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And what he with a fun-beam there
Writ down, the Muse thus copies fair :
dus If I no men my sons must call,
• Here's one fair daughter worth them all :
« Mark then the facred words that follow,
• sophia's mine"-fo.fign'd
WRITTEN FOR, AND GIVEN IN
PRINT TO, A BEGGAR.
MERCY, heaven's first attribute,
Whose care embraces man and brute !
Behold me, where I Mivering stand;
Bid gentle Pity stretch her hand
To want and age, disease and pain,
That all in one sad object reign.
Still feeling bad, still fearing worse,
Existence is to me a curse :
Yet, how to close this weary eye?
By my own hand I dare not die :
And death, the friend of human woes;.
Who brings the last and found repofe ;
Death does at dreadful distance keep,
And leives one wretch to wake and weep!
POLLO, from the southern sky,
O'er London lately glanc'd his eye.
Just such a glance our courtiers throw
At suitors whom they fhun, to know :
Or have you. mark'd th' averted mien,-
The chest erect, the freezing look,
Of Bumbo, when a bard is seen
Charg'd with his dedication-book?
But gods are never in the wrong :
What then displeas’d the power of song?
The case was this : Where noble arts
Once flourish'd, as our fathers tell us,
He now can find, for men of parts,
None but rich blockheads and mere fellows;
Since drums and dice and dissipation
Have chac'd all taste from all the nation.
Eor is there, now, one table spread,
Where sense and science may be fed ?
Where, with a smile on every face,
Invited. Merit takes his.place ?
These thoughts put Phæbus in the spleen,
(For gods, like men, can feel chagrin)
And left him on the point to shroud
His head in one eternal cloud;
When, lo! his all-discerning eye
Chanc'd one remaining friend to fpy,
Just crept abroad, as is his
way, To bask him in the noon-tide ray.
This Phoebus noting, call?d aloud
To every interpofing cloud;
And bade their gather'd mists ascend,
That he might warm his good old friend :
Then, as his chariot roll'd along,
Tun’d to his lyre this grateful fong.
" With talents, such as God has given
To common mortals, fix in seven ;
Who yet have titles, ribbons, pay,
And govern whom they Should obey;
With no more frailties than are found
In thousand others, count them round;
With much good-will, instead of parts,
Express’d for artists and for arts ;
Who smiles, if you have smartly fpoke ;
Or nods applause to his own joke;
This bearded child, this grey-hair'd boy,
Still plays with life, as with a toy ;
Still keeps amusement full in view:
Wise? Now and then-but oftener new ;
His coach, this hour, at Watson's door;
The next, in waiting on a whore.
Whene'er the welcome tidings ran
Of monster strange, or stranger man,
A Selkirke from his desart-ille,
Or Alligator from the Nile;
He saw the monster in its fhirine,
And had the man, next day, to dine.
Or was it an hermaphrodite ?
You found him in a two-fold hurry;
Neglecting, for this he-the-light,
The single charms of Fanny Murray.
Gathering, from suburb and from city,
Who were, who would be, wise or witty;
The full-wigg'd fons of pills and potions şi
The bags, of maggot and new notions ;
The fage, of microscopic eye,
Who reads him lectures' on a fly;
Grave Antiquaries, with their flams;
And Poets, squirting epigrams :
With some few Lords
of those that think,
And dip, at times, their pen in ink:
Nay, Ladies too, of diverse fame,
Who are, and are not, of the game.
For he has look'd the world around,
And pleasure, in each quarter, found,
Now young, now old, now grave, now gay,
He finks from life by soft decay ;
And sees at hand, without affright,
Th’ inevitable hour of night.”
But here, some pillar of the state,
Whose life is one long dull debate ;
Some pedant of the fable gown,
Who fpares no failings, but his own,
Set up at once their deep-mouth'd hollow %.
Is this a subject for Apollo !
What! can the God of wit and verse
Such trifes in our ears rehearse?
“ Know, puppies, this man's easy life,.,
Serene from cares, unvex'd with strife, .
Was oft employ'd in doing good ;-
A science you ne'er understood :-
And Charity, ye sons of Pride,
A multitude of faults will hide.
I, at his board, mordfenfe have found; -
Than at a hundred dinners round.
Taste, learning, mirth, my western cye-
Could often, there, collected spy :
And I have gone well-pleas'd to bed,
Revolving what was sung or said.
66 And he, who entertain'd them all
With much good liquor, strong and small;
With foot in plenty, and a welcome,
Which would become my Lord of Melcombe-*,
Whofe foupes and fauces duly season'd,
Whose wit well-tim'd, and sense well reason'd,
Give burgundy a brighter stain,
And add new flavor to champagne-
Shall this man to the grave descend;
Unown'd, * This Poem was certainly written in 1757; but the reader has only to remember, that Anollo is the Goch of Prophecy as well as of Poetry. MALLET,