Free of the breast was bred, whose milky taste
Minerva's name to Venus had debas'd;
So this imperial babe rejects the food
That mixes monarch's with plebeian blood:
Food that his inborn courage might control,
Extinguish all the father in his soul,
And, for his Estian race, and Saxon strain,
Might reproduce some second Richard's reign.
Mildness he shares from both his parents' blood:
But kings too tame are despicably good :
Be this the mixture of this regal child,
By nature manly, but by virtue mild.

Thus far the furious transport of the news
Had to prophetic madness fir'd the Muse;
Madness ungovernable, uninspir'd,
Swift to foretell whatever she desir'd.
Was it for me the dark abyss to tread,
And read the book which angels cannot read?
How was I punish'd, when the sudden blast,*
The face of heaven, and our young sun o'er-
cast!

Fame, the swift ill, increasing as she roll'd, Disease, despair, and death, at three reprises told:

At three insulting strides she stalk'd the town, And, like contagion, struck the loyal down. Down fell the winnow'd wheat; but mounted high,

The whirlwind bore the chaff, and hid the sky.
Here black rebellion shooting from below,
(As earth's gigantic brood† by moments grow)
And here the sons of God are petrified with wo;
An apoplex of grief: so low were driven
The saints, as hardly to defend their heaven.
As when pent vapours run their hollow round,
Earthquakes, which are convulsions of the
ground,
[brook,
Break bellowing forth, and no confinement
Till the third settles what the former shook;
Such heavings had our souls; till, slow and late,
Our life with his return'd, and faith prevail'd on
fate.

By prayers the mighty blessing was implor'd,
To prayers was granted, and by prayers restor❜d.
So ere the Shunammite a son conceiv'd,
The prophet promis'd, and the wife believ'd.
A son was sent, the son so much desir'd;
But soon upon the mother's knees expir'd.
The troubled Seer approach'd the mournful

door,

Thus mercy stretches out her hand and saves Desponding Peter sinking in the waves.

As when a sudden storm of hail and rain Beats to the ground the yet unbearded grain, Think not the hopes of harvest are destroy'd On the flat field, and on the naked void; The light, unloaded stem, from tempest freed, Will raise the youthful honours of his head; And, soon restor❜d by native vigour, bear The timely product of the bounteous year.

Nor yet conclude all ficry trials past:
For Heaven will exercise us to the last;
Sometimes will check us in our full career,
With doubtful blessings, and with mingled
fear;

That, still depending on his daily grace,
His every mercy for an alms may pass,
With sparing hands will diet us to good;
Preventing surfeits of our pamper'd blood.
So feeds the mother-bird her craving young
With little morsels, and delays them long.

True, this last blessing was a royal feast,
But where's the wedding-garment on the guest?
Our manners, as religion were a dream,
Are such as teach the nations to blaspheme.
In lusts we wallow, and with pride we swell,
And injuries with injuries repel ;
Prompt to revenge, not daring to forgive,
Our lives unteach the doctrine we believe.
Thus Israel sinn'd impenitently hard, [guard
And vainly thought the present ark their
But when the haughty Philistines appear,
They fled, abandon'd to their foes and fear;
Their God was absent, though his ark was
there.
[away,
Ah! lest our crimes should snatch this pledge
And make our joys the blessings of a day!
For we have sinn'd him hence, and that he lives
God to his promise, not our practice gives.
Our crimes would soon weigh down the guilty
scale,

But James and Mary, and the Church prevail.
Nor Amalek can rout the chosen bands, T
While Hur and Aaron hold up Moses' hands.
By living well, let us secure his days,
Moderate in hopes, and humble in our ways.
No force the free-born spirit can constrain,
But charity, and great examples gain.
Forgiveness is our thanks for such a day,
'Tis godlike God in his own coin to pay.

