The greatest Prince, the foremost son of fame,
To thee bequeath'd the glories of his name;
Nature and Fortune thee their darling chose,
Nor could they grace thee more, 'till Walpole rose.
By steps to mighty things Fate makes her way,
The Sun and Caesar but prepar'd this day.

ΤΟ

HIS GRACE THE

DUKE OF ARGYLL,

UPON READING THE PREAMBLE TO THE PATENT,

Creating him

DUKE OF GREENWICH.

BY

MR. POPE.

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 modell'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 mayʼst disdain,
And kings have been thine ancestors in vain.

TO THE AUTHOR

OF A

PANEGYRIC

ON

MRS. GRACE BUTLER,

WHO DIED AGED LXXXVI.

SUPPOSED FROM HER SPIRIT.

By the Same.

STRIPT to the naked soul, escap'd from clay,
From doubts unfetter'd, and dissolv'd in day;
Unwarm'd by vanity; unreach’d by strife;
And all my hopes and fears thrown off with life,
Why am I charm'd by friendship's fond essays,
And, tho' unbodied, conscious of thy praise?
Has pride a portion in the parted soul?
Does passion still the formless mind control ?
Can gratitude out-pant 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 liv'st, to crown departed friends with fame! Then, dying late, shalt all thou gav'st reclaim.

BY THE

RIGHT HONORABLE THE

EARL OF CARLISLE,

ON HIS

SCHOOLFELLOWS WHILE AT ETON.

In youth, 'tis said, you easily may scan,
Strong stamp'd, the outlines of the future man;
This maxim true, how bright will St. John shine,
Form'd by the hand of all the tuneful Nine!
If not to careless indolence a prey,

How will whole nations listen to his lay!

Say, will Fitzwilliam ever want a heart Cheerful, his ready blessings to impart ? Will not another's woe his bosom share, The widow's sorrow, and the orphan's prayer ? Who aids the old, who soothes the mother's cry, Who wipes the tear from off the virgin's eye ? Who feeds the hungry? who assists the lame? All, all re-echo with Fitzwilliam's name. Thou know'st I hate to flatter, yet in thee No fault, my friend, no single speck I see.