Commodious to their own abodes.
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:
And scorn the tools with stars and garters,
So often seen caressing Chartres.
He never courted men in station,
Nor persons held in admiration ;
Of no man's greatness was afraid,
Because he sought for no man's aid.
Though trusted long in great affairs,
He gave himself no haughty airs:
Without regarding private ends,
Spent all his credit for his friends,
And only chose the wise and good;
No flatterers, no allies in blood;
But succour'd virtue in distress,
And seldom fail'd of good success,
As numbers in their hearts must own,
Who but for him had been unknown.
He kept with princes due decorum,
Yet never stood in awè before 'em.
He follow'd David's lesson just,
In princes never put his trust;
And, would you make him truly sour,
Provoke him with a slave in power.
The Irish Senate if you nam'd,
With what impatience he declaim'd!
Fair Liberty was all his cry;
For her he stood prepar'd to die;
For her he boldly stood alone;
For her he oft expos'd his own.
Two kingdoms, just as faction led,
Had set a price upon his head:
But not a traitor could be found
To sell him for six hundred pound.
Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen,
He might have rose like other men ;
But pow'r was never in his thought,
And wealth he valued not a groat.
Ingratitude he often found,
And pitied those who meant the wound,
But kept the tenor of his mind
To merit well of human-kind;
Nor made a sacrifice of those
Who still were true, to please his foes.
He labour'd many a fruitless hour
To reconcile his friends in pow'r;
Saw mischief by a faction brewing,
While they pursued each other's ruin;
But finding vain was all his care,
He left the court in mere despair.
'And, oh! how short are human schemes!
Here ended all our golden dreams.
What St. John's skill in state affairs,
What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares,
To save their sinking country lent,
Was all destroy'd by one event;
Too soon that precious life was ended
On which alone our weal depended.
When up a dangerous faction starts,
With wrath and vengeance in their hearts,
By Solemn League and Cov'nant bound,
To ruin, slaughter, and confound;
To turn religion to a fable,
And make the government a Babel;
Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown,
Corrupt the senate, rob the crown;
To sacrifice old England's glory,
And make her infamous in story.
When such a tempest shook the land,
How could unguarded Virtue stand?
With horror, grief, despair, the Dean
Beheld the dire destructive scene;
His friends in exile, or the Tow'r,
Himself within the frown of Pow'r;
Pursued, by base envenom'd pens,
Far to the land of S and fens,
A servile race, in folly nurst,
Who truckle most when treated worst.
By innocence and resolution
He bore continual persecution,
While numbers to preferment rose,
Whose merit were to be his foes;
When ev'n his own familiar friends,
Intent upon their private ends,
Like renegados, now he feels
Against him lifting up their heels.
'The Dean did by his pen defeat
An infamous destructive cheat;
Taught fools their interest how to know,
And gave them arms to ward the blow.
Envy hath own'd it was his doing,
To save that hapless land from ruin,
While they who at the steerage stood,
And reap'd the profit, sought his blood.
To save them from their evil fate
In him was held a crime of state.
A wicked monster on the bench,
Whose fury blood could never quench:
As vile and profligate a villain
As modern Scroggs or old Tressilian;
Who long all justice had discarded,
Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded,
Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent,
And make him of his zeal repent;
But Heav'n his innocence defends;
The grateful people stand his friends:
Not strains of law, nor judges' frown,
Nor topics brought to please the crown,
Nor witness hir'd, nor jury pick'd,
Prevail to bring him in convict.
'In exile with a steady heart
He spent his life's declining part,
Where folly, pride, and faction sway,
Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay.'-
Vol. I.
'Alas, poor Dean! his only scope
Was to be held a misanthrope;
This into general odium drew him,
Which if he lik'd, 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 favouring the Pretender :-
Or libels yet conceal'd from sight,
Against the court to show his spite.
Perhaps his Travels, part the third,
A lie at every second word-
Offensive to a loyal ear:-
But-not one sermon, you may swear.'-
He knew an hundred pleasant stories,
With all the turns of Whigs and Tories;
Was cheerful to his dying day,
And friends would let him have his way.
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 design'd.
To please and to reform mankind;
And if he often miss'd 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.
That kingdom he hath left his debtor,
I wish it soon may have a better:
And since you dread no farther lashes,
Methinks you may forgive his ashes.'
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON.
Imitated from Ovid, Book viii. 1708.
IN ancient times, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality.
It happen'd on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguis'd in tatter'd habits, went
To a small village down in Kent,
Where, in the strollers' canting strain,
They begg'd from door to door in vain,
Tried every tone might pity win,
But not a soul would let them in.
Our wandering saints in woful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village past,
To a small cottage came at last,
Where dwelt a good old honest ye'man,
Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon,
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night;
And then the hospitable «ire
Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire,
While he from out the chimney took
A flutch of bacon off the hook,
And freely from the fattest side
Cut out large slices to be fried;
|