He'd rather choose that I should die, Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain Behold the fatal day arrive! "How is the Dean?"-" He's just alive." Now the departing pray'r is read; He hardly breathes the Dean is dead! Before the passing-bell begun, The news through half the town is run. "O may we all for death prepare! "What has he left? and who's his heir? "I know no more than what the news is; "Tis all bequeath'd to public uses. To public uses! there's a whim! What had the public done for him? Mere envy, avarice, and pride! 'He gave it all-but first he died. To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier. We must confess his case was nice, But he would never take advice. 'Had he been rul'd, for aught appears, 'He might have liv'd these twenty years; For when we open'd him, we found That all his vital parts were sound.” From Dublin soon to London spread, Tis told at court, "The Dean is dead." And Lady Suffolk, * in the spleen, uns laughing up to tell the Queen : The Queen, so gracious, mild, and good, Cries," Is he gone? 'tis time he shou'd. He's dead, you say? then let him rot: 'I'm glad the medals † were forgot. 1 promi'd him, I own; but when? I only was the Princess then: 'But now, as consort of the King, 'You know, 'tis quite another thing." Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee, Telle, with a sneer, the tidings heavy: "Why, if he died without his shoes," Cries Bob, "I'm sorry for the news : "O were the wretch but living still, "And in his place my good friend Will! "Or had a mitre on his head, "Provided Bolingbroke were dead!" Now Curl his shop from rubbish drains : Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! And then, to make them pass the glibber, Revis'd by Tibbald, Moore, and Cibber. He'll treat me as he does my betters, ! Publish my will, my life, my letters; Revive the libels born to die, Which Pope must bear as well as I. Here shift the scene, to represent How those I lov'd my death lament. Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay A week, and Arbuthnot a day: St John himself will scarce forbear To bite his pen and drop a tear. The rest will give a shrug, and cry, "I'm sorry-but we all must die!" Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, All fortitude of mind supplies: For how can stony bowels melt In those who never pity felt? When we are lash'd they kiss the rod, Resigning to the will of God. The fools, my juniors by a year, Are tortur'd with suspense and fear; Who wisely thought my age a screen, When death approach'd, to stand between: The screen remov'd, their hearts are trembling : They mourn for me without dissembling. My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learn'd to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps: "The Dean is dead: (pray what is trumps?) “Then, Lord have mercy on his soul! "(Ladies, I'll venture for the vole). "Six Deans, they say, must bear the pall: "I wish I knew what king to call). Madam, your husband will attend "The funeral of so good a friend? "No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight; "And he's engag'd to-morrow night: "My Lady Club will take it ill "If he should fail her at quadrille. "He lov'd the Dean-(I lead a heart)—, But dearest friends, they say, must part. "His time was come: he ran his race; "We hope he's in a better place." Why do we grieve that friends should die? No loss more easy to supply. One year is pasta difierent scene! No farther mention of the Dean; Who now, alas! no more is miss'd Than if he never did exist. Where's now the favourite of Apollo ? Departed--and his works must follow; Must undergo the common fate; His kind of wit is out of date. Some country 'squire to Lintot goes, Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. ⚫ Mrs. Howard, at one time a favourite with the Dean. † Which the Dean in vain expected, in return for a small present he had sent to the Princess. Says Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane: "I sent them with a load of books, "Last Monday, to the pastry-cook's. "To fancy they could live a year! I find you're but a stranger here. The Dean was famous in his time, And had a kind of knack at rhyme. "His way of writing now is past: The town has got a better taste. I keep no antiquated stuff; "But spick and span I have enough. This ode you never yet have seen, "Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication, "And Mr. Henley's last oration; "The hawkers have not got them yet: "Your honour please to buy a set? "Twas he that writ the Drapier's Letters!" "He should have left them for his betters; "We had a hundred abler men, "Nor need depend upon his pen. Say what you will about his reading, "You never can defend his breeding; "Who in his satires running riot, "Could never leave the world in quiet; "Attacking, when he took the whim, "Court, city, canip-all one to him. "But why should he, except he slobbert, "Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, "Whose counsels aid the sovereign pow': "To save the nation every hour? "What scenes of evil he unravels In satires, libels, lying travels; "Not sparing his own clergy cloth, "But eats into it, like a moth!" "Perhaps I may allow the Dean "Had too much satire in his vein, "And seem'd determin'd not to starve it, "Because no age could more deserve it. "Yet malice never was his aim; He lash'd the vice, but spar'd the name "Here's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth edi-" No individual could resent, The country-members, when in town, "To all their boroughs send them down: "You never met a thing so smart; "The courtiers have them all by heart: "Those maids of honour who can read "Are taught to use them for their creed; "The reverend author's good