And, possibly, not much had err'd,

If we of Roman fraud had heard.

Then leave your Robertsons and Bryants
For John the murderer of giants;
Since all mythology profane

Is quite as doubtful, quite as vain.
Though Bryant,* learned friend of youth,
His fable consecrates to truth:

And Robertson+ with just applause
His finish'd portraits fairly draws.
Yet history, great Raleigh knew,
And knowing, griev'd, may not be true;
For how the facts are we to know
Which pass'd a thousand years ago;
When he no just account could get
of quarrel in th' adjacent street?
Though from his chair the noise he heard,
The tale of each relater err'd.‡

But if the fact's recorded right,
The motive seldom comes in sight;
Hence, while the fairest deeds we blame.
We often crown the worst with fame.
Then read, if genuine truth you'd glean,
Those who were actors in the scene;
Hear, with delight, the modest Greek, §
Of his renown'd ten thousand speak;
His commentaries || read again

Who led the troops and held the pen;

Jacob Bryant, Esq., whose profoundly erudite work, the Analysis of Antient Mythology," then just published, was designed to prove that all the fables of the Pagan theology were derived from, and were perversions of, the sacred history.

+ Dr William Robertson of Edinburgh, author of "The History of Charles V." and other great works.

This alludes to a story told of Raleigh: that when a prisoner in the Tower, hearing a noise outside the walls, he sent to inquire the cause. The reports of different messengers varied in all the circumstances to such a degree, that Sir Walter who was then employed in completing his "History of the World," fell into a reverie, and concluded, that if he could not depend on the accounts of what had passed nearly under his own eyes, how could he be certain of the relations of ancient times? Upon this, says the tale, he threw his unpublished work into the fire, and deprived posterity of his labours. Il Cæsar.

§ Xenophon.

The way to conquest best he show'd
Who trod ere he prescrib'd the road.
Read him, for lofty periods fam'd,
Who Charles's age adorn'd and sham'd;
Read Clarendon,* unaw'd, unbrib'd,
Who ruled th' events his pen describ'd;
Who law, and courts, and senates knew,
And saw the sources whence he drew.

Yet, lovely Sally, be not frighten'd,
Nor dread to have thy mind enlighten'd;
Admire with me the fair alliance

Which mirth, at Maudlin,+ makes with science;
How humour may with learning dwell,

Go ask Papa-for he can tell.

MARGERY TWO-SHOES.

"The History of the Great Rebellion," by the Earl of Claren don.-ED.

+ Dr Horne was at this time President of Magdalen College, Oxford, where this little poem was written. [The name of this distinguished seminary is commonly pronounced Maudlin, not only by the common people, but by the students themselves.] ED.

ODE

FROM H. M. AT BRISTOL, TO

DRAGON,

MR GARRICK'S HOUSE-DOG, AT HAMPTON.

DRAGON! since lyrics are the mode,
To thee I dedicate my Ode,

And reason good I plead :

Are those who cannot write, to blame
To draw their hopes of future fame,
From those who cannot read?

O could I, like that nameless wight,
Find the choice minute when to write,
The mollia tempora fandi !

Like his, my muse should learn to whistle
A true Heroical Epistle,

In strains which never can die.

Father of lyrics, tuneful Horace !
Can thy great shade do nothing for us
To mend the British lyre?

Our luckless bards have broke the strings,
Seiz'd the scar'd muses, pluck'd their wings,
And put out all their fire.t

See the admirable epistle to Sir William Chambers. [The poetical satire here mentioned, for many years excited almost as much speculation, respecting its origin, as the far-famed Letters of Junius. It is now, however, settled beyond all doubt, that Mason was the author of the "Heroic Epistle."]-ED.

+ A profusion of Odes had appeared about this time, which strikingly violated all the rules of lyrical composition.

Dragon! thou tyrant of the yard,
Great namesake of that furious guard
That watch'd the fruits Hesperian!
Thy choicer treasures safely keep,
Nor snatch one moment's guilty sleep,
Fidelity's criterion.

O Dragon! change with me thy fate,
To me give up thy place and state,
And I will give thee mine:
I, left to think, and thou to feed!
My mind enlarg'd, thy body freed,
How blest my lot and thine!

Then shalt thou scent the rich regale
Of turtle and diluting ale,

Nay, share the sav'ry bit;

And see, what thou hast never seen,
For thou hast but at Hampton been,
A feast devoid of wit.

Oft shalt thou snuff the smoking venison,
Devour'd, alone, by hungry denizen,
So fresh, thou'lt long to tear it;
Though Flaccus * tells a diff'rent tale
Of social souls who chose it stale,

Because their friends should share it.

And then on me what joys would wait,
Were I the guardian of thy gate

How useless bolt and latch!

How vain were locks, and bars how vain,
To shield from harm the household train
Whom I, from love, would watch!

Not that 'twould crown with joy my life,
That Bowden,+ or that Bowden's wife
Brought me my daily pickings;
Though she, accelerating fate,
Decrees the scanty mortal date

Of turkeys and of chickens ?

HOR. lib. ii. Sat. 2.

The gardener and poultry woman at Hampton.

Though fir'd with innocent ambition,
Bowden, great nature's rhetorician,

More flowers than Burke produces;
And though he's skilled more roots to find,
Than ever stock'd an Hebrew's mind,
And knows their various uses.

I'd get my master's ways by rote,
Ne'er would I bark at ragged coat,
Nor tear the tatter'd sinner;
Like him, I'd love the dog of merit,
Caress the cur of broken spirit,

And give them all a dinner.

Nor let me pair his blue-ey'd dame
With Venus' or Minerva's name,
One warrior, one coquet;
No; Pallas and the queen of beauty
Shunn'd, or betray'd that nuptial duty,
Which she so high has set.

Whene'er I heard the rattling coach
Proclaim their long-desir'd approach,
How would I haste to greet 'em!
Nor ever feel I wore a chain,
Till, starting, I perceiv'd with pain
I could not fly to meet 'em.

The master loves his sylvan shades,
Here, with the nine melodious maids,
His choicest hours are spent ;
Yet I shall hear some witling cry,
(Such witling from my presence fly!)
"Garrick will soon repent:

"Again you'll see him, never fear; "Some half a dozen times a year "He still will charm the age;

"Accustom'd long to be admir'd, "Of shades and streams he'll soon be tir'd, "And languish for the stage."

Peace!-To his solitude he bears
The full-blown fame of thirty years;