But you, propitious queen, translated here, From your mild heaven, to rule our rugged sphere,

Beyond the sunny walks, and circling year:
You, who your native climate have bereft
Of all the virtues, and the vices left;

Whom piety and beauty make their boast,
Though beautiful is well in pious lost;
So lost, as starlight is dissolv'd away,
And melts into the brightness of the day;
Or gold about the regal diadem,
Lost to improve the lustre of the gem.
What can we add to your triumphant day?
Let the great gift the beauteous giver pay.
For should our thanks awake the rising sun,
And lengthen, as his latest shadows run,
That, tho' the longest day, would soon, too soon
be done.

Let angels' voices with their harps conspire,
But keep the auspicious infant from the quire;
Late let him sing above, and let us know
No sweeter music than his cries below.

Nor can I wish to you, great monarch, more Than such an annual income to your store; gave

The day which this Unit, did not shine
For a less omen, than to fill the Trine.
After a Prince, an Admiral beget;
The Royal Sovereign wants an anchor yet.
Our isle has younger titles still in store
And when the exausted land can yield no more,
Your line can force them from a foreign shore.
The name of Great your martial mind will
But justice is your darling attribute:
Of all the Greeks, 't was but one hero's due,*
And, in him, Plutarch prophesied of you.
A prince's favours but on few can fall,
But justice is a virtue shar'd by all.

[suit;

Some kings the name of conquerors have assum'd,

Some to be great, some to be gods presum'd;
But boundless power, and arbitrary lust,
Made tyrants still abhor the name of just;
They shunn'd the praise this godlike virtue
gives,

And fear'd a title that reproach'd their lives.

The power, from which all kings derive their Whom they pretend, at least, to imitate, [state, Is equal both to punish and reward; For few would love their God, unless they fear'd. Resistless force and immortality Make but a lame, imperfect deity; Tempests have force unbounded to destroy, And deathless being e'en the damn'd enjoy; And yet Heaven's attributes, both last and first, One without life, and one with life accurs'd: But justice is Heaven's self, so strictly he, That could it fail, the Godhead could not be. This virtue is your own; but life and state Are one to fortune subject, one to fate: Equal to all, you justly frown or smile; Nor hopes nor fears your steady hand beguile; Yourself our balance hold, the world's, our isle.

Aristides. See his life in Plutarch. Orig. ed.

MAC FLECKNOE.†

ALL human things are subject to decay,
And when fate summons, monarchs must obey.
This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young
Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long;
In prose and verse, was own'd, without dispute,
Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute,
This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,
And bless'd with issue of a large increase;
Worn out with business, did at length debate;
To settle the succession of the state:
And, pondering, which of all his sons was fit
To reign and wage immortal war with wit,
Cried, 'T is resolv'd; for nature pleads, that he
Should only rule who most resembles me.
Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
Mature in dulness from his tender years:
Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he
Who stands confirm'd in full stupidity.
The rest to some faint meaning make pretence,
But Shadwell never deviates into sense.
Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,
Strike through, and make a lucid interval;
But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,
His rising fogs prevail upon the day.
Besides, his goodly fabric fills the eye,
And seems design'd for thoughtless majesty:
Thoughtless as monarch oaks, that shade the
plain,

And, spread in solemn state, supinely reign.
Heywood and Shirley were but types of thee,
Thou last great prophet of tautology.
Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was sent before but to prepare thy way;

This is one of the best, as well as severest, satires ever produced in our language. Mr. Thomas Shadwell is the hero of the piece, and introduced, as if pitched upon, by Flecknoe, to succeed him in the throne of dulness; for Flecknoe was never poet-laureate, as has been ignorantly asserted in Cibber's Lives of the Poets.

Richard Flecknoe, Esq., from whom this poem derives its name, was an Irish priest, who had, according to his own declaration, laid aside the mechanic part of the priesthood. He was well known at court; yet, out of four plays which he wrote, could get only one of them acted, and that was damned. "He has," says Langbaine, "published sundry works, as he styles them, to continue his name to posterity, though possibly an enemy has done that for him, which his own endeavours could never have perfected: for, whatever may become of his own pieces, his name will continue whilst Mr. Dryden's satire, called Mac Flecknoe, shall remain in vogue."

