Can gratitude outpant the silent breath?
Or a friend's sorrow pierce the glooms of death?
No, 'tis a spirit's nobler taste of bliss!
That feels the worth it left, in proofs like this;
That not its own applause, but thine, approves;
Whose practice praises, and whose virtue loves!
Who livest, to crown departed friends with fame!
Then, dying late, shalt all thou gavest reclaim.

INSCRIPTION

ON A GROTTO OF SHELLS AT CRUX-EASTON, THE WORK OF NINE YOUNG LADIES.

HERE, shunning idleness at once and praise,
This radiant pile nine rural sisters raise;
The glittering emblem of each spotless dame,
Clear as her soul, and shining as her frame;
Beauty which Nature only can impart,
And such a polish as disgraces art;
But fate disposed them in this humble sort,
And hid in deserts what would charm a court.

A DIALOGUE.

SINCE my old friend is grown so great,
As to be minister of state,
I'm told (but 'tis not true I hope)
That Craggs will be ashamed of Pope.
CRAGGS. Alas! If I am such a creature,

To grow the worse for growing greater;
Why faith, in spite of all my brags,
"Tis Pope must be ashamed of Craggs.

POPE.

VERSES LEFT BY MR. POPE,

ON HIS LYING IN THE SAME BED WHICH WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER, USED AT ATTERBURY, A SEAT OF THE DUKE OF ARGYLE'S IN OXFORDSHIRE, JULY 9, 1739.

WITH no poetic ardour fired,

I press the bed where Wilmot lay; That here he loved, or here expired,

Begets no numbers grave or gay. But in thy roof, Argyle, are bred

Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie, Stretch'd out in Honour's nobler bed, Beneath a nobler roof-the sky. Such flames as high in patriots burn,

Yet stoop to bless a child, or wife; And such as wicked kings may mourn, When freedom is more dear than life.

TO HIS GRACE

THE DUKE OF ARGYLE,

UPON READING THE PREAMBLE TO THE PATENT CREATING HIM DUKE OF GREENWICH.

MINDLESS of Fate, in these low vile abodes,
Tyrants have oft usurp'd the style of gods:
But that the mortal may be thought divine,
The herald straight new-model'd all his line;
And venal priest, with well-dissembled lie,
Preambled to the crowd the mimic deity.
Not so great Saturn's son, imperial Jove,
He reigns, unquestion'd, in his realms above;
No title from descent he need infer,
His red right arm proclaims the thunderer.

This, Campbell, be thy pride, illustrious peer,
Alike to shine distinguish'd in thy sphere.
All merit but thine own thou may'st disdain,
And kings have been thine ancestors in vain.

EPIGRAM ON MRS. TOFTS,

A HANDSOME WOMAN WITH A FINE VOICE, BUT VERY COVETOUS AND PROUD.

So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song, As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along;

But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride, That the beasts must have starved, and the poet have died.

EPIGRAM

ON ONE WHO MADE LONG EPITAPHS 2.

FREIND, for your Epitaphs I'm grieved,
Where still so much is said;

One half will never be believed,

The other never read.

1 This epigram, first printed anonymously in Steele's Collection, and copied in the Miscellanies of Swift and Pope, is ascribed to Pope by Sir John Hawkins, in his History of Music.-Mrs. Tofts, who was the daughter of a person in the family of Bishop Burnet, is celebrated as a singer little inferior, either for her voice or manner, to the best Italian women. She lived at the introduction of the opera into this kingdom, and sung in company with Nicolini; but, being ignorant of Italian, chanted her recitative in English, in answer to his Italian; yet the charms of their voices overcame the absurdity.

2 It is not generally known that the person here meant was Dr. Freind, head master of Westminster-school.

TO SIR GODFREY KNELLER,

ON HIS PAINTING FOR ME THE STATUES OF APOLLO, VENUS, AND HERCULES.

WHAT god, what genius did the pencil move
When Kneller painted these?

'Twas Friendship-warm as Phœbus, kind as
And strong as Hercules.
[Love,

A FAREWELL TO LONDON.
1715.

DEAR, damnd distracting town, farewell!
Thy fools to more I'll tease:

This year in peace, ye critics, dwell,
Ye harlots, sleep at ease
Soft B- and rough C adieu!
Earl Warwick, make your moan,
The lively Hk and
you
May knock up whores alone:

To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
Till the third watchman toll;
Let Jervas gratis paint, and Frowde
Save three-pence and his soul.

Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery
On every learned sot,

And Garth, the best good Christian he,
Although he knows it not.

Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go;
Farewell, unhappy Tonson!

Heaven gives thee, for thy loss of Rowe,
Lean Philips, and fat Johnson.

Why should I stay? Both parties rage;
My vixen mistress squalls;
The wits in envious feuds engage;

And Homer (damn him!) calls.
The love of arts lies cold and dead
In Halifax's urn;

And not one Muse of all he fed,
Has yet the grace to mourn.

My friends, by turns, my friends confound,
Betray, and are betray'd:

Poor Y-r's sold for fifty pound, -ll is a jade.

And B

Why make I friendships with the great,
When I no favour seek?

Or follow girls seven hours in eight?
I need but once a week.

Still idle, with a busy air,
Deep whimseys to contrive;
The gayest valetudinaire,

Most thinking rake alive.
Solicitous for other ends,

Though fond of dear repose;
Careless or drowsy with my friends,
And frolic with my foes.
Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell,
For sober, studious days!
And Burlington's delicious meal,
For salads, tarts, and pease!
Adieu to all but Gay alone,

Whose soul, sincere and free,
Loves all mankind, but flatters none,
And so may starve with me.