Stood up to dash each vain Pretender's hope,
Maul the French Tyrant, or pull down the Pope!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds Dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn;
If there's a Critic of diftinguish'd rage;
If there's a Senior, who contemns this age;
Let him to-night his juft affiftance lend,
And be the Critic's, Briton's, Old Man's Friend.
STATESMAN, yet friend to truth! of foul fincere,
In action faithful, and in honour clear!
Who broke no promife, ferv'd no private end,
Who gain'd no title, and who loft no friend;
Ennobled by himself, by all approv'd,
Prais'd, wept, and honour'd by the Muse he lov❜d.
AT EASTHAMSTEAD IN BERKS, 1730.
THIS modeft ftone, what few vain marbles can,
May truly fay, Here lies an honest man:
A poet, bleft beyond the poet's fate,
Whom heav'n kept facred from the proud and great:
Foe to loud praise, and friend to learned ease, 5
Content with fcience in the vale of peace,
Calmly he look'd on either life, and here
Saw nothing to regret, or there to fear;
From nature's temp'rate feaft rofe fatisfy'd,
Thank'd heav'n that he had liv'd, and that he dy'd.
IN WESTMINSTER-ABBEY, 1732,
OF manners gentle, of affections mild,
In wit, a man; fimplicity, a child :
With native humour temp'ring virtuous rage,
Form'd to delight at once and lash the
Above temptation in a low estate,
And uncorrupted, ev'n among the great:
A fafe companion, and an easy friend,
Unblam'd through life, lamented in thy end.
These are Thy honours! not that here thy bust
Is mix'd with heroes, or with kings thy duft; 10
But that the worthy and the good shall say,
Striking their penfive bofoms-Here lies GAY,
PYTHAGORAS AND THE COUNTRYMAN.
PYTHAG'RAS rofe at early dawn.
By foaring meditation drawn,
To breathe the fragrance of the day,
Through flow'ry fields he took his way;
In mufing contemplation warm,
His steps misled him to a farm,
Where, on a ladder's topmoft round,
A peafant ftood; the hammer's found
Shook the weak barn. Say, friend, what care
Calls for thy honest labour there ?
The clown, with furly voice, replies,
Vengeance aloud for juftice cries:
This kite, by daily rapine fed,
My hen's annoy, my turkey's dread,
At length his forfeit life hath paid;
See on the wall his wings display'd:
Here nail'd, a terror to his kind,
My fowls fhall future fafety find,
My yard the thriving poultry feed,
And my barn's refufe fat the breed.
Friend, fays the fage, the doom is wife;
For publick good the murd'rer dies:
But if these tyrants of the air
Demand a sentence fo fevere,
Think how the glutton man devours;
What bloody feasts regale his hours!
O impudence of power and might,
Thus to condemn a hawk or kite,
When thou, perhaps, carniv'rous finner,
Hadft pullets yesterday for dinner!
Hold, cry'd the clown, with paffion heated, Shall kites and men alike be treated? When heav'n the world with creatures stor'd, Man was ordain'd their fov'reign lord.
Thus tyrants boaft, the Sage reply'd, 35 Whose murders fpring from power and pride.
Own then this manlike kite is flain
Thy greater luxury to sustain ;
For petty rogues fubmit to fate
That great ones may enjoy their ftate.
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