A DIALOGUE.

Pope. SINCE my old friend is grown so great,

As to be minister of state,

I'm told (but 'tis not true I hope)

That Craggs will be ashamed of Pope.

Craggs. Alas! if I am such a creature,

To grow the worse for growing greater,
Why, 'faith, in spite of all my brags,
'Tis Pope must be ashamed of Craggs.

EPIGRAM,

Engraved on the Collar of a Dog, which I gave to his Royal High

ness,

I AM his Highness' dog at Kew
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?

EPIGRAM,

Occasioned by an Invitation to Court.

In the lines that you sent are the muses and graces; You've the nine in your wit, and the three in your

faces.

ON AN OLD GATE,

Erected in Chiswick Gardens.

O GATE, how camest thou here?

Gate. I was brought from Chelsea last year,

Batter'd with wind and weather,

Inigo Jones put me together.

Von. II.

K

Sir Hans Sloane,
Let me alone:

Burlington brought me hither
1742.

A FRAGMENT.

WHAT are the falling rills, the pendant shades,
The morning bowers, the evening colonnades,
But soft recesses for the uneasy mind
To sigh unheard in, to the passing wind!
So the struck deer, in some sequestered part,
Lies down to die (the arrow in his heart ;)
There hid in shades, and wasting day by day,
Inly he bleeds, and pants his soul away.

VERSES LEFT BY MR. POPE,

On his lying in the same bed which Wilmot the celebrated Earl of Rochester slept in, at Adderbury, then belonging to the Duke of Argyle, July 9th, 1739.

WITH no poetic ardour fired

I press'd the bed where Wilmot lay
That here he loved, or here expired,
Begets no numbers grave or gay.

But in thy roof, Argyle, are bred
Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie,
Stretch'd out in honour's noble bed,
Beneath a nobler roof-the sky.

Such flames as high in patriots burn,
Yet stoop to bless a child or wife;

And such as wicked kings may mourn, When freedom is more dear than life.

VERSES TO MR. C.

St. James's Place, London, October 22.

DEW words are best; I wish you well : Bethel, I'm told, will soon be here; Some morning-walks along the Mall, And evening friends, will end the year. If, in this interval between

The falling leaf and coming frost, You please to see, on Twit'nam green, Your friend, your poet, and your host;

For three whole days you here may rest, From office, business, news, and strife; And (what most folks would think a jest) Want nothing else, except your wife.

242

ΕΡΙΤΑPHS.

His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani munere !

ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET,

In the Church of Withyam, in Sussex.

VIRG.

DORSET, the grace of courts, the Muses' pride,
Patron of arts, and judge of nature, died.
The scourge of pride, though sanctified or great,
Of fops in learning, and of knaves in state :
Yet soft his nature, though severe his lay,
His anger moral, and his wisdom gay.
Bless'd satirist! who touch'd the mean so true,
As show'd vice had his hate and pity too.
Bless'd courtier! who could king and country please,
Yet sacred keep his friendships, and his ease.
Bless'd peer! his great forefathers' every grace
Reflecting, and reflected in his race ;
Where other Buckhursts, other Dorsets shine,
And patrons still, or poets, deck the line.

ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBULL,

One of the principal Secretaries of State to King William the Third, who, having resigned his place, died in his Retirement at Easthamsted, in Berkshire, 1716.

A PLEASING form; a firm, yet cautious mind;
Sincere, though prudent; constant, yet resign'd:
Honour unchanged, a principle profess'd,

Fix'd to one side, but moderate to the rest :
An honest courtier, yet a patriot too;
Just to his prince and to his country true :
Fill'd with the sense of age, the fire of youth,
A scorn of wrangling, yet a zeal for truth :
A generous faith, from superstition free;
A love to peace, and hate of tyranny:
Such this man was; who now from earth removed,
At length enjoys that liberty he loved.

ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT,

Only Son of the Lord Chancellor Harcourt, at the Church of Stanton-Harcourt, in Oxfordshire, 1720.

To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near; Here lies the friend most loved, the son most dear; Who ne'er knew joy but friendship might divide, Or gave his father grief but when he died.

How vain is reason, eloquence how weak! If Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak. Oh let thy once-loved friend inscribe thy stone, And with a father's sorrows mix his own!