Not that I blame divine philosophy,
(Yet much we risk, for pride and learning lie)
Heaven's paths are found by nature more than art,
The schoolman's head misleads the layman's heart.

What unrepented deeds has Albion done ?
Yet spare us,

Heaven! return, and spare thy own. Religion vanishes to types and shade, By wits, by fools, by her own sons betray'd! Sure 'twas enough to give the devil his due : Must such men mingle with the priesthood too? So stood Onias at the Almighty's throne, Profanely cinctur'd in a hárlot's zone.

Some Rome, and some the Reformation blame; 'Tis hard to say from whence such license came; From fierce enthusiasts, or Socinians sad ? C- -ns the soft, or Bourignon the mad ? From wayward nature, or lewd poets' rhymes ? From praying, canting, or king-killing times ? From all the dregs which Gallia could pour forth, (Those sons of schism) landed in the north ?From whence it came, they and the d-l best know; Yet thus much, Pope, each atheist is thy foe.

O Decency, forgive these friendly rhymes, For raking in the dunghill of their crimes: To name each monster would make printing dear, Or tire Ned Ward, who writes six books a year. Such vicious nonsense, impudence, and spite, Would make a hermit or a father write, Though Julian held the world, and held no more Than deist Gildon taught, or Toland swore ; Good Gregory* prov'd him execrably bad, And scourg'd his soul, with drunken reason mad.

Much longer, Pope restrain'd his awful hand,
Wept o'er poor Nineveh, and her dull band ;
Till fools like weeds rose up, and chok'd the land.
Long, long he slumber'd, ere the avenging hour;
For dubious mercy half o'er-ruld his power:
Till the wing'd bolt, red hissing from above,
Pierc'd millions through- -For such the wrath

of Jove.
Hell, chaos, darkness, tremble at the sound,
And prostrate fools bestrow the vast profound :
No Charon wafts 'em from the further shore,
Silent they sleep, alas ! to rise no more.

O Pope, and sacred criticism ! forgive
A youth who dares approach your shrine and live!
Far has he wander'd in an unknown night,
No guide to lead him, but his own dim light:
For him more fit, in vulgar paths to tread,
To show the unlearned what they never read,
Youth to improve, or rising genius tend ;
To science much, to virtue more, a friend,

A SIMILE,

UPON A SET OF TEA-DRINKERS.

So fairy elves their morning-table spread
O’er a white mushroom's hospitable head ;
In acorn cups the merry goblins quaff
The pearly dews, they sing, they love, they laugh;
Melodious music trembles through the sky,
And airy-sounds along the green-wood die.

THE SAME,

DIVERSIFIED IN ANCIENT METRE.

So, yf deepe clerkes in times of yore saine trew, Or poets eyne, perdie, mought sothly vew The dapper elfins thyr queint festes bedight Wyth mickle plesaunce on a mushroome lite : In acorns cuppes thy quaffen daint liquere, And rowle belgardes, and defflie daunce yfere ; Ful everidele they makin musike sote, And sowns aeriall adowne the greene woode flotte.

A SOLILOQUY,

OCCASIONED BY THE CHIRPING OF A GRASSHOPPER.

HAPPY insect! ever bless'd
With a more than mortal rest,
Rosy dews the leaves among,
Humble joys and gentle song.
Wretched poet! ever curs’d,
With a life of lives the worst,
Sad despondence, restless fears,
Endless jealousies and tears.

In the burning summer, thou
Warblest on the verdant bough,
Meditating cheerful play,
Mindless of the piercing ray:
Scorch'd in Cupid's fervours, I
Ever weep, and ever die.

Proud to gratify thy will,
Ready nature waits thee still :
Balmy wines to thee she pours,
Weeping through the dewy flow'rs;
Rich as those by Hebe given
To the thirsty sons of heaven,

Yet alas! we both agree;
Miserable thou like me!
Each alike in youth rehearses
Gentle strains, and tender verses ;
Ever wandering far from home ;
Mindless of the days to come,
(Such as aged winter bring's
Trembling on his icy wings)
Both alike at last we die;
Thou art starv'd, and so am I!

TO MR. POPE. To move the springs of nature as we please, To think with spirit, but to write with ease : With living words to warm the conscious heart, Or please the soul with nicer charms of art, For this the Grecian soar'd in epic strains, And softer Maro left the Mantuan plains : Melodious Spenser felt the lover's fire, And awful Milton strung his heavenly lyre.

'Tis yours, like these, with curi toil to trace The powers of language, harmony, and grace, How nature's self with living lustre shines ; How judgment strengthens, and how art refines; How to grow bold with conscious sense of fame, And force a pleasure which we dare not blame;

To charm us more through negligence than pains,
And give ev'n life and action to the strains :
Led by some law, whose powerful impulse guides
Each happy stroke, and in the soul presides :
Some fairer image of perfection, giv'n
To’inspire mankind, itself deriv'd from Heav'n.

O ever worthy, ever crown’d with praise ;
Bless'd in thy life, and bless’d in all thy lays !
Add, that the Sisters every thought refine:
Or ev'n thy life be faultless as thy line :
Yet envy still with fiercer rage pursues,
Obscures the virtue, and defames the muse,
A soul like thine, in pains, in grief resign’d,
Views with vain scorn the malice of mankind :
Not critics, but their planets prove unjust :
And are they blam'd who sin because they must?

Yet sure not so must all peruse thy lays; I cannot rival—and yet dare to praise. A thousand charms at once my tlíoughts engage, Sappho's soft sweetness, Pindar's warmer rage, Statius' free vigour, Virgil's studious care, And Homer's force, and Ovid's easier air.

So seems some picture, where exact design, And curious pains, and strength and sweetness join: Where the free thought its pleasing grace bestows, And each warm stroke with living colour grows: Soft without weakness, without labour fair; Wrought up at once with happiness and care !

How bless'd the man that from the world removes To joys that Mordaunt, or his Pope approves; Whose taste exact each author can explore, And live the present and past ages o’er: Who free from pride, from penitence, or strife, Move calmly forward to the verge of life: