While fharlers ftrive with proud but fruitless pain,
To wound immortals, or to flay the flain.

Sore preft with danger, and in awful dread
Of twenty pamphlets level'd at my head,
Thus have I forg'd a buckler in my brain,
Of recent form, to ferve me this campaign;
And fafely hope to quit the dreadful field
Delug'd with ink, and sleep behind my shield;
Unless dire Codrus roufes to the fray

In all his might, and damns me--for a day.

As turns a flock of geefe, and, on the green, Poke out their foolish necks in aukward fpleen, (Ridiculous in rage!) to hiss, not bite,

So war their quills, when sons of dulness write.

AN

To trace the various workings of the mind,
And rule the secret fprings, that rule mankind;
(Rare gift!) yet, Walpole, wilt thou condescend
To liften, if thy unexperienc'd friend

Can aught of ufe impart, though void of skill,
And win attention by fincere good-will;
For friendship, fometimes, want of parts supplies,
The heart may furnish what the head denies.

As when the rapid Rhone, o'er fwelling tides,
To grace old Ocean's court, in triumph rides,
Though rich his fource, he drains a thousand springs,
Nor fcorns the tribute each small rivulet brings.
So thou fhalt, hence, abforb each feeble ray,
Each dawn of meaning, in thy brighter day;
Shalt like, or, where thou canst not like, excufe,
Since no mean intereft shall prophane the Muse,

No malice, wrapt in truth's disguise, offend,
Nor flattery taint the freedom of the friend.

When first a generous mind furveys the great,
And views the crowds that on their fortune wait;
Pleas'd with the show (though little understood)
He only feeks the power, to do the good;
Thinks, till he tries, 'tis godlike to difpofe,
And gratitude still springs, where bounty fows
That every grant fincere affection wins,
And where our wants have end, our love begins:
But those who long the paths of state have trod,
Learn from the clamours of the murmuring crowd,
Which cramm'd, yet craving ftill, their gates befiege,
'Tis easier far to give, than to oblige.

This of thy conduct seems the nicest part,
The chief perfection of the statesman's art,
To give to fair affent a fairer face,
Or foften a refufal into grace:

But few there are that can be truly kind,
Or know to fix their favours on the mind;
Hence, fome, whene'er they would oblige, offend,
And while they make the fortune, lose the friend;
Still give, unthank'd; still squander, not bestow;
For great men want not, what to give, but how.

The race of men that follow courts, 'tis true,
Think all they get, and more than all, their due;
Still afk, but ne'er confult their own deferts,
And measure by their intereft, not their parts
From this mistake so many men we see,
But ill become the thing they wish'd to be;

Hence

Hence difcontent, and fresh demands arife,

More power, more favour in the great man's eyes;
All feel a want, though none the cause suspects,
But hate their patron, for their own defects;

Such none can please, but who reforms their hearts,
And, when he gives them places, gives them parts.
As thefe o'erprize their worth, fo fure the great
May fell their favour at too dear a rate;
When merit pines, while clamour is preferr'd,
And long attachment waits among the herd;
When no distinction, where diftinction 's due,
Marks from the many the fuperior few ;
When ftrong cabal constrains them to be juft,
And makes them give at laft-because they must;
What hopes that men of real worth should prize,
What neither friendship gives, nor merit buys?
The man who juftly o'er the whole prefides,
His well-weigh'd choice with wife affection guides;
Knows when to stop with grace, and when advance,
Nor gives through importunity or chance;

But thinks how little gratitude is ow'd,

When favours are extorted, not bestow'd.

When, fafe on fhore ourselves, we fee the crowd

Surround the great, importunate, and loud;
Through fuch a tumult, 'tis no easy task
To drive the man of real worth to ask :
Surrounded thus, and giddy with the fhow,
'Tis hard for great men, rightly to bestow;
From hence fo few are skill'd, in either cafe,
To afk with dignity, or give with grace.

Sometimes the great, feduc'd by love of parts,
Confult our genius, and neglect our hearts;
Pleas'd with the glittering fparks that genius flings,
They lift us, towering on their eagle's wings,
Mark out the flights by which themselves begun,
And teach our dazzled eyes to bear the fun;
Till we forget the hand that made us great,
And grow to envy, not to emulate :

To emulate, a generous warmth implies,
To reach the virtues, that make great men rife;
But envy wears a mean malignant face,

And aims not at their virtues-but their place.
Such to oblige, how vain is the pretence !
When every favour is a fresh offence,

By which fuperior power is ftill imply'd,

And, while it helps their fortune, hurts their pride.
Slight is the hate, neglect or hardships breed;
But those who hate from envy, hate indeed.

"Since fo perplex'd the choice, whom shall we truft?"
Methinks I hear thee cry-The brave and just;
The man by no mean fears or hopes control'd,
Who ferves thee from affection, not for gold.

We love the honest, and efteem' the brave,
Defpife the coxcomb, but deteft the knave;
No fhew of parts the truly wife feduce,
To think that knaves can be of real ufe.

"

The man, who contradicts the public voice,. And ftrives to dignify a worthlefs choice, Attempts a task that on that choice reflects, And lends us light to point out new defects.

One