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Doft thou in cruelty that strength employ,
Which Nature meant to fave, not to destroy?
Why doft thou, all in horrid pomp array'd,
Sit grinning o'er the ruins thou haft made?
Most rank Ill-nature must applaud thy art ;
But even Candour must condemn thy heart.

For me, who warm and zealous for my friend,
In fpite of railing thousands, will commend,
And, no lefs warm and zealous 'gainst my foes,
Spite of commending thoufands, will oppose,
I dare thy worst, with fcorn behold thy rage,
But with an eye of pity view thy age;
Thy feeble age, in which, as in a glafs,
We see how men to diffolution pass.
Thou wretched Being, whom, on Reason's plan,
So chang'd, fo loft, I cannot call a man,
What could perfuade thee, at this time of life,
To launch afreth into the fea of ftrife?
Better for thee, fcarce crawling on the earth,
Almoft as much a child as at thy birth,
To have refign'd in peace thy parting breath,
And funk unnotic'd in the arms of Death.
Why would thy grey, grey hairs refentment brave,
Thus to go down with forrow to the grave?
Now, by my foul, it makes me blush to know
My fpirits could defcend to fuch a foe.
Whatever caufe the vengeance might provoke,
It feems rank cowardice to give the stroke

Sure 'tis a curfe which angry Fates impose,
To mortify man's arrogance, that those
Who're fashion'd of fome better fort of clay,
Much fooner than the common herd decay.
What bitter pangs must humble Genius feel,
In their last hours, to view a Swift and Steele ?
How muft ill-boding horrors fill her breast,
When the beholds men, mark'd above the reft
For qualities moft dear, plung'd from that height,
And funk, deep funk, in fecond childhood's night?
Are men, indeed, fuch things, and are the best
More fubject to this evil, than the reft,
To drivel out whole years of ideot breath,
And fit the monuments of living death?
O, galling circumftance to human pride!
Abafing thought, but not to be denied!

With curious art the brain too finely wrought,
'Preys on herself, and is deftroy'd by thought.
Conftant attention wears the active mind,
Blots out her pow'rs and leaves a blank behind.
But let not youth, to infolence allied,
In heat of blood, in full career of pride,
Poffefs'd of Genius, with unhallow'd rage,
Mock the infirmities of rev'rend age.
The greatest Genius to this fate may bow;
Reynolds, in time, may be like Hogarth now.

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And from the planets, wand'ring fpheres
Textort the number of our years,
And whether all thofe years fhall flow
Serenely fmooth, and free from woe,
Or rude misfortune fhall deform
Our life, with one continual ftorm;
Or if the scene shall motley be,
Alternate joy and mifery;

Is a defire, which, more or lefs,
All men must feel, tho' few confefs.
Hence, ev'ry place and ev'ry age
Affords fubfiftence to the fage,
Who, free from this world and its cares,
Holds an acquaintance with the stars,
From whom he gains intelligence
Of things to come fome ages hence,
Which unto friends, at eafy rates,
He readily communicates.

At its firft rife, which all agree on,
This noble science was Chaldean,
That ancient people, as they fed
Their flocks upon the mountains head,

Gaz'd on the ftars, obferv'd their motions,
And fuck'd in aftrologic notions,
Which they fo eagerly pursue,
As folks are apt whate'er' is new,
That things below at random rove,
Whilft they're confulting things above;
And when they now fo poor were grown,
That they'd no houfes of their own,
They made bold with their friends the stars,
And prudently made ufe of theirs.
To Egypt from Chaldee it travell'd,
And Fate at Memphis was unravell'd :
Th' exotic Science foon ftruck root,
And flourish'd into high repute.
Each learned priest, O ftrange to tell!
Could circles make, and caft a fpell;
Could read and write, and taught the nation
The holy art of Divination.

Nobles themselves, for at that time
Knowledge in Nobles was no crime,
Could talk as learned as the priest,
And prophecy as much at least.
Hence all the fortune-telling crew,
Whofe crafty skill mars Nature's hue,
Who, in vile tatters, with fmirch'd face,
Run up and down from place to place,
To gratify their friend's defires,
From Bampfield Carew to Moll Squires,
Are rightly term'd Egyptians all;
Whom we, mistaking, Gypfies call.

