parades he was not bred,
or wore the livery of red,

When, Pleasure height'ning all her charms,
She ftrain'd her warrior in her arms,
And begg'd, whilft love and glory fire,
A fon, a fon just like his fire!

Such were the mén in former times,
Ere luxury had made our crimes
Our bitter punishment, who bore
Their terrors to a foreign fhore;

Such were the men, who free from dread,
By Edwards and by Henries led,
Spread, like a torrent fwell'd with rains,
O'er haughty Gallia's trembling plains;
Such were the men, when luft of pow'r,
To work him woe, in evil hour
Debauch'd the tyrant from thofe ways
On which a King fhould found his praife;
When ftern Oppreffion, hand in hand
With Pride, ftalk'd proudly thro' the land;
When weeping Juftice was milled
From her fair courfe, and Mercy dead;
Such were the men, in virtue strong,
Who dar'd not fee their Country's wrong;
Who left the mattock, and the spade,
And, in the robes of war array'd,
In their rough arms, departing, took
Their helpless babes, and with a look
Stern and determin'd, fwore to fee

By threats or bribes; who, Freemen born,
Chains, tho' of gold, beheld with scorn;
Who, free from ev'ry fervile awe,
Could never be divorc'd from Law,
From that broad gen'ral Law, which Sense
Made for the general defence;
Could never yield to partial ties
Which from dependent stations rife ;
Could never be to flav'ry led,
For Property was at their head;
Such were the men in days of yore,
Who, call'd by Liberty, before
Her Temple on the facred green,
In martial paftimes oft were feen-
Now feen no longer-in their stead,
To laziness and vermin bred,
A race who, ftrangers to the cause
Of Freedom, live by other laws,
On other motives fight, a prey
To intereft, and flaves for pay.
Valour, how glorious on a plan
Of Honour founded, leads their van;
Difcretion, free from taint of fear,
Cool, but refolv'd, brings up their rear,
Difcretion, Valour's better half;.
Dependence hold's the General's staff.

In plain and home-spun garb array'd,
Not for vain fhew, but fervice made,
In a green flourishing old age,
Not damn'd yet with an equipage,
In rules of porterage untaught,
Simplicity, not worth a groat,
For years had kept the Temple-door;
Full on his breast a glass he wore,
Thro' which his bofom open lay
To ev'ry one that pafs'd that way.
Now turn'd adrift-with humbler face
But prouder heart, his vacant place
Corruption fills, and bears the key;
No entrance now without a fee.

With belly round, and full fat face,
Which on the house reflected grace,
Full of good fare, and honeft glee,
The feward Hofpitality,

Old Welcome fmiling by his fide,
A good old fervant, often tried,
And faithful found, who kept in view
His Lady's fame and int'reft too,
Who made each heart with joy rebound,
Yet never run her state a-ground,
Was turn'd off, or (which word I find
Is more in modern use) resign'd.

Half-ftarv'd, half-ftarving others, bred
In beggary, with carrion fed,
Detefted, and detefting all,
Made up of avarice and gall,
Boafting great thrift, yet wafting more
Than ever fteward did before,
Succeeded one, who, to engage
The praife of an exhausted age,
Affum'd a name of high degree,
And call'd himself Oeconomy.

Within the Temple, full in fight, Where, without ceafing, day and night, The workmen toil'd, where Labour bar'd His brawny arm, where Art prepar'd, In regular and even rows,

Her types, a Printing-Press arose ;

Each workman knew his task, and each

Was honeft and expert as Leach.

Hence Learning ftruck a deeper root.

And Science brought forth riper fruit ;
Hence Loyalty receiv'd fupport,

Even when banish'd from the Court;
Hence Government gain'd strength, and hence
Religion fought, and found defence;
Hence England's faireft fame arose,
And liberty fubdu'd her foes.

