Soon as they draw, from Hyperborean skies,
Embody'd dark, what clouds of Vandals rise !
Lo where Meotis sleeps, and hardly flows
The freezing Tanais thro' a waste of snows, 80
The North by myriads pours her mighty sons,
Great nurse of Goths, of Alans, and of Huns.
See Alaric's stern port ! the martial frame
Of Genseric! and Attila's dread name !
See, the bold Ostrogoths on Latium fall ;
See, the fierce Visigotbe on Spain and Gaul.
See, where the morning gilds the palmy shore
(The soil that arts and infant letters bore)
His conqu’ring tribes th’ Arabian prophet draws,
And saving ignorance enthrones by laws. 90
See Christians, Jews, one heavy sabbath keep;
And all the western world believe and sleep.

Lo Rome herself, proud mistress now no more
Of arts, but thund'ring against heathen lore ;
Her grey-hair'd synods damning books unread, 95
And Bacon trembling for his brazen head;
Padua with sighs behold her Livy burn,
And ev’n th’Antipodes Virgilius mourn.
See, the cirque falls, th' unpillar'd temple nods,
Streets pav'd with heroes, Tyber choak'd with gods :
Till Peter's keys some christ'ned Jove adorn, 103
And Pan to Moses lends his pagan horn;
See graceless Venus to a virgin turn'd;.
Or Phidias broken, and Apelles burn'd.

Behold

Behold yon' isle, by palmers, pilgrims trod, 105 Men bearded, bald, cowl'd, uncowl'd, shod, unshod, Peel'd, patch'd, and pyebald, linsey-woolsey brothers, Grave mummers ! sleeveless some, and shirtless others. That once was Britain - Happy ! had she seen No fiercer sons, had Easter never been ! 110 In peace, great Goddess, ever be ador'd; How keen the war, if Dulness draw the sword ! Thus visit not thy own! on this blest age Oh spread thy influence, but restrain thy rage.

And see, my Son! the hour is on its way, 115 That lifts our Goddess to imperial sway; . . This fav’rite isle, long sever'd from her reign, Dove-like, she gathers to her wings again. Now look thro' fate! behold the scene she draws ! What aids, what armies, to assert her cause ? 120 See all her progeny, illustrious sight! Behold, and count them, as they rise to light. As Berecynthia, while her offspring vye In homage to the mother of the sky, Surveys around her in the blest abode

125 An hundred sons, and ev'ry son a god : Not with less glory mighty Dulness crown’d, . Shall take thro' Grub-street her triumphant round; And her Parnassus glancing o'er at once, Behold an hundred sons, and each a dunce. 130

Mark first that youth who takes the foremost place, And thrusts his person full into your face. CC3

With

With all thy father's virtues blest, be born!' :
And a new Cibber shall the stage adorn.

A second see, by meeker manners known,
And modest as the maid that sips alone ;
From the strong fate of drams if thou get free,
Another Durfey, Ward ! shall sing in thee.
Thee shall each ale-house, thee each gill-house mourn,
And answering gin-shops sowrer sighs return. 140

Lo next two slip-shod muses traipse along, In lofty madness, meditating song, With tresses staring from poctic dreams, And never wash’d, but in Castalia's streams : Haywood, Centlivre, glories of their race ! 145 Lo Horneck’s fierce, and Room's funereal face; Lo sneering Goode, half malice and half whim, A fiend in glee, ridiculously grim. Jacob, the scourge of grammar, mark with awe, Nor less revere him, blunderbuss of law. 150 Lo Bond and Foxton, ev'ry nameless name, All crowd, who foremost shall be damn’d to fame. Some strain in rhyme ; the muses, on their racks, Scream like the winding of ten thousand jacks: Some free from rhyme or reason, rule or check, 155 Break Priscian's head, and Pegasus's neck ; Down, down they larum, with impetuous whirl, The Pindars, and the Miltons of a Curl.

Silence, ye Wolves! while Ralph to Cynthia howls, And makes night hideous-Answer him ye Owls !

Sense,

Sense, specch, and measure, living tongues and dead, Let all give way—and Morris may be read.

Flow, Welsted, flow! like thine inspirer, Beer, Tho’stale, not ripe ; tho' thin, yet never clear ; So sweetly mawkish, and so smoothly dull ; 165 Heady, not strong ; and foaming, tho' not full.

Ah Dennis ! Gildon ah! what ill-starr'd rage Divides a friendship long confirm’d by age ? Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor, But fool with fool is barb'rous civil war. 170 Embrace, embracë, my Sons! be foes no more! Nor glad vile poets with true critics gore.

Behold yon pair, in strict embraces join'd;
How like in manners, and how like in mind !
Fam'd for good nature, Burnet, and for truth; 175
Ducket for pious passion to the youth.
Equal in wit, and equally polite,
Shall this a Pasquin, that a Grumbler write ;
Like are their merits, like rewards they share,
That shines a consul, this commissioner. 180

“ But who is he, in closet close y pent,
Of sober face, with learned dust besprent ?
Right well mine eyes arede the myster wight,
On parchment scraps y fed, and Wormius hight.”
To future ages may thy dulness last,

185 As thou preserv’st the dulness of the past !

There, dim in clouds, the poring scholiasts mark, · Wits, who like owls see only in the dark,

A lam

A lumberhouse of books in ev'ry head,
For ever reading, never to be read!

190
But, where each science lifts its modern type,
Hist'ry her pot, divinity his pipe,
While proud philosophy repines to show,
Dishonest sight! his breeches rent below;
Imbrown'd with native bronze, lo Henley stands, 195
Tuning his voice, and balancing his hands,
How fiuent nonsense trickles from his tongue !
How sweet the periods, neither said nor sung!
Still break the benches, Henley! with thy strain,
While Kennet, Hare, and Gibson preach in vain. 200
Oh great restorer of the good old stage,
Preacher at once, and Zany of thy age !
Oh worthy thou of Ægypt's wise abodes,
A decent priest, where monkeys were the gods !
But fate with butchers plac'd thy priestly stall, 205
Meek modern faith to murder, hack, and mawl ;
And bade thee live, to crown Britannia's praise,
In Toland's, Tindal's, and in Woolston's days. .

Yet oh, my Sons! a father's words attend: " (So may the Fates preserve the ears you lend) 210 "Tis yours, a Bacon or a Locke to blame, A Newton's genius, or a Milton's flame ; But O! with one, immortal One dispense, The source of Newton's light, of Bacon's sense ! Content, each emanation of his fires

215 That beams on earth, each virtue he inspires,

Each