There, dim in clouds, the poring scholiasts mark: Wits, who, like owls, see only in the dark, A lumberhouse of books in ev'ry head, For ever reading, never to be read!

But, where each science lifts its modern type,

Hist'ry her pot, Divinity her pipe,

195

200

While proud Philosophy repines to show,
Dishonest sight! his breeches rent below;
Imbrown'd.with native bronze, lo! Henley stands,
Tuning his voice, and balancing his hands.
How fluent nonsense trickles from his tongue!
How sweet the periods, neither said nor sung!
Still break the benches, Henley! with thy strain,
While Sherlock, Hare, and Gibson, preach in vain.
Oh greater restorer of the good old stage,
Preacher at once, and Zany of thy age!
Oh worthy thou of Egypt's wise abodes,
A decent priest, where monkeys were the gods!

REMARKS.

205

v. 199.---lo! Henley stands, &c.] J. Henley the orator; he preached on the Sundays upon Theological matters, and on the Wednesdays upon all other Sciences. Each auditor paid one shilling. He declaimed some years against the greatest persons, and occasionally did our Author that honour.

v. 204.---Sherlock, Hare,---Gibson.] Bishops of Salisbu ry, Chichester, and London; whose Sermons and Pastoral Letters didhonour to their country as well as stations.

VARIATIONS.

2. 197. In the first edition it was,

And proud Philosophy with breeches tore,
And English imusic with a dismal score.
Fast by in darkness palpable inshrin'd
W---s, B---I, M---, all the poring kind,
Volume IV.

P

But Fate with butchers plac'd thy priestly stall,
Meek modern faith to murder, hack, and mawl;
And bade thee live, to crown Britannia's praise,
n Toland's, Tindal's, and in Woolston's days.
Yet, oh, my sons! a father's words attend:
(So may the Fates preserve the ears you lend)
'Tis yours a Bacon, or a Locke to blame,

A Newton's genius, or a Milton's flame:
But, oh! with one, immortal one, dispense,
The source of Newton's light, of Bacon's sense.
Content, each amanation of his fires

That beams on earth, each virtue he inspires,
Each heart he prompts, each charm he can create,
Whate'er he gives are giv'n for you to hate.
Persist, by all divine in man unaw'd,

210

215

220

225

But, "Learn, ye Dunces! not to scorn your God."
Thus he, for then a ray of reason stole
Half through the solid darkness of his soul;
But soon the cloud return'd---and thus the sire:
See now what Dulness, and her Sons admire!
See what the charms that smite the simple heart,
Not touch'd by Nature, and not reach'd by Art.
His never-blushing head he turn'd aside,
(Not half so pleas'd when Goodman prophesy'd),

REMARKS.

230

v. 212. Of Toland and Tindal, see Book II. ver. 309. Thomas Woolston was an impious madman, who wrote, in a most insolent style, against the miracles of the Gospel, in the years 1626, &c.

IMITATIONS.

v. 2. Learn, ye Dunces! not to scorn your God."] "Discitę justitiam moniti et non temnere divos."

Virg.

And look'd, and saw a sable sorc'rer rise,
Swift to whose hand a winged volume flies:
All sudden, gorgons hiss, and dragons glare,
And ten-horn'd fiends and giants rush to war.

235

Hell rises, heav'n descends, and dance on earth; Gods, imps, and monsters, music, rage, and mirth, A fire, a jig, a battle, and a bali,

'Till one wide conflagration swallows all.

240

Thence a new world to Nature's laws unknown,

Breaks out refulgent, with a heav'n its own:

Another Cynthia her new journey runs,

And other planets circle other suns.

The forests dance, the rivers upward rise,

245

Whales sport in woods, and dolphins in the skies;
And last, to give the whole creation grace,

Lo! one vast egg produces human race.

Joy fills his soul, joy innocent of thought;

What pow'r, he cries, what pow'r these wonders

wrought?

Son, what thou seek'st is in thee! look and find
Each monster meets his likeness in thy mind.
Yet would'st thou more? in yonder cloud behold,
Whose sarsenet skirts are edg'd with flamy gold,

---Solemque suum, sua sidera norunt.'

250

Virg. En VI. v. 246. Whales sport in woods, and dolphins in the skies.] "Delphinum sylvis appingit, fluctibus aprum." Hor.

v. 251. Sun, what thou seekest is in thee!]

Quod petis in te est----

66

-Ne te quaesiveris extra."

Pers.

A matchless youth! his nod these worlds controls,
Wings the red lightning, and the thunder rolls.
Angel of Dulness, sent to scatter round
Her magic charms o'er all unclassic ground:
Yon' stars, yon' suns, he rears at pleasure higher,
Illumes their light, and sets their flames on fire.
Immortal Rich! how calm he sits at ease,
Midst snows of paper, and fierce hail of pease!
And proud his mistress' orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.
But lo! to dark encounter in mid air
New wizards rise; I see my Cibber there!
Booth in his cloudy tabernacle shrin'd,

On grinning dragons thou shalt mount the wind.

REMARKS.

256

260

265

v. 161. Immortal Rich!] Mr. John Rich, master of the theatre-royal in Covent-garden, was the first that excelled this way.

v. 266, 267.] Booth and Cibber were joint managers of the theatre in Drury-lane.

IMITATIONS.

v. 256. Wings the red lightning, &c.] Like Salmoneus in ♬ n. VI.

"Dum flammas Jovis, et sonitus imitatur Olympi. ---Nimbos, et non imitabile fulmen,

"Aere et cornipedum cursu simularet equorum.” v. 268.---o'er all unclassic ground.] Alludes to Mr. Addison's verse in the praise of Italy:

"Poetic fields encompass me around,

"And still I seem to tread on classic ground." As ver. 264, is a parody on a noble one of the same author in the Campaign: and ver. 259, 260, on two sublime verses of Dr. Y.

Dire is the conflict, dismal is the din,

Here shouts all Drury, there all Lincoln's-inn; 270
Contending theatres our empire raise,

Alike their labours, and alike their praise.

And are these wonders, Son, to thee unknown?
Unknown to thee! these wonders are thy own.
These Fate reserv'd to grace thy reign divine,
Foreseen by me, but, ah! with-held from mine.
In Lud's old walls, though long I rul'd renown'd
Far as loud Bow's stupendous bells resound;
Though my own aldermen conferr'd the bays,
To me committing their eternal praise,
Their full-fed heroes, their pacific may❜rs,
Teir annual trophies, and their monthly wars:
Though long my party built on me their hopes,
For writing pamphlets, and for roasting Popes;
Yet lo! in me what authors have to brag on!
Reduc'd at last to hiss in my own dragon.
Avert in Heav'n! that thou, my Cibber, e'er
Shouldst wag a serpent-tail in Smithfield fair!
Like the vile straw that's blown about the streets,
The needy poet sticks to all he meets,
Coach'd, carted, trod upon, now loose, now fast,
And carry'd off in some dog's tail at last.

VARIATIONS.

275

280

285

290

After v. 274. in the former edit. followed,
For works like these let deathless Journals tell,
None but thyself can be thy parallel.

After v.
284. in the former edit. followed,
Diff'rent our parties, but with equal grace
The Goddess smiles on Whig and Tory race.