From 'On Poetry: a Rhapsody.'
Not empire to the rising sun,
By valour, conduct, fortune won;
Not highest wisdom in debates

For framing laws to govern states;
Not skill in sciences profound,
So large to grasp the circle round,
Such heavenly influence require,
As how to strike the Muse's lyre.
Not beggar's brat or bulk-begot ;
Not bastard of a pedler Scot;
Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes,
The spawn of Bridewell or the stews ;
Not infants dropt, the spurious pledges
Of gipsies littering under hedges,
Are so disqualified by fate

To rise in church, or law, or state,

As he whom Phoebus in his ire

Hath blasted with poetic fire.

A Description of the Morning.

Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach
Appearing shewed the ruddy morn's approach.
The slipshod 'prentice from his master's door
Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor.
Now Moll had whirled her mop with dextrous airs,
Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs.
The youth with broomy stumps begun to trace

The kennel's edge, where wheels had worn the place.
The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep,
Till drowned in shriller notes of chimney-sweep:
Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet,

And brick-dust Moll had screamed through half the street.
The turnkey now his flock returning sees,

Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees;
The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands,

And school-boys lag with satchels in their hands.

From 'Cadenus and Vanessa.'

But Cupid, full of mischief, longs
To vindicate his mother's wrongs.
On Pallas all attempts are vain :
One way he knows to give her pain;
Vows on Vanessa's heart to take
Due vengeance, for her patron's sake;
Those early seeds by Venus sown,
In spite of Pallas now were grown;
And Cupid hop'd they would improve
By time, and ripen into love.
The boy made use of all his craft,
In vain discharging many a shaft,
Pointed at colonels, lords, and beaux :
Cadenus warded off the blows;
For, placing still some book betwixt,
The darts were in the cover fix'd,
Or, often blunted and recoil'd,

On Plutarch's Morals struck, were spoil'd.

The Queen of Wisdom could foresee,
But not prevent, the Fates' decree :
And human caution tries in vain
To break that adamantine chain.
Vanessa, though by Pallas taught,
By Love invulnerable thought,
Searching in books for wisdom's aid,
Was in the very search betray'd.

Cupid, though all his darts were lost,
Yet still resolv'd to spare no cost :
He could not answer to his fame
The triumphs of that stubborn dame,
A nymph so hard to be subdued,
Who neither was coquette nor prude.
I find, said he, she wants a doctor,
Both to adore her and instruct her :
I'll give her what she most admires,
Among these venerable sires.
Cadenus is a subject fit,

Grown old in politics and wit,
Caress'd by ministers of state,

Of half mankind the dread and hate.
Whate'er vexations love attend,
She need no rivals apprehend.
Her sex, with universal voice,
Must laugh at her capricious choice.
Cadenus many things had writ :
Vanessa much esteem'd his wit,
And call'd for his poetic works:
Meantime the boy in secret lurks;
And while the book was in her hand,

The urchin from his private stand
Took aim, and shot with all his strength
A dart of such prodigious length,

It pierc'd the feeble volume through,
And deep transfix'd her bosom too.
Some lines, more moving than the rest,
Stuck to the point that pierc'd her breast,
And, borne directly to the heart,
With pains unknown increas'd her smart.
Vanessa, not in years a score,
Dreams of a gown of forty-four;
Imaginary charms can find

In eyes with reading almost blind :
Cadenus now no more appears
Declin'd in health, advanc'd in years.
She fancies music in his tongue;

Nor further looks, but thinks him young.

What mariner is not afraid

To venture in a ship decay'd?
What planter will attempt to yoke
A sapling with a falling oak?