Prom this poem Pope took the hint of his Dunciad. D. There is a copy of this satire in manuscript, among the manuscripts in the archiepiscopal Library at Lambeth Palace, which presents some readings, different from the printed copies, that may probably amuse the reader, and perhaps in two or three instances induce him to prefer the written text. The MS. is numbered 711. 8. T.

And coarsely clad in Norwich drugget, came*
To teach the nations in thy greater name.
My warbling lute, the lute I whilom strung,
When to king John of Portugal I sung,
Was but the prelude to that glorious day,
When thou on silver Thames didst cut thy way,
With well-tim'd oars before the royal barge,
Swell'd with the pride of thy celestial charge;
And big with hymn, commander of a host,
The like was ne'er in Epsom blankets toss'd.
Methinks I see the new Arion sail,
The lute still trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well-sharpen'd thumb from shore to shore
The trebles squeak for fear, the bases roar:

*

About thy boat the little fishes throng,
As at the morning toast that floats along.
Sometimes, as prince of thy harmonious band,
Thou wield'st thy papers in thy threshing hand.
St. Andre's feet ne'er kept more equal timet
Not e'en the feet of thy own Psyche's rhyme;
Though they in number as in sense excel :
So just, so like tautology, they fell,
That, pale with envy, Singleton forswore
The lute and sword, which he in triumph bore,
And vow'd he ne'er would act Villerius more.
Here stopp'd the good old sire, and wept for
In silent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All arguments, but most his plays, persuade,
That for anointed dulness he was made.

[joy,

Close to the walls which fair Augusta bind,
(The fair Augusta much to fears inclin'd,)
An ancient fabric raised to inform the sight,
There stood of yore, and Barbican it hight:
A watch-tower once; but now, so fate ordains,
Of all the pile an empty name remains :
From its old ruins brothel-houses rise,
Scenes of lewd loves, and of polluted joys,
Where their vast courts the mother-strumpets
keep,

And, undisturb'd by watch, in silence sleep.
Near these a nursery erects its head, [bred;
Where queens are form'd, and future heroes
Where unfledg'd actors learn to laugh and cry,
Where infant punks their tender voices try,
And little Maximins the gods defy,
Great Fletcher never treads in buskins here,
Nor greater Jonson dares in socks appear;
But gentle Simkin just reception finds
Amidst this monument of vanish'd minds;

• And, coarsely clad in Norwich drugget, came] And coarsly cloth'd in rusty drugget came. MS. T.

St. Andre's feet ne'er kept, &c.] A French dancing master, at this time greatly admired. D.

: Simkin just reception finds] Simkin is a cha racter of a cobbler in an interlude. Panton, who is mentioned soon after, was a famous punster. D.

Of Shadwell's coronation through the town.
Rous'd by report of fame, the nations meet,
From near Bunhill, and distant Watling street.
No Persian carpets spread the imperial way,
But scatter'd limbs of mangled poets lay;
From dusty shops neglected authors come,
Martyrs of pies, and reliques of the bum.
Much Heywood, Shirley, Ogleby there lay,
But loads of Shadwell almost chok'd the way,
Bilk'd stationers for yeomen stood prepar'd,
And Herringman was captain of the guard.
The hoary prince in majesty appear'd,
High on a throne of his own labours rear'd.
At his right hand our young Ascanius sate,
Rome's other hope and pillar of the state.
His brows thick fogs, instead of glories, grace,.
And lambent dulness play'd around his face.
As Hannibal did to the altars come,
Swore by his sire, a mortal foe to Rome;
So Shadwell swore, nor should his vows be
vain,

That he till death true dulness would maintain;
And, in his father's right, and realm's defence,
Ne'er to have peace with wit, nor truce with

The admiring throng loud acclamations make,
And omens of his future empire take.
The sire then shook the honours of his head,
And from his brows damps of oblivion shed
Full on the filial dulness: long he stood,
Repelling from his breast the raging god;
At length burst out in this prophetic mood.
Heavens bless my son, from Ireland let him
reign

To far Barbadoes on the western main ;
Of his dominion may no end be known,
And greater than his father's be his throne;
Beyond Love's Kingdom* let him stretch his
pen!