On a low, fimple, turf-made throne
Rais'd by Allegiance, fcarcely known
From her attendants, glad to be
Pattern of that equality

She with'd to all, fo far as cou'd
Safely confift with focial good,
The Goddess fat; around her head
A chearful radiance Glory spread;
Courage, a youth of royal race,
Lovelily ftern, poffefs'd a place
On her left-hand, and on her right
Sat Honour, cloath'd with robes of light;
Before her Magna Charta lay,
Which fome great lawyer, of his day
The Pratt, was offic'd to explain,
And make the bafis of her reign:
Peace, crown'd with olive, to her breaft
Two smiling twin-born infants prest;
At her feet couching, War was laid,
And with a brindled lion play'd;
Justice and Mercy, hand and hand,
joint guardians of the happy land,
Together held their mighty charge,
And Truth walk'd all about at large;
Health for the royal troop the feaft
Prepar'd and Virtue was High-Priest.
Such was the fame our Goddess bore,
Her Temple such in days of yore.
What changes ruthless Time presents!
Behold her ruin'd battlements,
Her walls decay'd, her nodding spires,
Her altars broke, her dying fires,
Her name despis'd, her priests deftroy'd,
Her friends difgrac'd, her foes employ'd,
Herfelf (by minifterial arts

Depriv'd e'en of the People's hearts,
Whilst they, to work her furer woe,
Feign her to monarchy a foe)
Exil'd by grief, felf-doom'd to dwell
With fome poor hermit in a cell,
Or, that retirement tedious grown,
If the walks forth, the walks unknown,
Hooted and pointed at with scorn,
As one in fome strange country born.
Behold a rude and ruffian race,
A band of spoilers, feize her place:
With looks, which might the heart dif-feat,
And make life found a quick retreat,
To rapine from the cradle bred,
A faunch, old blood-hound at their head,
Who, free from virtue and from awe,
Knew none but the bad part of law,
They rov'd at large; each on his breast
Mark'd with a grey-hound, ftood confest.
Controulment waited on their nod,
High-wielding Perfecution's rod;
Confufion follow'd at their heels,
And a caft Statesman held the seals,

Thofe feals, for which he dear fhall pay, When awful Juftice takes her day.

The Printers faw-they faw and fledScience declining, hung her head, Property in defpair appear'd,

And for herself destruction fear'd;
Whilst under foot the rude flaves trod
The works of men, and word of God;
Whilft close behind, on many a book,
In which he never deigns to look,
Which he did not, nay-could not read,
A bold, bad man (by pow'r decreed
For that bad end, who in the dark
Scorn'd to do mifchief) fet his mark
In the full day, the mark of Hell,
And on the Gospel stamp'd an L.

LIBERTY fled, her friends withdrew, Her friends, a faithful, chofen few; Honour in grief threw up, and Shame, Cloathing herself with Honour's name, Ufurp'd his station; on the throne

Which LIBERTY once call'd her own,
(Gods, that fuch mighty ills should spring
Under fo great, fo good a King,
So lov'd, fo loving, thro' the arts
Of Statesmen curs'd with wicked hearts!)
For ev'ry darker purpose fit,
Behold in triumph State-Craft fit.

A

H me! what mighty perils wait The man who meddles with a State, Whether to ftrengthen, or oppofe! Falfe are his friends, and firm his foes. How muft his foul, once ventur'd in, Plunge blindly on from fin to fin! What toils he fuffers, what difgrace, To get, and then to keep a place! How often, whether wrong or right, Muft he in jeft or earnest fight, Rifquing for those both life and limb, Who would not risque one groat for him! Under the Temple lay a cave, Made by fome guilty, coward flave, Whofe actions fear'd rebuke, a maze Of intricate and winding ways, Not to be found without a clue; One paffage only, known to few, In paths direct led to a cell, Where Fraud in fecret lov'd to dwell, With all her tools and flaves about her, Nor fear'd left Honefty fhould rout her. In a dark corner, fhunning fight Of man, and fhrinking from the light, One dull, dim taper thro' the cell Glimm'ring, to make more horrible The face of darkness, the prepares, Working unfees, all kinds of fnares,