Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see
Men, not afraid of God, afraid of me;

Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne,
Yet touch'd and sham'd by ridicule alone.

O sacred weapon! left for truth's defence,
Sole dread of folly, vice, and insolence!
To all but heaven-directed hands denied,
The Muse may give thee, but the gods must guide:
Reverent I touch thee! but with honest zeal,
To rouse the watchmen of the public weal,
To virtue's work provoke the tardy hall,
And goad the prelate, slumbering in his stall.
Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains,
That counts your beauties only by your stains,
Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day!
The Muse's wing shall brush you all away :
All his grace preaches, all his lordship sings,
All that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings;
All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press,
Like the last gazette or the last address.

When black ambition stains a public cause, A monarch's sword when mad vainglory draws, Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar, Nor Boileau turn the feather to a star.

Not so when diadem'd with rays divine, [shrine,
Touch'd with the flame that breaks from virtue's
Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die,
And opes the temple of eternity.

There other trophies deck the truly brave
Than such as Anstis casts into the grave;
Far other stars than * and * * wear,
And may descend to Mordington from Stair;
(Such as on Hough's unsullied mitre shine,
Or beam, good Digby, from a heart like thine)

Let envy howl, while Heaven's whole chorus sings,
And bark at honour not confer'd by kings;
Let flattery, sickening, see the incense rise,
Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies:
Truth guards the poet, sanctifies the line,
And makes immortal, verse as mean as mine.

Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw, When truth stands trembling on the edge of law. Here, last of Britons! let your names be read : Are none, none living? let me praise the dead; And for that cause which made your fathers shine, Fall by the votes of their degenerate line.

F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began, And write next winter more Essays on Man.

ON RECEIVING FROM

THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE LADY FRANCES SHIRLEY

A STANDISH AND TWO PENS'.

YES, I beheld the' Athenian queen
Descend in all her sober charms;
And take, (she said, and smil'd serene)
Take at this hand celestial arms:

'Secure the radiant weapons wield;

This golden lance shall guard desert, And if a vice dares keep the field,

This steel shall stab it to the heart.'

These lines were occasioned by the poet's being threatened with a prosecution in the House of Lords, for writing the two foregoing Dialogues.

Awed, on my bended knees I fell,
Receiv'd the weapons of the sky,
And dip'd them in the sable well,
The fount of fame or infamy.

'What well? what weapon? (Flavia cries)
A standish, steel, and golden pen!
It came from Bertrand's, not the skies;
I gave it you to write again.

But, friend! take heed whom you attack; You'll bring a house (I mean of peers) Red, blue, and green, nay, white and black, L** and all about your ears.

You'd write as smooth again on glass,
And run on ivory so glib,

As not to stick at fool or ass,
Nor stop at flattery or fib.

'Athenian queen! and sober charms! I tell ye, fool! there's nothing in't: 'Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms;In Dryden's Virgil see the print.

'Come, if you'll be a quiet soul,

That dares tell neither truth nor lies,

I'll list you in the harmless roll

Of those that sing of these poor eyes.'

EPITAPHS.

His saltem accumulem donis, et fungar inani
Munere !

VIRG.

ON CHARLES EARL OF DORSET,

IN THE CHURCH OF WITHYAM, SUSSEX.

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 tonch'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 patriots still, or poets, deck the line.

ON SIR WILLIAM TRUMBAL,

ONE OF THE PRINCIPAL SECRETARIES OF STATE TO KING WILLIAM III.

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 unchang'd, 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 remov'd,
At length enjoys that liberty he lov'd.

ON THE HON. SIMON HARCOURT, ONLY SON OF THE LORD CHANCELLOR HARCOURT, At the Church of Stanton-Harcourt, Oxfordshire, 1720. To this sad shrine, whoe'er thou art, draw near; Here lies the friend most lov'd, 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-lov'd friend inscribe thy stone, And with a father's sorrows mix his own!

ON JAMES CRAGGS, ESQ.

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

JACOBUS CRAGGS,

REGI MAGNÆ BRITANNIÆ A SECRETIS,
ET CONSILIIS SANCTIORIBUS,

PRINCIPIS PARITER AC POPULI AMOR ET DELICIE:
VIXIT TITULIS ET INVIDIA MAJOR

ANNOS, HEU DAUCOS, XXXV.

OB. FEB. XVI. M.DCC.XX.

STATESMAN, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear!