These are the English arts, these we profess,
To be the same in misery and success;
To teach oppressors law, assist the good,
Relieve the wretched, and subdue the proud.
Such are our souls: but what doth worth avail
When kings commit to hungry priests the scale?
All merit's light when they dispose the weight,
Who either would embroil or rule the state,
Defame those heroes who their yoke refuse,
And blast that honesty they cannot use ;
The strength and safety of the crown destroy,
And the king's power against himself employ;
Affront his friends, deprive him of the brave
Bereft of these, he must become their slave.
Men, like our money, come the most in play,
For being base, and of a coarse allay.
The richest medals, and the purest gold,
Of native value, and exactest mould,
By worth conceal'd, in private closets shine,
For vulgar use too precious and too fine;
Whilst tin and copper with new stamping bright,
Coin of base metal, counterfeit and light,
De all the business of the nation's turn,
Raised in contempt, used and employ'd in scorn;
So shining virtues are for courts too bright,
Whose guilty actions fly the searching light:
Rich in themselves, disdaining to aspire
Great without pomp, they willingly retire;
Give place to fools, whose rash misjudging sense
Increases the weak measures of their prince;
They blindly and implicitly run on,
Nor see those dangers which the others shun:
Who, slow to act, each business duly weigh,
Advise with freedom, and with care, obey;
With wisdom fatal to their interest, strive
To make their monarch loved, and nation thrive.
Such have no place where priests and women
Who love fierce drivers, and a looser rein.
Garth was a respectable Poet, a skilful Physician, a steady Whig, and a good man. His death, says Pope, was very heroical, and yet unaffected enough to have made a saint or a philosopher famous. But ill tongues and worse hearts have branded his last moments, as wrongfully as they did his life, with irreligion:-if ever there was a good Christian, without knowing himself to be so, it was Dr. Garth.
On Her Majesty's Statue, in St. Paul's Church-yard.
NEAR the vast bulk of that stupendous frame,
Known by the Gentiles' great Apostles' name;
With grace divine, great Anna's seen to rise,
An awful form that glads a nation's eyes;
Beneath her feet four mighty realms appear,
And with due reverence pay their homage there.
Britain and Ireland seem to own her grace,
And even wild India wears a smiling face.
But France alone with downcast eyes is seen,
The sad attendant of so good a queen :
Ungrateful country! to forget so soon,
All that great Anna for thy sake has done :
When sworn the kind defender of thy cause,
Spite of her dear religion, spite of laws;
For thee she sheath'd the terrors of her sword,
For thee she broke her general-and her word :
For thee her mind in doubtful terms she told,
And learn'd to speak like oracles of old.
For thee, for thee alone, what could she more?
She lost the honour she had gain'd before;
Lost all the trophies, which her arms had won,
(Such Cæsar never knew, nor Philip's son ;)
Resign'd the glories of a ten year's reign,
And such as none but Marlborough's arm could gain.
For thee in annals she's content to shine,
Like other monarchs of the Stuart line.
Parnell forsook the Whigs-when the whig ministry were displaced: if his conversion was sincere, he chose an unlucky time to avow it. He wanted strength of mind; upon the death of his wife he fled to society and to the bottle for relief, and thus shortened his days.
Pope was obliged to him for literary, and Gay for pecu-niary assistance. His Hermit and his delightful Fairy Tale are among the most popular poems in our language. His Hesiod is written with equal skill.
WHAT ancient times (those times we fancy wise)
Have left on long records of woman's rise,
What morals teach it, and what fables hide,
What author wrote it, how that author dyed,
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