The Grecian Sages borrow'd this,
As they did other sciences,
From fertile Egypt, tho' the loan
They had not honefty to own,
Dodona's oaks, infpir'd by Jove,
A learned and prophetic grove,
Turn'd vegetable Necromancers,
And to all comers gave their answers:
At Delphos, to Apollo dear,
All men the voice of Fate might hear;
Each fubtle prieft on three-legg'd ftool,
To take in wife men, play'd the fool.
A mystery, fo made for gain,
E'en now in fashion must remain.
Enthusiasts never will let drop

What brings fuch business to their fhop,
E

And that great faint we Whitfield call,
Keeps up the Humbug Spiritual.
Among the Romans, not a bird
Without a prophecy was heard;
Fortunes of empires often hung
On the magician magpie's tongue.
And ev'ry crow was to the state
A fure interpreter of Fate.
Prophets, embodied in a College,

(Time out of mind your feat of knowledge, For Genius never fruit can bear

Unless it firft is planted there,
And folid learning never falls
Without the verge of College walls)
Infallible accounts would keep
When it was best to watch or fleep,
To eat or drink, to go or stay,
And when to fight or run away;
When matters were for action ripe,
By looking at a double tripe;
When Emperors would live or die,
They in an As's feull could fpy;
When gen'rals would their station keep,
Or turn their backs, in hearts of sheep.
In matters, whether small or great,
In private families or state,
As amongst us, the holy Seer
Officioufly would interfere,
With pious arts and rev'rend skill
Would bend Lay Bigots to his will,
Would help or injure foes or friends,
Juft as it ferv'd his private ends.
Whether in honest way of trade,
Traps for virginity were laid,
Orif, to make their party great,
Defigns were form'd against the State.
Regardless of the common weal,
By int'reft led, which they call zeal,
Into the scales was always thrown
The will of Heav'n to back their own.
England, a happy land we know,
Where follies naturally grow;
Where without culture they arife,
And tow'r above the common fize;
England a fortune-telling hoft,

As num'rous as the ftars, could boast;
Matrons, who tofs the cup, and fee

The grounds of Fate in grounds of Tea;
Who vers'd in ev'ry modeft lore,
Can a loft maidenhead reftore,
Or, if their pupils rather chufe it,
Can fhew the readieft way to lofe it ;
Gypfies, who ev'ry ill can cure,
Except the ill of being poor;

Who charms 'gainst Love and Agues fell,
Who can in hen-rooft fet a fpell,
Prepar'd by arts, to them best known,
To catch all feet except their own;
Who as to fortune can unlock it,
As eafily as pick a pocket;

Scotchmen who, in their country's right,
Poffefs the gift of fecond-fight,

Who (when their barren heaths they quit,
Sure argument of prudent wit,
Which reputation to maintain,
They never venture back again)
By lies prophetic heap up riches,
And boak the luxury of breeches.

Amongst the reft, in former years,
Campbell, illuftrious name, appears
Great hero of futurity,

Who blind could every thing forefee,
Who dumb could ev'ry thing foretell,
Who, Fate with equity to fell,
Always dealt out the will of Heaven
According to what price was given.

Of Scottish race, in Highlands born,
Poffefs'd with native pride and scorn,
He hither came, by custom led,

To curfe the hands which gave him bread.
With want of truth, and want of fenfe,
Amply made up by impudence,
(A fuccedaneum, which we find
In common ufe with all mankind)
Carefs'd and favour'd too by those,
Whofe heart with patriot feelings glows;
Who foolishly, where'er difpers'd,
Still place their native country first;
(For Englishmen alone have fenfe,
To give a ftranger preference,
Whilft modeft merit of their own
Is left in poverty to groan)
Campbell foretold just what he wou'd,
And left the stars to make it good;
On whom he had imprefs'd fuch awe,
His dictates current pafs'd for law;
Submiffive all his empire own'd;

No ftar durft fmile, when Campbell frown'd.
This Sage deceas'd, for all muft die,
And Campbell's no more fafe than I,
No more than I can guard the heart,
When Death shall hurl the fatal dart,
Succeeded, ripe in art and years,
Another fav'rite of the spheres;
Another and another came,

Of equal skill, and equal fame;

As white each wand, as black each gown,
As long each beard, as wife each frown;
In ev'ry thing fo like, you'd fwear,
Campbell himself was fitting there.
To all the happy Art was known,
To tell our fortunes, make their own.
Seated in garret, for you know,
The nearer to the stars we go,
The greater we esteem his art,
Fools curious flock'd from ev'ry part.
The rich, the poor, the maid, the married,
And those who could not walk, were carried..
The Butler, hanging down his head,
By chamber-maid or cook-maid led,
Enquires, if from his friend the Moon,
He has advice of pilfer'd fpoon.

