So bays on poets brows have been
Set, for a sign of wit within.
And as ill neighbours in the night
Pull down an alehouse bush for spite;
The laurel so, by poets worn,
Is by the teeth of Envy torn;
Envy, a canker-worm, which tears
Those sacred leaves that lightning spares.
And now, t'exemplify this moral:
Tom having earn'd a twig of laurel,
(Which, measur'd on his head, was found
Not long enough to reach half round,
But, like a girl's cockade, was ty'd,
A trophy, on his temple-side),
Paddy repin'd to see him wear
This badge of honour in his hair;
And, thinking this cockade of wit
Would his own temples better fit,
Forming his Muse by Smedley's model,
Lets drive at Tom's devoted noddle,
Pelts him by turns with verse and prose,
Hums like a hornet at his nose.

At length presumes to vent his satire on
The Dean, Tom's honour'd friend and patron.
The eagle in the tale, ye know,
Teas'd by a buzzing wasp below,

tion those papers received, attacked them violently, both in conversation and in print; but unfortunately stumbled on some of the numbers which the Dean had written, and all the world admired, which gave rise to these verses.-H.

This is one of the little satirical effusions from which the Dean's intimates were never insured. It is retained in this place on account of the frequent mention of Delany in the subsequent poems.

Took wing to Jove, and hop'd to rest
Securely in the thunderer's breast:
In vain; even there, to spoil his nod,
The spiteful insect stung the god.

AN EPISTLE TO HIS EXCELLENCY

JOHN, LORD CARTERET.

BY DR DELANY. 1729.

"Credis ob hoc, me, Pastor, opes fortasse rogare,
Propter quod, vulgus, crassaque turba rogat."
MART. Epig. Lib. ix.

[Delany, by the patronage of Carteret, and probably through the intercession of Swift, had obtained a small living in the north of Ireland, worth about one hundred pounds a-year, with the chan cellorship of Christ Church, and a prebend's stall in St Pa trick's, neither of which exceeded the same annual amount. yet a clamour was raised among the Whigs, on account of the multiplication of his preferments; and a charge was founded against the Lord-Lieutenant, of extravagant favour to a Tory divine, which Swift judged worthy of an admirable ironical confutation, in his vindication of Lord Carteret. It appears from the following verses, that Delany was far from being of the same opinion with those who thought he was too amply provided for.]

THOU wise and learned ruler of our isle,
Whose guardian care can all her griefs beguile;

When next your generous soul shall condescend
T' instruct or entertain your humble friend;
Whether, retiring from your weighty charge,
On some high theme you learnedly enlarge;
Of all the ways of wisdom reason well,
How Richlieu rose, and how Sejanus fell:
Or, when your brow less thoughtfully unbends,
Circled with Swift and some delighted friends;
When, mixing mirth and wisdom with your wine,
Like that your wit shall flow, your genius shine:
Nor with less praise the conversation guide,
Than in the public councils you decide:
Or when the Dean, long privileg'd to rail,
Asserts his friend with more impetuous zeal;
You hear (whilst I sit by abash'd and mute)
With soft concessions shortening the dispute;
Then close with kind inquiries of my state,
"How are your tithes, and have they rose of late?
Why, Christ Church is a pretty situation,
There are not many better in the nation!
This, with your other things, must yield you clear
Some six-at least five hundred pounds a-year.'
Suppose, at such a time, I took the freedom
To speak these truths as plainly as you read 'em:
You shall rejoin, my Lord, when I've replied,
And, if you please, my Lady shall decide.

My Lord, I'm satisfied you meant me well : And that I'm thankful, all the world can tell : But you'll forgive me, if I own the event Is short, is very short, of

your intent :

At least, I feel some ills unfelt before,

My income less, and my expences more."

"

"How, Doctor! double vicar! double rector ! A dignitary with a city lecture!

What glebes what dues-what tithes-what fines ---what rent!

*

Why, Doctor-will you never be content?"
"Would my good Lord but cast up the account,
And see to what my revenues amount ;
My titles ample; but my gain so small,
That one good vicarage is worth them all :
And very wretched, sure, is he, that's double
In nothing but his titles and his trouble.
Add to this crying grievance, if you please,
My horses founder'd on Fermanah ways;
Ways of well-polish'd and well-pointed stone,
Where every step endangers every bone;
And, more to raise your pity and your wonder,
Two churches-twelve Hibernian miles asunder:
With complicated cures, I labour hard in,

Beside whole summers absent from-my garden!
But that the world would think I play'd the fool,
I'd change with Charley Grattan for his school. †-
What fine cascades, what vistoes, might I make,
Fixt in the centre of th' Iërnian lake!

There might I sail delighted, smooth and safe,
Beneath the conduct of my good Sir Ralph: +
There's not a better steerer in the realm;

I hope, my Lord, you'll call him to the helm."-
"Doctor-a glorious scheme to ease your grief!
When cures are, cross, a school's a sure relief.
You cannot fail of being happy there,
The lake will be the Lethe of your care:

*Which calculation, according to Dr Swift, in his vindication of Lord Carteret, scarcely exceeded 3001. a-year.

+ A free school at Inniskillen, founded by Erasmus Smith, Esq.

Sir Ralph Gore, who had a villa in the lake of Erin.-F.

The scheme is for your honour and your ease;
And, Doctor, I'll promote it when you please.
Meanwhile, allowing things below your merit,
Yet, Doctor, you've a philosophic spirit;
Your wants are few, and, like your income, small,
And you've enough to gratify them all :

2

You've trees, and fruits, and roots, enough in store:
And what could a philosopher have more?
You cannot wish for coaches, kitchens, cooks"-
"My Lord, I've not enough to buy me books—
Or
pray, suppose my wants were all supplied,
Are there no wants I should regard beside?
Whose breast is so unmann'd, as not to grieve,
Compass'd with miseries he can't relieve?
Who can be happy-who should wish to live,
And want the godlike happiness to give?
That I'm a judge of this, you must allow
I had it once-and I'm debarr'd it now.
Ask your own heart, my Lord; if this be true,
Then how unblest am I! how blest are you!"
" 'Tis true-but, Doctor, let us wave all that—
Say, if you had your wish, what you'd be at?"
"Excuse me good my Lord-I won't be sounded,
Nor shall your favour by my wants be bounded.
My Lord I challenge nothing as my due,
Nor is it fit I should prescribe to you.
Yet this might Symmachus himself avow,
(Whose rigid rules are antiquated now)
My lord! I'd wish to pay the debts I owe-
I'd wish besides-to build, and to bestow."

*Symmachus, Bishop of Rome, 499, made a decree, that no man should solicit for ecclesiastical preferment before the death of the incumbent.-H.