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Oh, were the wretch but living still,
And in his place my good friend Will, *
Or had a mitre on his head,
Provided Bolingbroke was dead!"

Now Curlt his shop from rubbish drains:
Three genuine tomes of Swift's Remains !
And then, to make them pass the glibber,
Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.
He'll treat me, as he does my betters,
Publish my will, my life, my letters ;I
Revive the libels born to die;
Which Pope must bear as well as I.

Here shift the scene, to represent
How those I love my death lament.
Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay
A week, and Arbuthnot a day.

St. John himself will scarce forbear
To bite his pen and drop a tear.
The rest will give a shrug, and cry,
“I'm sorry--but we all must die I"

My Lady Club will take it ill
If he should fail her at quadrille.
He loved the Dean-(I lead a heart) ;
But dearest friends, they say, must part.
His time is come; he ran his race ;
We hope he's in a better place."
Why do we grieve that friends should

die?
No loss more easy to supply.
One year is past; a different scene!
No further mention of the Dean,
Who now, alas! is no more missed,
Than if he never did exist.
Where's now the fav'rite of Apollo ?
Departed, -and his works must follow,
Must undergo the common fate;
His kind of wit is out of date.

Indifference clad in wisdom's guise All fortitude of mind supplies ; For how can stony bowels melt In those who never pity felt ? When we were lashed, they kiss the rod, Resigning to the will of God.

The fools my juniors by a year Are tortured with suspense and fear; Who wisely thought my age a screen, When death approached, to stand between ; The screen removed, their hearts are trem

bling; They mourn for me without dissembling.

My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learned to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps : "The Dean is dead (pray, what is trumps?) Then, “Lord have mercy on his soul ! (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole). Six deans, they say, must bear the pall (I wish I knew what king to call). Madam, your husband will attend The funeral of so good a friend ?" "No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight; And he's engaged to-morrow night;

* William Pulteney, Earl of Bath.

† An infamous bookseller, who published things in the Dean's name, which he never wrote.

| For some of these practices he was brought before the House of Lords.

Some country squire to Lintot & goes, Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. Says Lintot, “I have heard the name; He died a year ago.'

“The same. He searches all the shop in vain. “Sir, you may find them in Duck Lane;l I sent them, with a load of books, Last Monday to the pastrycook's. To fancy they could live a year! I find you 're but a stranger here. The Dean was famous in his time, And had a kind of knack at rhyme. His way of writing now is past: The town has got a better taste. I keep no antiquated stuff, But spick-and-span I have enough. Pray, do but give me leave to show 'em: Here's Colley Cibber's birthday poem. This ode you never yet have seen By Stephen Duck upon the Queen. Then here's a letter finely penned Against the Craftsman and his friend: It clearly shows that all reflection On ministers is disaffection. Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication, And Mr. Henley's last oration. The hawkers have not got them yet: Your honour please to have a set?"

Supposé me dead; and then suppose A club assembled at the Rose, Where, from discourse of this and that, I grow the subject of their chat.

s Bernard Lintot, a bookseller. See Pope's Ďunciad" and letters. || A place were old books were sold.

Commonly called Orator Henley, whose rhapsodies burlesqued religion and disgraced his country.

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Can we the Drapier then forget? Is not our nation in his debt? 'Twas he that writ the Drapier's Letters ! He should have left them for his

betters;
We had a hundred abler men,
Nor need depend upon his pen.-
Say what you will about his reading,
You never can defend his breeding;
Who, in his satires running riot,
Could never leave the world in quiet;
Attacking, when he took the whim,
Court, city, camp, -all one to him.

"Alas, poor Dean ! his only scope Was to be held a misanthrope. This into gen'ral odium drew him, Which if he liked, much good may't do

him.
His zeal was not to lash our crimes,
But discontent against the times;
For, had we made him timely offers
To raise his post or fill his coffers,
Perhaps he might have truckled down,
Like other brethren of his gown.
For party he would scarce have bled :
I say no more,-because he's dead.-
What writings has he left behind ?—
I hear they're of a different kind :
A few in verse, but most in prose;
Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose, -
All scribbled in the worst of times,
To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes,
To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend

her,
As never fav'ring the Pretender ;
Or libels yet concealed from sight,
Against the court to show his spite ;-
Perhaps his Travels, Part the Third ;
A lie at ev'ry second word-
Offensive to a loyal ear,--
But-not one sermon, you may swear.

“But why would he, except he slob

bered, Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, Whose counsels aid the sovereign power To save the nation every hour? What scenes of evil he unravels In satires, libels, lying travels! Not sparing his own clergy-cloth, But eats into it like a moth."

