EALTH to great GLOSTER-
from a man unknown,
Who holds thy health as dearly as
Accept this greeting-nor let modest fear
Call up one maiden blush-I mean not here
To wound with flatt'ry-'tis a Villain's art,
And fuits not with the frankness of my heart.
Truth beft becomes an Orthodox Divine,
And, spite of hell, that Character is mine;
To speak e'en bitter truths I cannot fear;
But truth, my Lord, is Panegyric here.
Health to great GLOSTER-nor, thro' love of ease,
Which all Priefts love, let this addrefs difplease.
I afk no favour, not one note I crave,
And, when this bufy brain refts in the grave,
(For till that time it never can have rest)
I will not trouble you with one bequest.
Some humbler Friend, my mortal journey done,
More near in blood, a Nephew or a Son,
In that dread hour Executor I'll leave;
For I, alas! have many to receive,
To give but little-To great GLOSTER Health;
Nor let thy true and proper love of wealth
Here take a false alarm-in purfe though poor,
In fpirit I'm right proud, nor can endure
The mention of a bribe-thy pocket's free,
I, tho' a Dedicator, fcorn a fee.
Let thy own offspring all thy fortunes fhare;
I would not ALLEN rob, nor ALLEN's heir.
Think not, a Thought unworthy thy great foul, [troul, Which pomps of this world never could conWhich never offer'd up at Pow'rs vain fhrine, Think not that Pomp and Pow'r can work on
'Tis not thy Name, though that indeed is
"Tis not the tinfel trumpery of state,
Tis not thy Title, Doctor tho' thou art,
'Tis not thy Mitre, which hath won my heart.
State is a farce, Names are but empty Things,
Degrees are bought, and, by mistaken kings,
Titles are oft misplac'd; Mitres, which shrine
So bright in other eyes, are dull in mine,
Unless fet off by Virtue; who deceives
Under the facred fanction of Lawn-fleeves,
Enhances guilt, commits a double fin;
So fair without, and yet fo foul within.
'Tis not thy outward form, thy easy mein,
Thy fweet complacency, thy brow ferene,
Thy open front, thy Love-commanding eye,
Where fifty Cupids, as in ambush, lie,
Which can from fixty to fixteen impart
The force of Love, and point his blunted dart ;
'Tis not thy Face, tho' that by Nature's made
An index to thy foul, tho' there display'd
We fee thy mind at large, and thro' thy skin
Peeps out that Courtesy which dwells within;
'Tis not thy Birth-for that is low as mine,
Around our heads no lineal glories fhine-
But what is Birth, when, to delight mankind,
Heralds can make thofe arms they cannot find;
When Thou art to Thyfelf, thy Sire unknown,
A Whole, Welch Genealogy Alone ?
No, 'tis thy inward Man, thy proper Worth,
Thy right just Eftimation here on earth,
Thy Life and Doctrine uniformly join'd,
And flowing from that wholfome fource thy
mind,
Thy known contempt of Perfecution's rod,
Thy Charity for Man, thy Love of God,
Thy Faith in Chrift, so well approv'd 'mongst
Which now give life, and utt'rance to my pen. Thy Virtue, not thy Rank, demands my lays; "Tis not the Bishop, but the Saint I praife. Rais'd by that Theme, I foar on wings more strong,
And burst forth into praise with-held too long.
Much did I wifh, e'en whilft I kept thofe sheep,
Which, for my curfe, I was ordain'd to keep; Ordain'd, alas! to keep thro' need, not choice, Those fheep which never heard their fhepherd's voice,
Which did not know, yet would not learn
Which stray'd themselves, yet griev'd that I fhould stray,
Those fheep, which my good Father (on his bier
Let filial duty drop the pious tear)
Kept well, yet ftarv'd himself, e'en at that time,
Whilst I was pure, and innocent of rime,
Whilft, facred Dullness ever in my view,
Sleep at my bidding crept from pew to pew,
Much did I wish, tho' little could I hope,
A Friend in him, who was the Friend of
POPE.
His hand, faid I, my youthful steps fhall
guide,
And lead me fafe where thoufands 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;
Inftru&t me, mingling profit with delight,
Where POPE was wrong, where SHAKE-
SPEARE was not right;
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