He paus'd, and all the people cried, Amen.
Then thus continu'd he: My son, advance
Still in new impudence, new ignorance.
Success let others teach, learn thou from me
Pangs without birth, and fruitless industry.
Let Virtuosos in five years be writ ;
Yet not one thought accuse thy toil of wit.
Let gentle George in triumph tread the stage,
Make Dorimant betray, and Loveit rage;
Let Cully, Cockwood, Fopling, charm the pit,
And in their folly show the writer's wit.
Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence,
And justify their author's want of sense.
Let them be all by thy own model made
Of dulness, and desire no foreign aid;
That they to future ages may be known,
Not copies drawn, but issue of thy own.
Nay, let thy men of wit too be the same,
All full of thee, and differing but in name.
But let no alien Sedley interpose,

To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prose.‡
And when false flowers of rhetoric thou wouldst
Trust nature, do not labour to be dull; [cull,
But write thy best, and top; and, in each line,
Sir Formal's oratory will be thine:

Thou art my blood, where Jonson has no part:
What share have we in nature, or in art?
Where did his wit on learning fix a brand,
And rail at arts he did not understand?
Where made he love in prince Nicander's vein,
Or swept the dust in Psyche's humble strain?
Where sold he bargains, 'whip-stitch, kiss my
arse,'

Promis'd a play, and dwindled to a farce?
When did his muse from Fletcher scenes pur-

loin,

As thou whole Etheridge dost transfuse to thine?
But so transfus'd, as oil and waters flow,
His always floats above, thine sinks below.
This is thy province, this thy wondrous way,
New humours to invent for each new play
This is that boasted bias of thy mind,
By which one way to dulness 't is inclin'd
Which makes thy writings lean on one side still,
And, in all changes, that way bends thy will.
Nor let thy mountain-belly || make pretence
Of likeness; thine's a tympany of sense.
A tun of man in thy large bulk is writ,
But sure thou 'rt but a kilderkin of wit.
Like mine, thy gentle numbers feebly creep;
Thy tragic muse gives smiles, thy comic
sleep.

With whate'er gall thou sett'st thyself to write,
Thy inoffensive satires never bite.
In thy felonious art though venom lies,
It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies.
Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame
In keen Iambics, but mild Anagram.
Leave writing plays, and choose for thy com-
Some peaceful province in Acrostic land.
There thou may'st Wings display and Altars
raise,

[mand

And torture one poor word ten thousand ways. Or, if thou wouldst thy different talents suit,

Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame,
By arrogating Jonson's hostile name.
Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise,
And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise.

• Beyond Love's Kingdom, &c.] This is the name of that one play of Flecknoe's which was acted, but miscarried in the representation. D.

↑ Let Virtuosos in five years be writ] Shadwell's play of the Virtuoso, in which Sir Formal Trifle, a florid coxcomical orator, is a principal character, was first acted in 1676; and he tells the Duke of Newcastle, in the dedication, that here he has endeavoured at humour, wit, and satire.' D.

To lard with wit thy hungry Epsom prosel Alluding to Shadwell's comedy, called Epsom Wells. D.

He said; but his last words were scarcely

heard:

For Bruce and Longvil¶ had a trap prepar'd,
And down they sent the yet declaiming bard.
Sinking he left his drugget robe behind,
Borne upwards by a subterranean wind.
The mantle fell to the young prophet's part,
With double portion of his father's art.

$ Prince Nicander's vein] A character of a lover in the opera of Psyche. D.

Nor let thy mountain-belly, &c.] Allading to Shadwell's form, who was pretty lust. D.

For Bruce and Longvil, &c.] Two very heavy characters in Shadwell's Virtuoso, whom he calls gentlemen of wit and good sense. D