Perhaps I may allow, the Dean Had too much satire in his vein, And seemed determined not to starve it, Because no age could more deserve it. Vice, if it e'er can be abashed, Must be or ridiculed or lashed. If you resent it, who's to blame? He neither knew you, nor your name: Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, Because its owner is a duke? His friendships, still to few confined, Were always of the middling kind; No fools of rank or mongrel breed, Who fain would pass for lords indeed, Where titles give no right or power, And peerage is a withered flower. He would have deemed it a disgrace, If such a wretch had known his face. He never thought an honour done him Because a peer was proud to own him; Would rather slip aside, and choose To talk with wits in dirty shoes,

As for his works in verse or prose, I own myself no judge of those. Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em; But this I know, all people bought 'em, As with a moral view designed, To please and to reform mankind; And if he often missed his aim, The world must own it, to their shame, The praise is his, and theirs the blame. He gave the little wealth he had To build a house for fools and mad; To show, by one satiric touch, No nation wanted it so much. And, since you dread no further lashes, Methinks you may forgive his ashes.

A:0:

SWIFT AND POPE.

IMITATION OF THE SIXTH SATIRE OF THE SECOND BOOK

OF HORACE.

I've often wished that I had clear,
For life, six hundred pounds a year,
A handsome house to lodge a friend,
A river at my garden's end,
A terrace walk, and half a rood
Of land set out to plant a wood.

And find his Honour in a pound,
Hemmed by a triple circle round,
Chequered with ribbons blue and green :
How should I thrust myself between ?
Some wag observes me thus perplexed,
And, smiling, whispers to the next,
“I thought the Dean had been too

proud
To jostle here among the crowd!"
Another in a surly fit
Tells me I have more zeal than wit :

“So eager to express your love,
You ne'er consider whom you shove,

But rudely press before a duke."
I own I'm pleased with this rebuke,
And take it kindly meant to show
What I desire the world should know.

I get a whisper, and withdraw; When twenty fools I never saw Come with petitions fairly penned, Desiring I would stand their friend.

Well, now I have all this and more, I ask not to increase my store;

“But here a grievance seems to lie, —
All this is mine but till I die;
I can't but think 'twould sound more

clever,
To me and to my heirs for ever.
If I ne'er got or lost a groat,

By any trick, or any fault;
And if I pray by reason's rules,
And not like forty other fools;
As thus, Vouchsafe, O gracious Maker !
To grant me this and t'other acre;
Or, if it be Thy will and pleasure,
Direct my plough to find a treasure !'
But only what my station fits,
And to be kept in my right wits,
Preserve, Almighty Providence !
Just what you gave me, competence !
And let me in these shades compose
Something in verse as true as prose;
Removed from all the ambitious scene,
Nor puffed by pride, nor sunk by spleen."

In short, I'm perfectly content, Let me but live on this side Trent; Nor cross the channel twice a year, To spend six months with statesmen here.

This humbly offers me his case-
That begs my interest for a place.
A hundred other men's affairs,
Like bees are humming in my ears.

To-morrow my appeal comes on; Without your help the cause is gone "The duke expects my lord and you, About some great affair or two "Put my Lord Bolingbroke in mind,

To get my warrant quickly signed: Consider, 'tis my first request.'

· Be satisfied, I'll do my best." Then presently he falls to tease,

“You may for certain, if you please: I doubt not, if his lordship knewAnd, Mr. Dean, one word from you"

I must by all means come to town, 'Tis for the service of the Crown.

Lewis, the Dean will be of use;.

Send for him up, take no excuse.
The toil, the danger of the seas,
Great ministers ne'er think of these ;
Or let it cost five hundred pound,
No matter where the money's found,
It is but so much more in debt,
And that they ne'er considered yet.

"Good Mr. Dean, go change your gown, Let my lord know you're come to town.

'Tis (let me see) three years and more

(October next it will be four). Since Harley bid me first attend, And chose me for an humble friend ; Would take me in his coach to chat, And question me of this and that ; As "What's o'clock?" and “How's the

wind?" Whose chariot's that we left behind ?" Or gravely try to read the lines Writ underneath the country signs ; Or, “Have you nothing new to-day From Pope, from Parnell, or from Gay?" Such tattle often entertains My lord and me as far as Staines, As once a week we travel down To Windsor, and again to town,

I hurry me in haste away, Not thinking it is levée day;

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Where all that passes inter nos
Might be proclaimed at Charing Cross.

Yet some I know with envy swell
Because they see me used so well.

"How think you of our friend the Dean?
I wonder what some people mean !
My lord and he are grown so great
Always together tête-à-tête ;
What! they admire him for his jokes !
See but the fortune of some folks!"

There flies about a strange report Of some express arrived at court ! I'm stopped by all the fools I meet, And catechised in every street.

“You, Mr. Dean, frequent the great ; Inform us, will the Emperor treat ?

Or do the prints and papers lie?" "Faith, sir, you know as much as I.".

" Ah, Doctor, how you love to jest !

'Tis now no secret. I protest 'Tis one to me."-" Then tell us, pray,

When are the troops to have their pay?". And though I solemnly declare I know no more than my lord mayor, They stand amazed, and think me grown The closest mortal ever known.