As years increase, she brighter shines;
Cadenus with each day declines :
And he must fall a prey to time,
While she continues in her prime.
Cadenus, common forms apart,
In every scene had kept his heart;
Had sigh'd and languish'd, vow'd and writ,
For pastime, or to show his wit;
But books, and time, and state affairs
Had spoil'd his fashionable airs:
He now could praise, esteem, approve,
But understood not what was love.
His conduct might have made him styl'd
A father, and the nymph his child.
That innocent delight he took
To see the virgin mind her book,
Was but the master's secret joy
In school to hear the finest boy.
Her knowledge with her fancy grew;
She hourly press'd for something new;
Ideas came into her mind

So fast, his lessons lagg'd behind

She reason'd, without plodding long,
Nor ever gave her judgment wrong.
But now a sudden change was wrought:
She minds no longer what he taught.
Cadenus was amaz'd to find

Such marks of a distracted mind:

For though she seem'd to listen more

To all he spoke than e'er before,

He found her thoughts would absent range,

Yet guess'd not whence could spring the change.
And first he modestly conjectures

His pupil might be tir'd with lectures;
Which help'd to mortify his pride,
Yet gave him not the heart to chide :

But in a mild dejected strain,
At last he ventur'd to complain :
Said she should be no longer teaz'd,

Might have her freedom when she pleas'd:
Was now convinc'd he acted wrong
To hide her from the world so long,
And in dull studies to engage
One of her tender sex and age:
That every nymph with envy own'd,

How she might shine in the grande monde;
And every shepherd was undone
To see her cloister'd like a nun.
This was a visionary scheme :

He wak'd, and found it but a dream,

A project far above his skill;
For nature must be nature still.
If he were bolder than became
A scholar to a courtly dame,
She might excuse a man of letters:
Thus tutors often treat their betters:
And, since his talk offensive grew,
He came to take his last adieu.

Vanessa, fill'd with just disdain,
Would still her dignity maintain,
Instructed from her early years
To scorn the art of female tears.

Had he employ'd his time so long
To teach her what was right and wrong;
Yet could such notions entertain
That all his lectures were in vain ?

She own'd the wandering of her thoughts;
But he must answer for her faults.
She well remember'd to her cost
That all his lessons were not lost.
Two maxims she could still produce,
And sad experience taught their use;
That virtue, pleas'd by being shown,
Knows nothing which it dares not own;
Can make us without fear disclose
Our inmost secrets to our foes:
That common forms were not design'd
Directors to a noble mind.

Now, said the nymph, to let you see
My actions with your rules agree;
That I can vulgar forms despise,
And have no secrets to disguise;
I knew, by what you said and writ,
How dangerous things were men of wit;
You caution'd me against their charms,
But never gave me equal arms;
Your lessons found the weakest part,
Aim'd at the head, but reach'd the heart.

Cadenus felt within him rise
Shame, disappointment, guilt, surprise.
He knew not how to reconcile
Such language with her usual style:
And yet her words were so exprest,
He could not hope she spoke in jest.
His thought had wholly been confin'd
To form and cultivate her mind.
He hardly knew, till he was told,
Whether the nymph were young or old;
Had met her in a public place,
Without distinguishing her face :
Much less could his declining age
Vanessa's earliest thoughts engage;
And, if her youth indifference met,
His person must contempt beget:
Or grant her passion be sincere,
How shall his innocence be clear?
Appearances were all so strong,

The world must think him in the wrong :
Would say he made a treacherous use
Of wit to flatter and seduce :

The town would swear he had betray'd
By magic spells the harmless maid:
And every beau would have his jokes,
That scholars were like other folks ;
And when Platonic flights were over,
The tutor turn'd a mortal lover!
So tender of the young and fair!
It show'd a true paternal care--
Five thousand guineas in her purse!
The doctor might have fancy'd worse.-
Hardly at length he silence broke,
And falter'd every word he spoke;
Interpreting her complaisance,
Just as a man sans consequence.
She rallied well, he always knew:
Her manner now was something new;
And what she spoke was in an air
As serious as a tragic player.
But those who aim at ridicule
Should fix upon some certain rule,
Which fairly hints they are in jest,
Else he must enter his protest :
For, let a man be ne'er so wise,
He may be caught with sober lies;
A science which he never taught,
And, to be free, was dearly bought;
For, take it in its proper light,
'Tis just what coxcombs call a bite.

