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Some fteal a page of fenfe from Tillotson,
And then conclude divinely with their own;
Like oil on water mounts the prelate up,
His grace is always fure to be at top;
That vein of mercury its beams will spread,
And thine more ftrongly through a mine of lead.
With fuch low arts your hearers never bilk,
For who can bear a fuftian lin'd with filk?
Sooner than preach such stuff, I'd walk the town,
Without my fcarf, in Whifton's draggled gown;
Ply at the Chapter, and at Child's, to read
For pence, and bury for a groat a head.
Some eafy fubject chufe, within your power,
Or you will ne'er hold out for half an hour.
Still to your hearers all your fermons fort;
Who'd preach against corruption at a court?
Against church power at vifitations bawl?
Or talk about damnation at Whitehall?
Harangue the Horfe-guards on a cure of fouls ?
Condemn the quirks of Chancery at the Rolls?
Or rail at hoods and organs at St. Pauls ?
Or be, like David Jones, fo indiscreet,
To rave at ufurers in Lombard-street ?
Begin with care, nor, like that curate vile,
Set out in this high prancing ftumbling ftyle:
"Whoever with a piercing eye can fee
"Through the paft records of futurity?”
All gape, no meaning :-the puft orator ·
Talks much, and fays juft nothing for an hour.
Truth and the text he labours to display,
Till both are quite interpreted away:
So frugal dames infipid water pour,
Till green, bohea, or coffee, are no more.
His arguments in giddy circles run
Still round and round, and end where they begung
So the poor turnfpit, as the wheel runs round,
The more he gains, the more he lofes ground.
No parts diftin&t, or general scheme we find,
But one wild fhapeless monfter of the mind;
So when old Bruin teems, her children fail
Of limbs, form, figure, features, head, or tail;
Nay, though the licks the ruins, all her cares
Scarce mend the lumps, and bring them but to bears.
Ye country vicars, when you preach in town
A turn at Paul's, to pay your journey down,
would fhun the fneer of every prig,
Lay by the little band, and rusty wig:
But yet be fure, your proper language know,
Nor talk as born within the found of Bow.
Speak not the phrafe that Drury-lane affords,
Nor from Change-alley steal a cant of words.
Coachmen will criticise your style; nay further,
Porters will bring it in for wilful murther:
The dregs of the canaille will look askew,
To hear the language of the town from you;
Nay, my lord mayor, with merriment poffeft,
Will break his nap, and laugh among the reft,
And jog the aldermen to hear the jeft.
Infcribed on a ftone, that covers his Father, Mother, and Brother.
E facred fpirits! while your friends diftrefs'd
Weep o'er your afhes, and lament the bless'd;
O let the penfive Mufe infcribe that stone,
And with the general forrows mix her own:
The penfive Mufe!-who, from this mournful hour,
Shall raife her voice, and wake the ftring no more!
Of love, of duty, this laft pledge receive;
"Tis all a brother, all a fon can give.
A POEM on the DEATH of the late Earl STANHOPE. Humbly infcribed to the Countess of STANHOPE.
"At length, grim fate, thy dreadful triumphs cease "Lock up the tomb, and feal the grave in peace."
NOW from thy riot of destruction breathe,
Call in thy raging plagues, thou tyrant death: Too mean 's the conqueft which thy arms bestow, Too mean to sweep a nation at a blow.
No, thy unbounded triumphs higher run,
And feem to ftrike at all mankind in one;
Since Stanhope is thy prey, the great, the brave,
A nobler prey was never paid the grave.
We seem to feel from this thy daring crime,
A blank in nature, and a pause in time.
He stood fo high in reason's towering sphere,
As high as man unglorify'd could bear.
In arms, and eloquence, like Cæfar, fhone
So bright, that each Minerva was his own.
How could fo vaft a fund of learning lie
Shut up in fuch a short mortality?
One world of science nobly travell'd o'er,
Like Philip's glorious fon, he wept for more.
And now, refign'd to tears, th' angelic choirs,
With drooping heads, unftring their golden lyres,
Wrapt in a cloud of grief, they figh to view
Their facred image laid by death so low :
And deep in anguifh funk, on Stanhope's fate,
Begin to doubt their own immortal state.
But hold, my Mufe, thy mournful transport errs,
Hold here, and liften to Lucinda's tears.
While thy vain forrows echo to his tomb,
Behold a fight that strikes all forrow dumb:
Behold the partner of his cares and life,
Bright in her tears, and beautiful in grief.
Shall then in vain thofe ftreams of forrow flow,
Dreft up in all the elegance of woe?
And fhall the kind officious Mufe forbear
To answer figh for figh, and tell out tear for tear ?
Oh! no; at fuch a melancholy fcene,
The Poet echoes back her woes again.
Each weeping Mufe fhould minifter relief,
From all the moving eloquence of grief.
Each, like a Niobe, his fate bemoan,
Melt into tears, or harden into stone..
From dark obfcurity his virtues fave,
And, like pale fpectres, hover round his grave.
With them the marble fhould due measures keep,
Relent at every figh, at every accent weep.
Britannia mourn thy hero, nor refufe
To vent the fighs and forrows with the Mufe:
Oh! let thy rifing groans load every wind,
Nor let one fluggish accent lag behind,
Thy heavy fate with justice to deplore,
Convey a gale of fighs from shore to shore.
And thou, her guardian angel, widely fpread
Thy golden wings, and field the mighty dead.