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 receiv'd at court:
Although ironically grave,
He sham'd the fool, and lash'd the knave:
To steal a hint was never known,
But what he writ was all his own.'
Sir, I have heard another story,
He was a most confounded Tory;
And grew, or he is much belied,
Extremely dull before he died.'
Can we the Drapier then forget?
Is not our nation in his debt?
"Twas he that writ the Drapier's Letters !'He should have left them for his betters;
We had a hundred abler men,
Nor need depend upon his pen.--
Say what you will about his reading,
You never can defend his breeding,
Who in his satires running riot,
Could never leave the world in quiet,
Attacking when he took the whim,
Court, city, camp,-all one to him.
But why would he, except he slobber'd,
Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert;
Whose counsels aid the sovereign pow'r
To save the nation every hour?
What scenes of evil he unravels
In satires, libels, lying travels!
Not sparing his own clergy-cloth,
But eats into it like a moth!'--
'Perhaps I may allow the Dean
Had too much satire in his vein,
And seem'd determin'd not to starve it,
Because no age could more deserve it:
Yet malice never was his aim;
He lash'd the vice, but spar'd the name:
No individual could resent,
Where thousands equally were meant:
His satire points at no defect
But what all mortals may correct;
For he abhorr'd that senseless tribe
Who call it humour when they gibe.
He spar'd a hump or crooked nose,
Whose owners set not up for beaux :
True genuine dulness mov'd his pity,
Unless it offer'd to be witty.
Those who their ignorance confest
He ne'er offended with a jest;
But laugh'd to hear an idiot quote
A verse from Horace, learn'd by rote.
Vice, if it e'er can be abash'd,
Must be or ridicul'd or lash'd.
If you resent it, who's to blame?
He neither knew you nor your name.
Should vice expect to scape rebuke,
Because its owner is a duke?
His friendships, still to few confin'd,
Were always of the middling kind;
No fools of rank, or mongrel breed,
Who fain would pass for lords indeed,
Where titles give no right or power,
And peerage is a wither'd flower :
He would have deem'd it a disgrace
If such a wretch had known his face.
On rural 'squires, that kingdom's bane,
He vented oft his wrath in vain;
squires to market brought,
Who sell their souls and for nought; The go joyful back
the church, their tenants rack,
Co snacks with.
And keep the peace to pick up fees;
In every job to have a share,
A jail or turnpike to repair,
Commodious to their own abodes.
He never thought an honour done him,
Because a peer was proud to own him;
Would rather slip aside, and choose
To talk with wits in dirty shoes:
And scorn the tools 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.
He kept with princes due decorum,
Yet never stood in awè before 'em.
He follow'd David's lesson just,
In princes never put his trust;
And, would you make him truly sour,
Provoke him with a slave in power.
The Irish Senate if you nam'd,
With what impatience he declaim'd!
Fair Liberty was all his cry;
For her he stood prepar'd to die;
For her he boldly stood alone;
For her he oft expos'd his own.
Two kingdoms, just as faction led,
Had set a price upon his head:
But not a traitor could be found
To sell him for six hundred pound.
Had he but spar'd his tongue and pen,
He might have rose like other men ;
But pow'r was never in his thought,
And wealth he valued not a groat.
Ingratitude he often found,
And pitied those who meant the wound,
But kept the tenor of his mind
To merit well of human-kind;
Nor made a sacrifice of those
Who still were true, to please his foes.
He labour'd many a fruitless hour
To reconcile his friends in pow'r ;
Saw mischief by a faction brewing,
While they pursued each other's ruin;
But finding vain was all his care,
He left the court in mere despair.
'And, oh! how short are human schemes!
Here ended all our golden dreams.
What St. John's skill in state affairs,
What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares,
To save their sinking country lent,
Was all destroy'd by one event;
Too soon that precious life was ended
On which alone our weal depended.
When up a dangerous faction starts,
With wrath and vengeance in their hearts,
By Solemn League and Cov'nant bound,
To ruin, slaughter, and confound;
To turn religion to a fable,
And make the government a Babel;
Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown,
Corrupt the senate, rob the crown;
To sacrifice old England's glory,
And make her infamous in story.
When such a tempest shook the land,
How could unguarded Virtue stand?
With horror, grief, despair, the Dean
Beheld the dire destructive scene;
His friends in exile, or the Tow'r,
Himself within the frown of Pow'r;
Pursued, by base envenom'd pens,
and fens,
A servile race, in folly nurst,
Who truckle most when treated worst.
By innocence and resolution
He bore continual persecution,
While numbers to preferment rose,
Whose merit were to be his foes;
When ev'n his own familiar friends,
Intent upon their private ends,
Like renegados, now he feels
Against him lifting up their heels.
The Dean did by his pen defeat
An infamous destructive cheat;
Taught fools their interest how to know,
And gave them arms to ward the blow.
Envy hath own'd it was his doing,
To save that hapless land from ruin,
While they who at the steerage stood,
And reap'd the profit, sought his blood.
To save them from their evil fate
In him was held a crime of state.
A wicked monster on the bench,
Whose fury blood could never quench:
As vile and profligate a villain
As modern Scroggs or old Tressilian;
Who long all justice had discarded,
Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded,
Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent,
And make him of his zeal repent;
But Heav'n his innocence defends;
The grateful people stand his friends:
Not strains of law, nor judges' frown,
Nor topics brought to please the crown,
Nor witness hir'd, nor jury pick'd,
Prevail to bring him in convict.
In exile with a steady heart.
He spent his life's declining part,
Where folly, pride, and faction sway,
Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay.'-
Vol. I.
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