But, not to dwell on things minute,
Vanessa finish'd the dispute ;
Brought weighty arguments to prove
That reason was her guide in love.
She thought he had himself describ'd,
His doctrines when she first imbib'd;
What he had planted, now was grown ;
His virtues she might call her own;
As he approves, as he dislikes,
Love or contempt her fancy strikes.
Self-love, in nature rooted fast,
Attends us first, and leaves us last:
Why she likes him, admire not at her;
She loves herself, and that's the matter.
How was her tutor wont to praise

The geniuses of ancient days!

(Those authors he so oft had nam'd,
For learning, wit, and wisdom fam'd;)
Was struck with love, esteem, and awe,
For persons whom he never saw.
Suppose Cadenus flourish'd then,
He must adore such godlike men.
If one short volume could comprise
All that was witty, learn'd, and wise,
How would it be esteem'd and read,
Although the writer long were dead!
If such an author were alive,

How all would for his friendship strive,
And come in crowds to see his face!
And this she takes to be her case.
Cadenus answers every end,

The book, the author, and the friend;
The utmost her desires will reach,
Is but to learn what he can teach :

His converse is a system fit
Alone to fill up all her wit:
While every passion of her mind
In him is cent' red and confin'd.

Love can with speech inspire a mute,
And taught Vanessa to dispute.
This topic, never touch'd before,
Display'd her eloquence the more :

Her knowledge, with such pains acquir'd,
By this new passion grew inspir'd;
Through this she made all objects pass,
Which gave a tincture o'er the mass;
As rivers, though they bend and twine,
Still to the sea their course incline;
Or, as philosophers who find
Some favourite system to their mind,
In every point to make it fit,
Will force all nature to submit.
Cadenus, who could ne'er suspect
His lessons would have such effect,
Or be so artfully apply'd,
Insensibly came on her side.
It was an unforeseen event;
Things took a turn he never meant.
Whoe'er excels in what we prize,
Appears a hero in our eyes:

Each girl, when pleas'd with what is taught,
Will have the teacher in her thought.
When miss delights in her spinnet,
A fiddler may a fortune get;
A blockhead, with melodious voice,
In boarding-schools may have his choice;
And oft the dancing-master's art
Climbs from the toe to touch the heart.
In learning let a nymph delight,
The pedant gets a mistress by 't.
Cadenus, to his grief and shame,
Could scarce oppose Vanessa's flame;
And, though her arguments were strong,
At least could hardly wish them wrong.
Howe'er it came, he could not tell,
But sure she never talk'd so well.
His pride began to interpose;
Preferr'd before a crowd of beaux !
So bright a nymph to come unsought !
Such wonder by his merit wrought!
'Tis merit must with her prevail !
He never knew her judgment fail!

She noted all she ever read!
And had a most discerning head!

'Tis an old maxim in the schools,
That flattery's the food of fools;
Yet now and then your men of wit
Will condescend to take a bit.

So, when Cadenus could not hide,
He chose to justify his pride;
Construing the passion he had shown,
Much to her praise, more to his own.
Nature in him had merit plac'd,
In her a most judicious taste.
Love, hitherto a transient guest,
Ne'er held possession of his breast;
So long attending at the gate,
Disdain'd to enter in so late.
Love why do we one passion call,
When 'tis a compound of them all?

Where hot and cold, where sharp and sweet,

In all their equipages meet;

Where pleasures mix'd with pains appear,
Sorrow with joy, and hope with fear;
Wherein his dignity and age
Forbid Cadenus to engage.

But friendship, in its greatest height,

A constant, rational delight,
On virtue's basis fix'd to last,
When love allurements long are past,
Which gently warms, but cannot burn,
He gladly offers in return;

His want of passion will redeem
With gratitude, respect, esteem :
With that devotion we bestow,
When goddesses appear below.

While thus Cadenus entertains
Vanessa in exalted strains,

The nymph in sober words entreats

A truce with all sublime conceits:

For why such raptures, flights, and fancies,
To her who durst not read romances?