intention "Hath been rewarded with a pension: * "He doth an honour to his gown, By bravely running priestcraft down: He shews, as sure as God's in Gloucester, Suppose me dead; and then suppose The Dean, if we believe report, "Was never ill receiv'd at court; "Although ironically grave, " " Ile sham'd the fool, and lash'd the knave; "But what he writ was all his own." "Sir, I have heard another story: "He was a most confounded Tory; "And grew, or he is much belied, Extremely dull before he died." "Where thousands equally were meant: For he abhorr'd the senseless tribe "Who call it humour when they jibe: He spar'd a hump or crooked nose, "Whose owners set not up for beaux: "True genuine dullness niov'd his pity, "Unless it offer'd to be witty. "Those who their ignorance confess'd "He ne'er offended with a jest; But laugh'd to hear an ideot quote "A verse from Horace learn'd by rote. "Vice, if it e'er can be abash'd," "Must be or ridicul'd or lash'd. If you resent it, who's to blame? He neither knows you, nor your name. Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, "Because its owner is a duke? His friendships, still to few confir'd, « ******** squires to market brought, Wolston is here confounded with Wollaston. But succour'd virtue in distress, And seldom fail'd of good success ; Yet never stood in awe before 'em. He follow'd David's lesson just, In princes never put his trust; And, would you make him truly sour, Provoke him with a slave in pow'r. The Irish senate it you nam'd, With what impatience he declaim'd! Fair LIBERTY was all his cry, For her he stood prepar'd to die; For her he boldly stood alone; For her he oft expos'd his own. Two kingdoms, just as faction led, Had set a price upon his head; But not a traitor could be found, To sell him for six hundred pound. "Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen He might have rose like other men: But pow'r was never ja ais thought, And wealth he valued not a groat: Ingratitud he often fouud, And pitied those who meant the wound: But kept the tenor of his mind, To merit well of human-kind : Not made a sacrifice of those Who still were true, to please his foes. He labour'd many a fruitless hour To reconcile his friends in pow'r;. Saw mischier by a faction brewing. While they pursu'd each other's rain: But, finding vain was all his care, He left the court in mere depair. "And, O! how short are human schemes! Here caded all our golden dreams. What St. John's skill in state affairs, What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares, To save their sinking country lent. 'Was all destroy'd by one event. 'Too soon that precious life was ended, 'On which alone our we. I depended. "When up a dangerous faction starts, "With wrath and vengeance in their hearts; "By solemn league and cov'nant bound, "To ruin, slaughter, and confound; "To turn religion to a-fable, "And make the government a Babel; "Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown; Corrupt the senate, rob the crown; "To sacrifice Old England's glory, "And make her infamous in story: "When such a tempest shook the land, "How could unguarded Virtue stand? "With horror, grief, despair, the Dean Beheld the dire destructive scene: "His friends in exile, or the Tower, "Himself within the frown of power; “Pursu'd by base envenoni'd pens, and fens; Far to the land of s "A servile race in folly nurst, "Who truckle most when treated worst. "By innocence and resolution, "He bore continual persecution; "While numbers to preferment rose, "Whose merit was to be his focs; When ev'n his own familiar friends, "Intent upon their private ends, "Like renegadoes now he feels 66 A wicked monster on the bench, "Whose fury blood could never quench; As vile and profligate a villain "As modern Scroggs, or old Tressilian; "Who long all justice had discarded, "Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded; "Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent, "And make him of his zeal repent. "But Heaven his innocence defends, "The grateful people stand his friends: "Not strains of law, nor judge's frown, "Nor topics brought to please the crown, "Nor witness hir'd, nor jury pick'd, Prevail to bring him in convict. "In exile, with a steady heart, "He spent his life's declining part; "Where folly, pride, and faction sway, "Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay." Alas, poor Dean! bis only scope Was to be held a misanthrope: "This into general odium drew him; "Which if he lik'd, much good may't do him. "His zeal was not to lash our crimes, "But discontent against the times; "For had we made him timely offers "To raise his post, or fill his coffers, FE "Perhaps "Perhaps he might have truckled down, "Like other brethren of his gown; For party he would scarce have bled: "I say no more-because he's dead. "What writings has he left behind?" "I hear they're of a different kind: "A few in verse, but most in prose." "Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose: "All scribbled in the worst of times, To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes; To praise Queen Anne; nay more, defend "As never favouring the Pretender; [her, "Or libels yet conceal'd from sight, "Against the court to shew his spite; "Perhaps his travels, part the third; "A lie at every second word"Offensive to a loyal ear: "But not one sermon you may swear." "He knew an hundred pleasing stories, "With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: "Was cheerful to his dying day, "And friends would let him have his way. "As for his works in verse or prose, "I own myself no judge of those; "Nor can I tell what critics thought them, "But this I know--all people bought them, “As with a moral view design'd "To please and to