Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby, there lay;
But loads of Sh- almost choak'd the way.
Bilk'd Stationers for yeomen stood prepar'd,
And H- —n was captain of the guard.
The hoary prince in majefty appear'd,
High on a throne of his own labours rear'd.
At his right hand our young Afcanius fate,
Rome's other hope, and pillar of the state.
His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace,
And lambent Dulness play'd around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come,

Swore by his fire a mortal foe to Rome;

So Sh.

fwore, nor fhould his vow be vain, That he, till death, true dulnefs would maintain; And, in his father's right, and rea'm's defence, Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with fenfe. The king himself the facred unction made, As king by office, and as priest by trade. In his finifter hand, inftead of ball, He plac'd a mighty mug of potent ale; Love's kingdom to his right he did convey, At once his fceptre, and his rule of sway; Whofe righteous lore the prince had practis'd young, And from whofe loins recorded Pfyche sprung. His temples, laft, with poppies were o'erfpread, That, nodding, feem'd to confecrate his head. Juft at the point of time, if fame not lye, On his left hand twelve rev'rend owls did fly. So Romulus, 'tis fung, by Tyber's brook, Prefage of fway from twice fix vultures took. Th' admiring

I 2

Th' admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And omens of his future empire take.
The fire then fhook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion fhed
Full on the filial dullness: long he stood,
Repelling from his breast the raging god;
At length burft out in this prophetic mood:
"Heav'ns blefs my fon, from Ireland let him reign
To far Barbadoes on the western main;
Of his dominion may no end be known,
And greater than his father's be his throne;
Beyond Love's kingdom let him ftretch his pen!"-
He paus'd, and all the people cry'd, Amen.
Then thus continu'd he: "My fon, advance
Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Succefs let others teach, learn thou, from me,
Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry.
Let Virtuofo's in five years be writ;
Yet not one thought accufe thy toil of wit.
Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
And, in their folly, fhew the writer's wit.
Yet fill thy fools fhall ftand in thy defence,
And justify their author's want of sense,
Let 'em be all by thy own model made
Of dulnefs, and defire no foreign aid;
That they to future ages may be known,
Not copies drawn, but iffue of thy own.
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the fame,
All full of thee, and diff'ring but in name.

But let no alien S-dl-y interpofe,

To lard with wit thy hungry Epfom profe.

And, when false flowers of Rhetoric thou wouldst cull,
Truft Nature, do not labour to be dull;

But write thy beft, and top; and, in each line,
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine:

Sir Formal, tho' unfought, attends thy quill,
And does thy Northern Dedications fill.
Nor let falfe friends feduce thy mind to fame,
By arrogating Johnson's hoftile name.

Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.

Thou art my blood, where Johnfon has no part:
What share have we in nature or in art?
Where did his wit on Learning fix a brand,
And rail at arts he did not understand?
Where made he love in prince Nicander's vein,
Or fwept the duft in Pfyche's humble strain ?
Where fold he bargains, whip-ftitch, kifs my arfe,
Promis'd a play, and dwindled to a farce ?
When did his mufe from Fletcher fcenes purloin,
As thou whole Eth'ridge doft transfuse to thine?
But fo transfus'd, as oil and waters flow;
His always floats above, thine finks below.
This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,
New humours to invent for each new play :
This is that boasted bias of thy mind,
By which, one way, to dulnefs 'tis inclin'd:
Which makes thy writings lean on one fide still,
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.

Nor let thy mountain-belly make pretence
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ;
But fure thou'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep:
Thy tragic mufe gives fmiles, thy comic, fleep.
With whate'er gall thou fet'ft thyself to write,
Thy inoffenfive fatires never bite.
In thy felonious heart though venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen Iambics, but mild Anagram.

Leave writing plays, and chufe for thy command
Some peaceful province in Acroftic land.

}

There thou may'ft Wings display, and Altars raise,
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.
Or, if thou woud'ft thy different talents fuit,
Set thy own fongs, and fing them to thy lute."
He faid; but his laft words were scarcely heard:
For Bruce and Longvil had a trap prepar'd,
And down they fent the yet declaiming bard.
Sinking, he left his drugget robe behind,
Borne upwards by a fubterranean wind.
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part,
With double portion of his father's art.

Ο Ν

Ο Ν

POETRY.

A

RHAPSODY.

Here follows one of the best verfified poems in our language, and the moft masterly production of its author. The feverity with which Walpole is here treated, was in confequence of that minifter's having refused to provide for Swift in England, when applied to for that purpose in the year 1725 (if I remember right). The feverity of a poet, however, gave Walpole very little uneafinefs. A man whofe fchemes, like this minifter's, feldom extended beyond the exi

gency of the year, but little regarded the contempt of pofterity.

A

LL human race would fain be wits,
that hits.

And millions mifs for one
Young's univerfal paffion, pride,
Was never known to spread fo wide.
Say, Britain, could you ever boast
Three poets in an age, at most ?
Our chilling climate hardly bears
A fprig of bays in fifty years :