The Court-bred Woman of Condition
(Who to approve her difpofition
As much fuperior as her birth
To thofe compos'd of common earth,
With double fpirit must engage
In ev'ry folly of the age)
The honourable arts would buy,
To pack the cards, and cóg a die.

The Hero (who for brawn and face
May claim right honourable place
Amongst the chiefs of Butcher-Row
Who might fome thirty years ago,
If we may be allow'd to guess
At his employment by his dress;

Put med'cines off from cart or stage,
The grand Tofcano of the age,
Or might about the countries go,
High-Steward of a puppet-shew,
Sterward and Stewardship molt meet,
For all know puppets never eat;

Who would be thought, (tho', fave the mark,
That point is fomething in the dark)
The Man of Honour, one like those
Renown'd in ftory, who lov'd blows
Better than victuals, and would fight,
Merely for sport, from morn to night;
Who treads like Mavors firm, whofe tongue
Is with the triple thunder hung;
Who cries to Fear-Stand off-aloof-
And talks as he were cannon-proof;
Would be deem'd ready, when you lift,
With fword and piftol, stick and fist,
Careless of points, balls, bruifes, knocks,
At once to fence, fire, cudgel, box,
But at the fame time bears about,
Within himself, fome touch of doubt,
Of prudent doubt, which hints-that fame
Is nothing but an empty name;
That life is rightly understood
By all to be a real good;
That, even in a Hero's heart,
Difcretion is the better part;

That this fame Honour may be won,
And yet no kind of danger run)
Like Drugger comes, that magic pow'rs
May ascertain his lucky hours.
For at fome hours the fickle dame
Whom Fortune properly we name,
Who ne'er confiders wrong or right,
When wanted moft plays leaft in fight,
And, like a modern Court-bred jilt,
Leaves her chief fav'rites in a tilt.

Some hours there are, when from the heart
Courage into fome other part,

No matter wherefore, makes retreat,
And fear ufurps the vacant feat;
Whence planet-ftruck we often find
Stuarts and Sackvilles of mankind.
Father he'd know (and by his art
A conjurer can that impart)
Whether politer it is reckon'd
To have or not to have a fecond,
To drag the friends in, or alone
To make the danger all their own ;
Whether repletion is not bad,
And fighters with full ftomachs mad
Whether before he feeks the plain,
It were not well to breathe a vein ;
Whether a gentle salivation,
Confiftently with reputation,
Might not of precious ufe be found,
Not to prevent indeed a wound,
But to prevent the confequence
Which oftentimes arifes thence,

Thofe fevers, which the patient urge on
To gates of death, by help of furgeon;
Whether a wind at eaft or weft
Is for green wounds accounted beft;
Whether (was he to chufe) his mouth
Should point towards the north or fouth;
Whether more fafely he might use,
On these occasions, pumps or shoes;

Whether it better is to fight
By fun-fhine, or by candle-light;
Or (left a candle fhould appear
Too mean to fhine in such a sphere,
For who would of a candle tell
To light a hero into hell,
And left the Sun fhould partial rife
To dazzle one or t'other's eyes.
Or one or t' other's brains to fcorch)
Might not Dame Luna hold a torch?

These points with dignity difcufs'd,
And gravely fix'd, a task which must
Require no little time and pains,
To make our hearts friends with our brains,
The Man of War would next engage
The kind affiftance of the Sage,
Some previous method to direct,
Which fhould make thefe of none effect.
Could he not, from the mystic school
Of Art, produce fome facred rule,
By which a knowledge could be got,
Whether men valiant, were, or not,
So he that challenges might write
Only to those who would not fight?

Or could he not fome way difpenfe, By help of which (without offence To Honour, whofe nice nature's fuch, She fcarce endures the flightest touch) When he for want of t' other rule Miftakes his man, and, like a fool, With fome vain fighting blade gets in, He fairly may get out again?

Or, fhould fome Dæmon lay a fcheme To drive him to the last extreme, So that he muft confefs his fears. In mercy to his nose and ears, And like a prudent recreant knight, Rather do any thing than fight, Could he not fome expedient buy To keep his fhame from public eye For well he held, and men review, Nine in ten hold the maxim too, That Honour's like a maiden-head, Which if in private brought to bed, Is none the worfe, but walks the town, Ne'er loft, until the lofs be known.

?

The Parfon too (for now and then
Parfons are juft like other men
And here and there a grave Divine
Has paffion's fuch as your's or mine)
Burning with holy luft to know
When Fate preferment will bestow,
'Fraid of detection, not of fin,
With circumfpection sneaking in
To Conj'ror, as he does to Whore,
Thro' fome bye-alley, or back-door,
With the fame caution orthodox
Confults the ftars, and gets a pox.