reform mankind : "And, if he often miss'd his aim, "The world must own it to their shame, "The praise is his, and theirs the blame. "He gave the little wealth he had "To build a house for fools and mad; "To shew, by one satiric touch, "No nation wanted it so much. "That kingdom he hath left his debtor, "I wish it soon may have a better. "And, since you dread no farther lashes, "Methinks you may forgive his ashes." In climbing Learning's rugged, steep ascent; To praise each senior blockhead's threadbare tale, And laugh till reason blush, and spirits fail; Manhood with vile submission to disgrace, And cap the fool, whose merit is his place; Vice-chancellors, whose knowledge is bat small, And chancellors, who nothing know at sil; Ill-brook'd the gen'rous spirit, ia those days When Learning was the certain road to prose, When nobles, with a love of science bles Approv'd in others what themselves possese, But now, when dullness rears aloft be throne, When lordly vassals her wide empire own When Wit, seduc'd by Envy, starts aside, And basely leagues with Ignorance and Pre What now should tempt us, by false ho misled, Learning's unfashionable paths to tread; To hear those labours which our fathers bort. That crown withheld which they in trinn wore ? [ing's When with much pains this boasted Lear Tis an affront to those who have it not. In some it causes hate, in others fear, Instructs our foes to rail, our friends to s With prudent haste the worldly-minded Forgets the little which he learn'd at school The Elder Brother, to vast fortunes born, Looks on all science with an eye of scom; Dependent brethren the same features wer And younger sons are stupid as the Heir. In Senates, at the Bar, in Church and Su. Genius is vile, and Learning out of date. Is this O death to think! is this the! Where Merit and Reward went hand in Where Heroes, parent-like, the Poet rits By whom they saw their glorious deas new'd; Where Poets, true to honour, tun'd their And by their Patrons sanctify'd their pra Is this the land where on our Spenser's ten Enamour'd of his voice, Description her, Where Jonson rigid gravity beguil'd, Whilst Reason thro' her critic fences smi Where Nature list'ning stood while Shaks; play'd, And wonder'd at the work herself had m Is this the land, where, mindful of her er And office high, fair Freedom walk'd at lar Where, finding in our laws a sure defence She mock'd at all restraints, but those of Where, Health and Honour trooping by side, She spread her sacred empire far and wide, Pointed the way Affliction to beguile, And bade the face of Sorrow wear a smile. Bade those who dare obey the gen'rous ca Enjoy her blessings, which God meant for Is this the land, where, in some tyrant's re When a weak, wicked, ministerial train, The tools of pow'r, the slaves of increst, plant Their country's ruin, and with bribes unmar Those wretches who, ordain'd in Freedom's In numbers here below the Bard shall teach awe, Virtue to soar beyond the villain's reach; And raise his voice beyond the trumpet's note, And, mean themselves, are of their fathers vain, "men [pen?" What's in the name of Lord, that I should fear Is this the land, where, in those worst of times, The hardy Poet rais'd his honest rhymes To dread rebuke, and bade controlment speak In guilty blushes on the villain's cheek; Bade Pow'r turn pale, kept mighty rogues in [Law? And made them fear the Muse who fear'd not How do I laugh when men of narrow souls, Whom folly guides and prejudice controuls; Who one dull drowsy track of business trod,What,shall a reptile Bard, awretch unknown, Worship their Mammon, and neglect their God;" Without one badge of merit, but his own, Who, breathing by one musty set of rules, "Great Nobles lash, and Lords like common Dote from the birth, and are by system fools; Vho, form'd to dulness from their very youth," Smart from the vengeance of a scribbler's ies of the day prefer to Gospel-truth; Pick up their little knowledge from Reviews, and lay out all their stock of faith in news: low do I laugh, when creatures form'd like these, [please, Thom Reason scorns, and I should blush to ail at all liberal arts, deem verse a crime, and hold not Truth as Truth if told in rhyme! How do I laugh, when Publius, hoary grown, zeal for Scotland's welfare and his own, y slow degrees, and course of office, drawn a mood and figure at the helm to yawn; oo mean (the worst of curses Heav'n can send) o have a foe, too proud to have a friend, rring by form, which blockheads sacred hold, le'er making new faults, and ne'er mending ebukes my spirit, bids the daring Muse Cold, abjects more equal to her weakness choose; ids her frequent the haunts of humble swains, Tor dare to traffic in ambitious strains; ids her, indulging the poetic whim aquaint wrought ode, or sonnet pertly trim, dong the church-way path complain with Gray, Ir dance with Mason on the first of May! All sacred is the name and power of Kings; All States and Statesmen are those mighty "Things, froll, Which, howsoe'er they out of course may Were never made for Poets to controul." Peace, peace, thou dotard, nor thus vilely decm Of sacred numbers, and their pow'r blaspheme; tell thee, wretch, search all ercation round, n earth, in heav'n, no subject can be found Our God alone except) above whose weight The Poet cannot rise, and hold his state. The blessed Saints above in numbers speak The praise of God, tho' there all praise is weak; | Monarchs, who wealth and titles can bestow, Follow his steps, and be his virtue's heir. Would drive him, shudd'ring from the face of Once more, with shame and sorrow, 'mongst In endless night to hide his rev'rend head; Probe thy foul wounds, and lay thy bosom bare Gods! with what pride I see the titled slave, How |