In lofty style to make replies,
Which he had taught her to despise?
But when her tutor will affect
Devotion, duty, and respect,
He fairly abdicates the throne:
The government is now her own;
He has a forfeiture incurr'd ;
She vows to take him at his word,
And hopes he will not think it strange,
If both should now their stations change;
The nymph will have her turn to be
The tutor; and the pupil, he:
Though she already can discern
Her scholar is not apt to learn;
Or wants capacity to reach
The science she designs to teach ;
Wherein his genius was below
The skill of every common beau,
Who, though he cannot spell, is wise
Enough to read a lady's eyes,
And will each accidental glance
Interpret for a kind advance.

But what success Vanessa mei

Is to the world a secret yet,
Whether the nymph, to please her swain,
Talks in a high romantic strain ;

Or whether he at last descends

To act with less seraphic ends;

Or, to compound the business, whether They temper love and books together; Must never to mankind be told,

Nor shall the conscious Muse unfold.

From 'Verses on the Death of Dr Swift.'

As Rochefoucault his Maxims drew
From nature, I believe them true:
They argue no corrupted mind
In him; the fault is in mankind.

This maxim more than all the rest
Is thought too base for human breast:
'In all distresses of our friends
We first consult our private ends;
While nature kindly bent to ease us,
Points out some circumstance to please us.'
If this perhaps your patience move,
Let reason and experience prove.
We all behold with envious eyes
Our equal raised above our size.
Who would not at a crowded show
Stand high himself, keep others low?
I love my friend as well as you;

But why should he obstruct my view?
Then let me have the higher post;
Suppose it but an inch at most.
If in a battle you should find
One whom you love of all mankind,
Had some heroic action done,

A champion killed, or trophy won ;
Rather than thus be overtopp'd,

Would you not wish his laurels cropp'd?
Dear honest Ned is in the gout,

Lies racked with pain, and you without:
How patiently you hear him groan!
How glad the case is not your own!
What poet would not grieve to see

His brother write as well as he?
But, rather than they should excel,
Would wish his rivals all in hell?

Her end when Emulation misses,
She turns to Envy, stings, and hisses:
The strongest friendship yields to Pride,
Unless the odds be on our side.

Vain human kind! fantastic race!
Thy various follies who can trace?
Self-love, ambition, envy, pride,
Their empire in our hearts divide.
Give others riches, power, and station,
'Tis all on me an usurpation.
I have no title to aspire;

Yet, when you sink, I seem the higher.

In Pope I cannot read a line,
But with a sigh I wish it mine :
When he can in one couplet fix
More sense than I can do in six,
It gives me such a jealous fit,
I cry: Pox take him and his wit.'

I grieve to be outdone by Gay
In my own humorous biting way.
Arbuthnot is no more my friend,
Who dares to irony pretend,
Which I was born to introduce,
Refined it first, and shewed its use.

Afterwards Lords Bolingbroke and Bath

St John, as well as Pulteney, knows
That I had some repute for prose;
And, till they drove me out of date,
Could maul a minister of state.
If they have mortified my pride,
And made me throw my pen aside;
If with such talents heaven hath blest 'em,
Have I not reason to detest 'em?

To all my foes, dear Fortune, send
Thy gifts, but never to my friend :

I tamely can endure the first;
But this with envy makes me burst.

Thus much may serve by way of proem;
Proceed we therefore to our poem.

The time is not remote, when I
Must by the course of nature die ;
When, I foresee, my special friends
Will try to find their private ends :
And, though 'tis hardly understood,
Which way my death can do them good,
Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak :
'See, how the dean begins to break!
Poor gentleman! he droops apace!
You plainly find it in his face.
That old vertigo in his head
Will never leave him till he 's dead.
Besides his memory decays:

He recollects not what he says;
He cannot call his friends to mind;
Forgets the place where last he dined;
Plies you with stories o'er and o'er-
He told them fifty times before.
How does he fancy we can sit
To hear his out-of-fashion wit?
But he takes up with younger folks,
Who for his wine will bear his jokes.
Faith, he must make his stories shorter,
Or change his comrades once a quarter:
In half the time he talks them round,
There must another set be found.