The Citizen, in fraud grown old,
Who knows no Deity but Gold,
Worn out, and gasping now for breath,
A med'cine wants to keep off death;
Would know, if That he cannot have,
What coins are current in the grave;
If, when the ftocks (which by his pow'r,
Would rife or fall in half an hour,
For, though unthought of and unfeen,
He work'd the fprings behind the fcreen)

By his directions came about,
And rofe to par, he should fell out;
Whether he fafely might, or no,
Replace it in the funds below.

By all addrefs'd, believ'd, and paid,
Many purfu'd the thriving trade,
And, great in reputation grown,
Succeffive held the Magic throne.
Favour'd by ev'ry darling paffion,
The love of novelty and fashion,
Ambition, Av'rice, Luft, and Pride,
Riches pour'd in on ev'ry fide.

But when the prudent laws thought fit
To curb this infolence of Wit;
When Senates wifely had provided,
Decreed, enacted, and decided,
That no fuch vile and upftart elves
Should have more knowledge than themselves;
When fines and penalties were laid
To ftop the progrefs of the trade,
And ftars no longer could difpenfe,
With honour, farther influence,
And Wizards (which must be confest
Was of more force than all the reft)
No certain way to tell had got,
Which were informers, and which not;
Affrighted Sages were, perforce,
Oblig'd to fteer fome other course.
By various ways, thefe Sons of Chance
Their fortunes labour'd to advance,
Well knowing, by unerring rules,
Knaves starve not in the Land of Fools.

Some, with high titles and degrees,
Which wife men borrow when they please,
Without or trouble or expence,
Phyficians inftantly commence,
And proudly boast an equal skill
With those who claim the right to kill.

Others about the countries roam,
(For not one thought of going home)
With piftol and adopted leg
Prepar'd at once to rob or beg.

Some, the more fubtle of their race,
(Who felt fome touch of coward grace,
Who Tyburn to avoid had wit,
But never fear'd deserving it)
Came to their brother Smollet's aid,
And carried on the Critic trade.

Attach'd to Letters and the Muse,
Some verfes wrote, and fome wrote news;
Thofe each revolving month are seen,
The heroes of a Magazine;
Thefe, ev'ry morning, great appear
In Ledger, or in Gazetteer;
Spreading the falfehoods of the day
By turns for Faden and for Say;
Like Swifs, their force is always laid
On that fide where they beft are paid.
Hence mighty prodigies arife,
And daily Monsters strike our eyes;
Wonders, to propagate the trade,
More ftrange than ever Baker made,
Are hawk'd about from street to street,
And Fools believe, whilft Liars eat.
Now armies in the air engage,
To fright a fuperftitious age;
Now comets through the æther range,
In governments portending change;

Now rivers to the ocean fly

So quick they leave their channels dry;
Now monftrous whales on Lambeth fhore
Drink the Thames dry, and thirst for more:
And ev'ry now and then appears

An Irish favage numb'ring years
More than thofe happy fages cou'd,
Who drew their breath before the Flood.
Now, to the wonder of all people,
A church is left without a steeple ;
A fteeple now is left in lurch,
And mourns departure of the church,
Which borne on wings of mighty wind,
Remov'd a furlong off we find.
Now, wrath on cattle to discharge,
Hail-ftones as deadly fall, and large
As thofe which were on Egypt fent,
At once their crime and punishment;
Or those which, as the Prophet writes,
Fell on the necks of Amorites,
When, ftruck with wonder and amaze,
The Sun fufpended, ftay'd to gaze,
And, from her duty longer kept,
In Ajalon his fifter Dept.

But if fuch things no more engage
The taste of a politer age,

To help them out in time of need
Another Tofts must rabbits breed.
Each pregnant female trembling hears,
And, overcome with fpleen and fears,
Confults her faithful glafs no more,
But madly bounding o'er the floor,
Feels hairs all o'er her body grow,
By Fancy turn'd into a doe.
Now to promote their private ends,
Nature her ufual courfe fufpends,
And varies from the stated plan,
Obferv'd e'er fince the world began.
Bodies (which foolishly we thought,
By cuftom's fervile maxims taught,
Needed a regular fupply,

And without nourishment muft die)
With craving appetites and fenfe
Of hunger eafily difpenfe,
And, pliant to their wond'rous skill,
Are taught, like watches, to ftand still
Uninjur'd, for a month or more;
Then go on as they did before.
The novel takes, the tale fucceeds,
Amply fupplies its author's needs,
And Betty Canning is at least,

With Gafcoyne's help, a fix month's feast,
Whilft in contempt of all our pains,
The tyrant Superstition reigns
Imperious in the heart of man,

And warps his thoughts from Nature's plan;
Whilft fond Credulity, who ne'er

The weight of wholesome doubts could bear,
To Reason and herself unjust,

Takes all things blindly up on trust;
Whilft Curiofity, whofe rage
No mercy fhews to sex or age,
Muft be indulg'd at the expǝnce

Of Judgment, Truth, and Common Sense;
Impoftures cannot but prevail,
And when old miracles grow ftale,
Jugglers will still the art pursue,
And entertain the world with new.

