OME, ye whofe fouls harmonious founds infpire,
Friends to the muse, and judges of her song; Who catching from the bard his heavenly fire;
Soar as he foars, fublimely rapt along ;
Mourn, mourn your lofs: he's gone who had the art, With founds to footh the ear, with fenfe to warm the heart.
Who now shall dare to lift the facred rod,
Truth's faithful guard, where vice efcapes the law? Who now, high-foaring to the throne of God, In nature's moral cause his pen fhall draw? Let none pretend; he's gone, who had the art, With founds to footh the ear, with fenfe to warm the heart.
Vice now, fecure, her blufhlefs front fhall raife,
And all her triumph be thro' Britain borne ; Whofe worthlefs fons from guilt fhall purchase praise,
Nor dread the hand that pointed them to fcorn; No check remains; he's gone, who had the art, With founds to footh the ear, with fenfe to warm the
Ye tuneless bards, now tire each venal quill,
And from the publick gather idle pence;
Ye taftclefs peers, now build and plant your fill,
Tho' fplendor borrows not one ray from fenfe:
Fear no rebuke; he's gone, who had the art,
With founds to footh the ear, with fenfe to warm the
heart.
But, come, ye chofen, ye felected few,
Ye next in genius, as in friendship, join'd, The focial virtues of his heart who knew, And tafted all the beauties of his mind;
Drop, drop a tear; he's gone, who had the art, With founds to charm the ear, with fenfe to warm the heart.
And, O great fhade! permit thy humbleft friend
His figh to waft, his grateful tear to pay
Thy honour'd memory; and condefcend
To hear, well-pleas'd, the weak yet well-meant lay, Lamenting thus; he's gone, who had the art, With founds to footh the ear, with fenfe to warm the heart.
WHENCE comes it, L---, that ev'ry fool,
In reafon's spite, in fpite of ridicule,
Fondly his own wild wilms for truth maintains,
And all the blind deluded world difdains;
Himfelf the only perfon bleft with fight,
And his opinion the great rule of right?
'Tis ftrange from folly this conceit fhould rife, That want of fenfe fhould make us think we're wife: Yet fo it is. The moft egregious elf
Thinks none fo wife or witty as himself.
Who nothing knows, will all things comprehend; And who can leaft confute, will moft contend.
I love the man, I love him from my foul,
Whom neither weaknefs blinds, nor whims controul;
With learning bleft, with folid reason fraught,
Who flowly thinks, and ponders every thought:
Yet conscious to himself how apt to err,
Suggefts his notions with a modest fear;
Hears every reason, every paffion hides,
Debates with calmnefs, and with care decides;
More pleas'd to learn, than eager to confute,
Not victory, but truth his fole pursuit.
Who taftes fuch converfe,
Each focial hour is spent in joys fublime,
Whilft hand in hand o'er learning's Alps you climb;
Thro' reafon's paths in search of truth proceed,
And clear the flow'ry way from every weed;
Till from her antient cavern rais'd to light,
The beauteous ftranger ftands reveal'd to fight.
How far from this the furious noify crew,
Who, what they once affert, with zeal purfue?
Their greater right infer from louder tongues;
And ftrength of argument from ftrength of lungs,
Inftead of fenfe, who ftun your ears with found,
And think they conquer, when they but confound.
Taurus, a bellowing champion, ftorms and fwears,
And drives his argument thro' both your ears;
And whether truth or falfhood, right or wrong,
'Tis ftill maintain'd, and prov'd by dint of---tongue.
In all difputes he bravely wins the day,
No wonder---for he hears not what you say.
But tho' to tire the ear's fufficient curfe,
To tire one's patience is a plague ftill worse.
Prato, a formal fage, debates with care,
A ftrong opponent, take him up who dare.
His words are grave, deliberate, and cool,
He looks fo wife---'tis pity he's a fool.
If he afferts, tho' what no man can doubt,
He'll bring ten thoufand proofs to make it out.
This, this, and this---is fo, and fo, and fo;
And therefore, therefore---that, and that, you know,
Circles no angles have; a fquare has four:
A fquare's no circle therefore---to be fure.
The fum of Prato's wond'rous wisdom is,
This is not that, and therefore, that not this.
Oppos'd to him, but much the greater dunce,
Is he who throws all knowledge off at once.
The firft, for every trifle will contend;
But this has no opinions to defend.
In fire no heat, no sweetness in the rofe;
The man's impos'd on by his very nofe:
Nor light nor colour charms his doubting eye,
The world's a dream, and all his fenfes lie.
He thinks, yet doubts if he's poffefs'd of thought;
Nay, even doubts his very power to doubt.
Afk him if he's a man, or beaft, or bird;
He cannot tell, upon his honeft word.
'Tis ftrange, fo plain a point's so hard to prove
I'll tell you what you are---a fool, by Jove.
Another clafs of difputants there are,
More num'rous than the doubting tribe by far.
These are your wanderers, who from the point
Run wild in loose harangues, all out of joint.
Vagarius, and confute him if you can,
Will hold debate with any mortal man.
He roves from Genefis to Revelations,
And quite confounds you with divine quotations.
Should you affirm that Adam knew his wife,
And by that knowledge loft the tree of life;
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