In Albion then, with equal lustre bright, Great Dryden rose, and steer'd by nature's light: Two glimmering orbs he just observ'd from far, The ocean wide, and dubious either star. [bruis'd, Donne teem'd with wit, but all was maim'd and The periods endless, and the sense confus'd: Oldham rush'd on, impetuous and sublime, But lame in language, harmony, and rhyme. These (with new graces) vigorous nature join'd In one, and center'd 'em in Dryden's mind. How full thy verse! thy meaning how severe! How dark thy theme! yet made exactly clear. Not mortal is thy accent, nor thy rage; Yet mercy softens or contracts each page. Dread bard! instruct us to revere thy rules, And hate, like thee, all rebels and all fools.

His spirit ceas'd not (in strict truth) to be; For dying Dryden breath'd, O Garth! on thee, Bade thee to keep alive his genuine rage, Half-sunk in want, oppression, and old age; Then, when thy pious hands repos'd his head, When vain young lords, and evʼn the flamen fled. For well thou knew'st his merit and his art, His upright mind, clear head, and friendly heart: Ev'n Pope himself (who sees no virtue bleed But bears the' affliction) envies thee the deed. O Pope! instructor of my studious days, Who fix'd my steps in virtue's early ways: On whom our labours and our hopes depend, Thou more than patron, and ev'n more than friend! Above all flattery, all thirst of gain,

And mortal but in sickness, and in pain!

* Dr. Garth took care of Mr. Dryden's funeral, which one nobleman, who undertook it, had neglected.

Thou taught'st old Satire nobler fruits to bear,
And check'd her license with a moral care;
Thou gav'st the thought new beauties not its own,
And touch'd the verse with graces yet unknown.
Each lawless branch thy level eye survey'd
And still corrected Nature as she stray'd:
Warm'd Boileau's sense with Britain's genuine fire,
And added softness to Tassone's lyre.

Yet mark the hideous nonsense of the age,
And thou thyself the subject of its rage:
So in old times, round godlike Scæva ran
Rome's dastard sons, a million, and a man.

The' exalted merits of the wise and good
Are seen far off, and rarely understood.
The world's a father to a dunce unknown,
And much he thrives, for, Dulness! he's thy own,
No hackney brethren e'er condemn him twice;
He fears no enemies but dust and mice.

If Pope but writes, the devil Legion raves,
And meagre critics mutter in their caves:
(Such critics of necessity consume

All wit, as hangmen ravish'd maids at Rome.)
Names he a scribbler? all the world's in arms,
Augusta, Granta, Rhedecyna swarms :
The guilty reader fancies what he fears,
And every Micas trembles for his ears.

See all such malice, obloquy, and spite
Expire ere morn, the mushroom of a night!
Transient as vapours glimmering through the glades
Half-form'd and idle, as the dreams of maids;
Vain as the sick man's vow, or young man's sigh,
Third nights of bards, or Henley's sophistry.
These ever hate the poet's sacred line:

These hate whate'er is glorious or divine.

From one eternal fountain beauty springs,
The energy of wit, and truth of things;

That source is God! from him they downwards tend,
Flow round-yet in their native centre end.
Hence rules, and truth, and order, dunces strike;
Of arts, and virtues, enemies alike.

Some urge, that poets of supreme renown
Judge ill to scourge the refuse of the town,
Howe'er their casuists hope to turn the scale,
These men must smart, or scandal will prevail.
By these the weaker sex still suffer most;
And such are prais'd who rose at honour's cost:
The learn'd they wound, the virtuous, and the fair,
No fault they cancel, no reproach they spare;
The random shaft, impetuous in the dark,
Sings on unseen, and quivers in the mark.
'Tis justice, and not anger, makes us write;
Such sons of darkness must be dragg'd to light:
Long-suffering nature must not always hold;
In virtue's cause 'tis generous to be bold.
To scourge the bad, the' unwary to reclaim,
And make light flash upon the face of shame.
Others have urg'd (but weigh it and you'll find
"Tis light as feathers blown before the wind)
That poverty, the curse of Providence,
Atones for a dull writer's want of sense:
Alas! his dulness 'twas that made him poor,
Not vice versa: we infer no more.
Of vice and folly poverty's the curse,
Heaven may be rigid, but the man was worse;
By good made bad, by favours more disgrac❜d,
So dire the' effects of ignorance misplac'd!
Of idle youth, unwatch'd by parents' eyes!
Of zeal for pence, and dedication-lies!

Of conscience modell'd by a great man's looks! And arguings in religion-from no books!

No light the darkness of that mind invades, Where Chaos rules, enshrin'd in genuine shades; Where, in the dungeon of the soul enclos'd True Dulness nods, reclining and repos'd, Sense, grace, or harmony, ne'er enter there, Nor human faith, nor piety sincere ;

A midnight of the spirits, soul and head, (Suspended all) as thought itself lay dead. Yet oft a mimic gleam of transient light Breaks through this gloom, and then they think they write;

From streets to streets the' unnumber'd pamphlets
Then tremble Warner, Brown, and Billingsly."
O thou most gentle deity appear,

Thou who still hears't, and yet art prone to hear:
Whose eye ne'er closes, and whose brains ne'er rest,
(Thy own dear Dulness bawling at shy breast)
Attend, O Patience, on thy arm reclin'd,

And see wit's endless enemies behind!

And ye, our Muses, with a hundred tongues, And thou, O Henley; bless'd with brazen lungs; Fanatic Withers! fam'd for rhymes and sighs, And Jacob Behmen! most obscurely wise; From darkness palpable, on dusky wings Ascend and shroud him who your offspring sings. The first, with Egypt's darkness on his head, Thinks wit the devil, and curses books unread. For twice ten winters has he blunder'd on Through heavy comments, yet ne'er lost nor won Much may be done in twenty winters more, And let him then learn English at threescore.

Three booksellers.

No sacred Maro glitters on his shelf,
He wants the mighty Stagyrite himself.
See vast Coimbria's* comments pil'd on high,
In heaps Soncinas,† Sotus' Sanchez lie;
For idle hours, Sa's idler casuistry.

Yet worse is he, who, in one language read,
Has one eternal jingling in his head,

At night, at morn, in bed, and on the stairs,
Talk flights to grooms, and makes lewd songs at
His pride, a pun; a guinea his reward; [pray'rs :
His critic, Gildon, Jemmy Moore his bard.

What artful hand the wretch's form can hit,

Begot by Satan on a M-ly's§ wit:

In parties furious at the great man's nod,
And hating none for nothing, but his God:
Foe to the learn'd, the virtuous, and the sage,
A pimp in youth, an atheist in old age:
Now plung'd in bawdry and substantial lies,
Now dabbling in ungodly thories:

But so, as swallows skim the pleasing flood,
Grows giddy, but ne'er drinks to do him good:
Alike resolv'd to flatter or to cheat,

Nay worship onions, if they cry, 'come eat:'
A foe to faith, in revelation blind,
And impious much, as dunces are by kind.
Next see the masterpiece of flattery rise,
The' annointed son of Dulness and of Lies,
Whose softest whisper fills a patron's ear,
Who smiles unpleas'd, and mourns without a tear,

*Coimbria's comments. Colleg. Coimbricense, a society in Spain, which published tedious explanations of Aristotle.

† Sonsinas, a schoolman.

Sa (Eman. de.) See Paschal's Mystery of Jesuitism.
Probably Mrs. Manly was here intended.