For Them, obedient to their will, And trembling at their mighty skill, Sad Spirits, fummon'd from the tomb, Glide glaring ghaftly thro' the gloom, In all the ufual pomp of ftorms, In horrid customary forms, A Wolf, a Bear, a Horse, an Ape, As Fear and Fancy give them fhape Tormented with despair and pain, They roar, they yell, and clank the chain. Folly and Guilt (for Guilt, howe'er The face of courage it may wear, Is ftill a coward at the heart) At fear-created phantoms start. The Priest, that very word implies That he's both innocent and wife, Yet fears to travel in the dark, Unless efcorted by his Clerk.

But let not ev'ry bungler deem Too lightly of fo deep a fcheme : For reputation of the Art, Each Ghoft must act a proper part, Obferve Decorum's needful grace, And keep the laws of Time and Place, Mait change, with happy variation, His manners with his fituation; What in the country might pass down, Would be impertinent in town, No fpirit of difcretion here Can think of breeding awe and fear, "Twill ferve the purpose more by half To make the congregation laugh. We want no enfigns of furprize, Locks ftiff with gore, and fawcer eyes; Give us an entertaining Sprite, Gentle, familiar, and polite, One who appears in fuch a form As might an holy hermit warm, Or who on former fchemes refines, And only talks by founds and figns, Who will not to the eye appear,

But

pays her vifits to the ear,

And knocks fo gently, 'twould not fright
A lady in the darkest night.

Such is our FANNY, whofe good-will,
Which cannot in the grave lie ftill,

Brings her on earth to entertain

Her friends and lovers in Cock-Lane,

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Tho' ev'ry caufe which then confpir'd
To make it practis'd and admir'd,
Yielding to time's deftructive course,
For ages paft hath loft its force.

With ancient bards, an invocation
Was a true act of adoration,
Of worship an effential part,
And not a formal piece of art,
Of paltry reading a parade,
A dull folemnity in trade,
A pious fever, taught to burn
An hour or two to ferve a turn.

They talk'd not of Caftalian Springs,
By way of faying pretty things,
As we drefs out our flimfey rimes;
'Twas the Religion of the times,
And they believ'd that holy stream
With greater force made Fancy teem,
Reckon'd by all a true fpecific
To make the barren brain prolific :
Thus Romish Church (a fcheme which bears
Not half fo much excufe as theirs)
Since Faith implicitly hath taught her,
Reveres the force of Holy Water.

The Pagan System, whether true
Or falfe, its ftrength, like buildings, drew
From many parts difpos'd to bear,
In one great Whole, their proper share.
Each God of eminent degree

To fome vaft beam compar'd might be ;
Each Godling was a peg, or rather
A cramp, to keep the beams together:
And man as fafely might pretend,
From Jove the thunder-bolt to rend,
As with an impious pride afpire
Torob Apollo of his lyre.

But why should We, who cannot feel
These glowings of a Pagan zeal,
That wild enthufiaftic force,

By which, above her common course,
Nature in extacy up-borne,

Look'd down on earthly things with scorn;

Who have no more regard, 'tis known,

For their religion than our own,

And feel not half fo fierce a flame

At Clio's as at Fisher's name;
Who know these boafted facred ftreams
Were mere romantic idle dreams,
That Thames has water clear as those
Which on the top of Pindus rofe,
And that the Fancy to refine,
Water's not half fo good as wine;
Who know, if profit ftrikes our eye,
Should we drink Helicon quite dry,
Th' whole fountain would not thither lead
So foon as one poor jug from Tweed;
Who, if to raife poetic fire,
The pow'r of beauty we require,
In any public place can view

More than the Grecians ever knew ;
If Wit into the fcale is thrown,
Can boaft a Lennox of our own;
Why fhould we fervile cuftoms chufe,
And court an antiquated Mufe?
No matter why-to ask a reason,

In Pedant Bigotry is treason.

In the broad, beaten, turnpike-road Of hackney'd Panegyric Ode,

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