'For poetry he 's past his prime;
He takes an hour to find a rhyme :
His fire is out, his wit decayed,
His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade.
I'd have him throw away his pen-
But there's no talking to some men.'
And then their tenderness appears
By adding largely to my years :

'He's older than he would be reckoned,
And well remembers Charles the Second.
He hardly drinks a pint of wine;
And that, I doubt, is no good sign.

His stomach, too, begins to fail;

Last year we thought him strong and hale;

But now he's quite another thing;

I wish he may hold out till spring.' They hug themselves and reason thus: 'It is not yet so bad with us.'

In such a case they talk in tropes,
And by their fears express their hopes.
Some great misfortune to portend

No enemy can match a friend.
With all the kindness they profess,

The merit of a lucky guess

(When daily How-d'ye's come of course,

And servants answer: Worse and worse!')

Would please them better than to tell,
That, 'God be praised! the dean is well.'
Then he who prophesied the best,
Approves his foresight to the rest :
'You know I always feared the worst,
And often told you so at first.'

He'd rather choose that I should die,
Than his prediction prove a lie.
Not one foretells I shall recover,
But all agree to give me over.

Yet should some neighbour feel a pain
Just in the parts where I complain,
How many a message would he send !
What hearty prayers that I should mend!
Inquire what regimen I kept?
What gave me ease, and how I slept?
And more lament when I was dead,
Than all the snivellers round my bed.

My good companions, never fear; For, though you may mistake a year, Though your prognostics run too fast, They must be verified at last.

Behold the fatal day arrive! How is the dean? 'He's just alive.' Now the departing prayer is read; 'He hardly breathes.' 'The dean is dead.' Before the passing-bell begun,

The news through half the town is run;
'Oh! 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 bequeathed 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.
And had the dean in all the nation
No worthy friend, no poor relation?
So ready to do strangers good,
Forgetting his own flesh and blood!'. . .
Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains :
Three genuine tomes of Swift's Remains!
And then to make them pass the glibber,
Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber.
He'll treat me as he does my betters,
Publish my wili, 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 love 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 !'.
One year is past a different scene!
No further mention of the dean,
Who now, alas! no more is missed,
Than if he never did exist.

Where's now this favourite of Apollo?
Departed: and his work s must follow;
Must undergo the common fate;

His kind of wit is out of clate.

Says Lintot: 'I have heard the name;
He died a year ago.' 'The same.'
He searches all the shop in vain :
'Sir, you may find them in Duck-lane
I sent them, with a load of books,
Last Monday to the pastry-cooks.
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.
Pray, do but give me leave to shew 'em :
Here's Colley Cibber's birthday poem ;
This ode you never yet have seen
By Stephen Duck upon the queen.
Then here's a letter finely penned
Against the Craftsman and his friend;
It clearly shews that all reflection
On ministers is disaffection.

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?'.

Suppose me dead; and then suppose
A club assembled at the Rose,
Where, from discourse of this and that,
I grow the subject of their chat.
And while they toss my name about,
With favour some, and some without,
One, quite indifferent in the cause,
My character impartial draws:
'The dean, if we believe report,
Was never ill received at court.
As for his works in verse and prose,

I own myself no judge of those :
Nor can I tell what critics thought 'em,
But this I know, all people bought 'em ;
As with a moral view designed

To cure the vices of mankind,

His vein, ironically grave,

He shamed the fool, and lashed the knave.

To steal a hint was never known,

But what he writ was all his own.

'He never thought an honour done him, Because a duke was proud to own him; Would rather slip aside, and choose To talk with wits in dirty shoes; Despis'd the fools with stars and garters, So often seen caressing Chartres. He never courted men in station, Nor persons held in admiration; Of no man's greatness was afraid, Because he sought for no man's aid. Though trusted long in great affairs, He gave himself no haughty airs: Without regarding private ends, Spent all his credit for his friends: And only chose the wise and good; No flatterers; no allies in blood: But succour'd virtue in distress, And seldom fail'd of good success; As numbers in their hearts must own, Who, but for him, had been unknown.