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Soon as they draw, from Hyperborean skies,
90 See Christians, Jews, one heavy sabbath keep; And all the western world believe and sleep.
Lo Rome herself, proud mistress now no more Of arts, but thund'ring against heathen lore; Her grey-hair'd synods damning books unread, 95 And Bacon trembling for his brazen head ; Padua with sighs behold her Livy burn, And ev'n th' Antipodes Virgilius mourn. See, the cirque falls, th' unpillar'd temple nods, Streets pav'd with heroes, Tyber choak'd with gods : Till Peter's keys some christ'ned Jove adorn, And Pan to Moses lends his
pagan See graceless Venus to a virgin turn'd, Or Phidias broken, and Apelles burn'd.
Behold yon' isle, by palmers, pilgrims trod, 105
peace, great Goddess, ever be ador'd;
And see, my Son! the hour is on its way, 115
125 An hundred sons, and ev'ry son a god : Not with less glory mighty Dulness crown'd, Shall take thro' Grub-street her triumphant round; And her Parnassus glancing o'er at once, Behold an hundred sons, and each a dunce. 130
Mark first that youth who takes the foremost place, And thrusts his
With all thy father's virtues blest, be born!
A second see, by meeker manners known, 135
Lo next two slip-shod muses traipse along, In lofty madness, meditating song, With tresses staring from poetic dreams, And never wash’d, but in Castalia's streams : Haywood, Centlivre, glories of their race ! 145 Lo Horneck's fierce, and Room's funereal face ; Lo sneering Goode, half malice and half whim, A fiend in glee, ridiculously grim. Jacob, the
awe, Nor less revere him, blunderbuss of law.
150 Lo Bond and Foxton, ev'ry nameless name, All crowd, who foremost shall be damn'd to fame. Some strain in rhyme; the muses, on their racks, Scream like the winding of ten thousand jacks: Some free from rhyme or reason, rule or check, 155 Break Priscian's head, and Pegasus's neck ; Down, down they larum, with impetuous whirl, The Pindars, and the Miltons of a Curl.
Silence, ye Wolves ! while Ralph to Cynthia howls, And makes night hideous-Answer him ye Owls !
Sense, speech, and measure, living tongues and dead, Let all give way-and Morris may be read.
Flow, Welsted, flow! like thine inspirer, Beer, Tho'stale, not ripe; tho' thin, yet never clear; So sweetly mawkish, and so smoothly dull ;
165 Heady, not strong; and foaming, tho' not full. Ah Dennis! Gildon ah! what ill-starr'd
170 Embrace, embracē, my Sons! be foes no more! Nor glad vile poets with true critics gore.
Behold yon pair, in strict embraces join'd; How like in manners, and how like in mind ! Fam'd for good nature, Burnet, and for truth; 175 Ducket for pious passion to the youth. Equal in wit, and equally polite, Shall this a Pasquin, that a Grumbler write ; Like are their merits, like rewards they share, That shines a consul, this commissioner.
180 “ But who is he, in closet close y pent, Of sober face, with learned dust besprent? Right well mine eyes arede the myster wight, On parchment scraps y fed, and Wormius hight.” To future ages may thy dulness last, As thou preserv’st the dulness of the past !
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,
Yet oh, my Sons! a father's words attend :
yours, a Bacon or a Locke to blame,
215 That beams on earth, each virtue he inspires,