And thou, his pious confort, here below,
Lavish of grief, and prodigal of woe:
Oh! choak thy griefs, thy rifing fighs fupprefs,
Nor let thy forrows violate his peace.
This rage of anguifh, that difdains relief,
Dims his bright joys, with fome allay of grief.
Look on his deareft pledge, he left behind,
And see how Nature, bountiful and kind,
Stamps the paternal image on his mind.
Oh! may th' hereditary virtues run
In fair fucceffion, to adorn the fon;
The last best hopes of Albion's realms to grace,
And form the hero worthy of his race:
Some means at laft by Britain may be found,
To dry her tears, and close her bleeding wound.
And if the Mufe through future times can fee,
Fair youth, thy father fhall revive in thee:
Thou shalt the wondering nation's hopes engage,
To rife the Stanhope of the future age.

}

EPI

EPITAPH ON DR. KEIL.

The late famous Aftronomer.

BENEATH this ftone the world's juft wonder lies,

Who, while on earth, had rang'd the spacious skies; Around the stars his active foul had flown, And feen their courfes finish'd ere his own: Now he enjoys those realms he could explore, And finds that heaven he knew fo well before. He through more worlds his victory pursued Than the brave Greek could wish to have fubdued; In triumph ran one vaft creation o'er,

Then ftop'd,-for Nature could afford no more.
With Cæfar's speed, young Ammon's noble pride,
He came, faw, vanquish'd, wept, return'd, and died.

HORACE, Book II. EP. XIX. IMITATED.

An EPISTLE to MR. ROBERT LOWTH *.

"TIS

IS faid, dear Sir, no poets please the town, Who drink mere water, though from Helicon: For in cold blood they feldom boldly think; Their rhymes are more infipid than their drink. Not great Apollo could the train inspire, Till generous Bacchus help'd to fan the fire. Warm'd by two Gods at once, they drink and write, Rhyme all the day, and fuddle all the night. Homer, fays Horace, nods in many a place, But hints, he nodded oftner o'er the glass. Infpir'd with wine old Ennius fung and thought With the fame fpirit, that his heroes fought: And we from Johnson's tavern-laws divine, That bard was no great enemy to wine. "Twas from the bottle King deriv'd his wit, Drank till he could not talk, and then he writ. Let no coif'd ferjeant touch the facred juice, But leave it to the bards for better ufe: Let the grave judges too the glafs forbear, Who never fing and dance but once a year. This truth once known, our poets take the hint, Get drunk or mad, and then get into print: To raise their flames indulge the mellow fit, And lofe their fenfes in the search of wit:

Late Bishop of London.

And

And when with claret fir'd they take the pen,

Swear they can write, because they drink, like Ben. Such mimic Swift or Prior to their coft,

For in the rash attempt the fools are loft.

When once a genius breaks through common rules,
He leads an herd of imitating fools.

If Pope, the prince of poets, fick a-bed,
O'er fteaming coffee bends his aching head,
The fools in public o'er the fragrant draught
Incline those heads, that never ach'd or thought.
This must provoke his mirth or his difdain,
Cure his complaint,-or make him fick again.
I too, like them, the poet's path pursue,
And keep great Flaccus ever in my view;
But in a diftant view-yet what I write,
In these loose sheets, muft never see the light;
Epiftles, odes, and twenty trifles more,
Things that are born and die in half an hour.
What! you must dedicate, fays fneering Spence,
This year fome new performance to the prince:
Though money is your fcorn, no doubt in time
You hope to gain some vacant stall by rhyme;
Like other poets, were the truth but known,
You too admire whatever is your own.
These wife remarks my modefty confound,
While the laugh rises, and the mirth goes
Vext at the jeft, yet glad to fhun a fray,
I whisk into my coach, and drive away.

round;

To MR. SPENCE.

Prefixed to the ESSAY on POPE'S ODYSSEY.

"TIS

IS done-Reftor'd by thy immortal pen, The critic's noble name revives again; Once more that great, that injur'd name we see Shine forth alike in Addison and thee.

Like curs, our critics haunt the poet's feast, And feed on fcraps refus'd by every guest; From the old Thracian* dog they learn'd the way To fnarl in want, and grumble o'er their prey. As though they grudg'd themselves the joys they feel, Vex'd to be charm'd, and pleas'd against their will. Such their inverted tafte, that we expect

For faults their thanks, for beauties their neglect;
So the fell fnake rejects the fragrant flowers,
But every poifon of the field devours.

Like bold Longinus of immortal fame,
You read your poet with a poet's flame;
With his, your generous raptures ftill aspire;
The critic kindles when the bard's on fire.
But when some lame, fome limping line demands
The friendly fuccour of your healing hands;
The feather of your pen drops balm around,
And plays, and tickles, while it cures the wound.
While Pope's immortal labour we furvey,

We stand all dazzled with excefs of day,

Zoilus, fo called by the ancients.