For SWIFT and him, defpis'd the farce of ftate,
The fober follies of the wife and great;
Dextrous, the craving, fawning croud to quit,
And pleas'd to 'fcape from flattery to wit.
Abfent or dead, ftill let a friend be dear,
(A figh the abfent claims, the dead a tear)
Recal those nights that clos'd thy toilfom days,
Still hear thy PARNELL in his living lays:
Who careless, now, of int'reft, fame, or fate,
Perhaps forgets that OXFORD e'er was great;
Or deeming meaneft what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.
And fure, if ought below the feats divine
Can touch Immortals, 'tis a foul like thine:
A foul fupreme, in each hard instance try'd,
Above all pain, all paffion, and all pride,
The rage of pow'r, the blaft of public breath,
The luft of lucre, and the dread of death.
In vain to deserts thy retreat is made;
The Muse attends thee to thy filent fhade: