Much did I wish, tho' little could I hope, eit
A friend in him, who was the friend of POPE.'. I
Seri I
His hand, faid 1, my youthful fteps fhall guide,
And lead me fafe where thousands fall befide;
His temper, his experience fhall controul,
And hush to peace the tempeft of my foul;
His judgment teach me, from the critic school,
How not to err, and how to err by rule;
Instruct me, mingle profit with delight,
Where Pope was wrong, where SHAKESPEARE WAS
not right;
Where they are justly prais'd and where thro' whim,
How little's due to them, how much to him.
Rais'd 'bove the flavery of common rules,
Of common-sense, of modern, ancient schools,
Thofe feelings banifh'd, which miflead us all,
Fools as we are, and which we nature call,
He, by his
great example, might impart
A better fomething, and baptize it Art;
He, all the feelings of my youth forgot,
Might fhew me what is tafte, by what is not;
By him fupported, with a proper pride,
I might hold all mankind as fools befide;
He (fhould a world, perverfe and peevish grown,
Explode his maxims, and affert their own)
DEDICATI O.N.
Might teach me, like himself, to be content,
And let their folly be their punifhment;
Might, like himself, teach his adopted fon,
'Gainft all the world, to quote a WARBURTON.
Fool that I was, could I fo much deceive
My foul with lying hopes; could I believe
That he, the fervant of his Maker fworn,
The fervant of his Saviour, would be torn
From their embrace, and leave that dear employ,
The cure of fouls, his duty and his joy,
For toys
like mine, and wafte his precious time,
On which fo much depended, for a rhime?
Should he forfake the task he undertook,
Desert his flock, and break his past'ral crook?
Should he (forbid it Heaven) so high in place,
So rich in knowledge, quit the work of Grace,
And, idly wand'ring o'er the Mufe's hill,
Let the falvation of mankind ftand still?
Far, far be that from thee-yes, far from thee Be fuch revolt from Grace, and far from me The will to think it-guilt is in the thoughtNot fo, not fo, hath WARBURTON been taught, Not fo learn'd Chrift-Recall that day, well-known, When (to maintain God's honour-and his own)
He call'd blafphemers forth-Methinks I now
See ftern rebuke enthroned on his brow,
And arm'd with tenfold terrors-from this tongue,
Where fiery zeal, and Chriftian fury hung,
Methinks I hear the deep-ton'd thunders roll,
And chill with horror ev'ry finner's foul-
In vain they strive to fly-flight cannot save,
And POTTER trembles even in his grave-
With all the confcious pride of innocence,
Methinks I hear him, in his own defence,
Bear witness to himself, whilft all men knew,
By Gospel rules, his witness to be true.
O glorious man, thy zeal I must commend, Tho' it depriv'd me of my, dearest friend. The real motives of thy anger known, WILKES muft the juftice of that anger own, And, could thy bofom have been bar'd to view, Pitied himself, in turn had pitied you.
Bred to the law, you wifely took the gown,
Which I, like Demas, foolishly laid down.
Hence double ftrength our Holy Mother drew:
Me fhe got rid of, and made prize of you.
I, like an idle truant, fond of play,
Doting on toys, and throwing gems away,
Grafping at shadows, let the fubftance flip,
But you, my Lord, renounc'd Attorneyfhip
With better purpose, and more noble aim,
And wifely play'd a more substantial game.
Nor did Law mourn, bless'd in her younger fon
For MANSFIELD does what GLOSTER would have
Doctor, Dean, Bishop, Glofter, and My Lord, If haply these high titles may accord With thy meek spirit, if the barren found Of pride delights thee, to the topmost round Of fortune's ladder got, defpife not one, For want of smooth hypocrify undone, Who, far below, turns up his wond'ring eye, And, without envy, fees thee plac'd so high, Let not thy brain (as brains less potent might) Dizzy, confounded, giddy with the height, Turn round, and lose distinction, lose her skill And wonted powers of knowing good from ill, Of fifting truth from falfhood, friends from foes; Let GLOSTER well remember, how he rofe, Nor turn his back on men who made him great; Let him not, gorg'd with pow'r, and drunk with state,
Forget what once he was, tho' now fo high
How low, how mean, and fu
ad full as poor as f. 152
|