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Our friend Dan Prior told (you know) A tale extremely à propos : Name a town life, and in a trice He had a story of Two Mice. Once on a time (so runs the fable) A country mouse right hospitable, Received a town mouse at his board, Just as a farmer might a lord. A frugal mouse upon the whole, Yet loved his friend, and had a soul, Knew what was handsome, and would do't, On just occasion coute qui conte. He brought him bacon (nothing lean), Pudding that might have pleased a dean; Cheese such as men in Suffolk make, But wished it Stilton for his sake; Yet, to his guest though no way sparing, He ate himself the rind and paring. Our courtier scarce could touch a bit, But showed his breeding and his wit ; He did his best to seem to eat, And cried, “I vow you're mighty neat, But lord! my friend, this savage scene ! For God's sake, come, and live with men. Consider, mice, like men, must die! Both small and great, both you and I ; Then spend your life in joy and sport, (This doctrine, friend, I learnt at court.") The veriest hermit in the nation May yield, God knows, to strong tempta

tion." Away they came, through thick and thin, To a tall house near Lincoln's Inn: ('Twas on the night of a debate, When all their lordships had sat late.)

Behold the place, where, if a poet Shined in description, he might show it; Tell how the moonbeam trembling falls, And tips with silver all the walls; Palladian walls, Venetian doors, Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors; But let it (in a word) be said, The moon was up, and men abed, The napkins white, the carpet red; The guests withdrawn, had left the treat, And down the mice sat, tête-à-tête.

Our courtier walks from dish to dish, Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish; Tells all their names, lays down the law,

Que ça est bon! Ah, goutez ça!".
That jelly's rich, this malmsey healing,
Pray dip your whiskers and your tail in.
Was ever such a happy swain?
He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again.
“I'm quite ashamed—'tis mighty rude
To eat so much—but all's so good.

Thus in a sea of folly tost, My choicest hours of life are lost, Yet always wishing to retreat. Oh, could I see my country seat ! There leaning near a gentle brook, Sleep, or peruse some ancient book ! And there in sweet oblivion drown Those cares that haunt the court and town. O charming noons and nights divine ! Or when I sup or when I dine, My friends above, my folks below, Chatting and laughing all a-row, The beans and bacon set before 'em, The grace-cup served with all decorum : Each willing to be pleased and please, And even the very dogs at ease ! Here no man prates of idle things, How this or that Italian sings, A neighbour's madness, or his spouse's, Or what's in either of the Houses ; But something much more our concern, And quite a scandal not to learn : Which is the happier or the wiser, A man of merit or a miser ? Whether we ought to choose our friends For their own worth or our own ends? What good or better we may call, And what the very best of all?

I have a thousand thanks to give My lord alone knows how to live." No sooner said, but from the hall Rush chaplain, butler, dogs and all: "A rat, a rat! clap to the door!”. The cat comes bouncing on the floor. Oh for the heart of Homer's mice, Or gods to save them in a trice! (It was by Providence they think, For your d--d stucco has no chink.) An't please your honour," quoth the

peasant, “This same desert is not so pleasant: Give me again my hollow tree, A crust of bread and liberty!"

*

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When black ambition stains a public

cause, A monarch's sword when mad vainglory

draws, Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's

scar, Nor Boileau turn the feather to a star,

Not so, when diademed with rays divine, Touched with the flame that breaks from

Virtue's shrine, Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die, And opes the temple of eternity. Let envy howl, while heaven's whole chorus

sings, And bark at honour not conferred by kings; Let flatt'ry sickening see the incense rise, Sweet to the world, and grateful to the

skies : Truth guards the poet, sanctifies the line, And makes immortal, verse as mean as

mine. Yes, the last pen for freedom let me

draw, When truth stands trembling on the edge

of law; Here, last of Britons ! let your names be

read; Are none, none living ?-let me praise the

dead, And for that cause which made your fathers

shine, Fall by the votes of their degen'rate line. F. Alas! alas ! pray end what you be

gan, And write next winter more Essays on Man.

ALEXANDER POPE.

1688--1744.

POWER OF SATIRE.

CONTRARIETIES OF HUMAN

CHARACTER.

F. YOU'RE strangely proud.

P. So proud, I am no slave; So impudent, I own myself no knave ; So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave. Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see Men not afraid of God, afraid of me: Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the

throne, Yet touched and shamed by ridicule alone. O sacred weapon ! left for Truth's de

fence, Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence ! To all but Heaven-directed hands denied, The Muse may give thee, but the gods

must guide. Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honest

zeal, To rouse the watchmen of the public weal; To virtue's work provoke the tardy Hall, And goad the prelate slumbering in his

stall. Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains, That counts your beauties only by your

stains, Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day! The Muse's wing shall brush you all away: All his grace preaches, all his lordship

sings, All that makes saints of queens, and gods

of kings, All, all but truth, drops dead-born from Like the last gåzette, or the last address.

IN vain sedate reflections we would make, When half our knowledge we must snatch,

not take. Oft, in the passions' wild rotation tost, Our spring of action to ourselves is lost: Tired, not determined, to the last we yield, And what comes then is master of the field, As the last image of that troubled heap, When sense ubsides, and fancy sports

sleep (Though past the recollection of the

thought), Becomes the stuff of which our dream is

wrought : Something as dim to our internal view, Is thus, perhaps, the cause of most we do.

the press,

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