So perish all, whose breast ne'er learned to glow
For others' good, or melt at others' woe.

What can atone-Oh, ever-injured shade !—
Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier :
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned,
By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned!
What though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances and the public show;
What though no weeping Loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polished marble emulate thy face;
What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o'er thy tomb;
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dressed,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the Morn her earliest tears bestow;
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now sacred by thy relics made.

So peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
How loved, how honoured once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee;
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be !

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,
Deaf the praised ear, and mute the tuneful tongue.
Even he whose soul now melts in mournful lays,
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays;
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart;
Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The Muse forgot, and thou beloved no more!

Happiness depends, not on Riches, but on Virtue.
From the Essay on Man, Epistle IV.

Know, all the good that individuals find,
Or God and nature meant to mere mankind,
Reason's whole pleasure, all the joys of sense,
Lie in three words-Health, Peace, and Competence.
But Health consists with temperance alone;
And Peace, O virtue! Peace is all thy own.
The good or bad the gifts of fortune gain;
But these less taste them, as they worse obtain.
Say, in pursuit of profit or delight,

Who risk the most, that take wrong means or right?
Of vice or virtue, whether blest or cursed,
Which meets contempt, or which compassion first?
Count all the advantage prosperous vice attains,
'Tis but what virtue flies from and disdains :
And grant the bad what happiness they would,
One they must want, which is, to pass for good.

O blind to truth, and God's whole scheme below, Who fancy bliss to vice, to virtue woe!

Who sees and follows that great scheme the best,
Best knows the blessing, and will most be blessed.
But fools the good alone unhappy call,
For ills or accidents that chance to all.
See Falkland dies, the virtuous and the just!
See godlike Turenne prostrate on the dust!
See Sidney bleeds amid the martial strife!*
Was this their virtue, or contempt of life?
Say, was it virtue, more though Heaven ne'er gave,
Lamented Digby!+ sunk thee to the grave?

Lucius Cary, Lord Falkland, fell fighting under the royal standard, in the battle of Newbury, Sept. 20, 1643 (see ante, p. 355). Marshal Turenne was killed by a cannon-ball at Salzbach in Baden, July 26, 1675. Sir Philip Sidney was mortally wounded at Zutphen, Sept. 22, 1586 (see ante, p. 187).

The Hon. Robert Digby, third son of Lord Digby, who died in 1724.

Tell me, if virtue made the son expire,
Why, full of days and honour, lives the sire?
Why drew Marseilles' good bishop purer breath,
When nature sickened, and each gale was death ?*
Or why so long-in life if long can be-
Lent Heaven a parent to the poor and me? ...
Honour and shame from no condition rise;
Act well your part, there all the honour lies.
Fortune in men has some small difference made,
One flaunts in rags, one flutters in brocade;
The cobbler aproned, and the parson gowned,
The friar hooded, and the monarch crowned.
'What differ more,' you cry, 'than crown and cowl!'
I'll tell you, friend-a wise man and a fool.
You'll find, if once the monarch acts the monk,
Or, cobbler-like, the parson will be drunk ;
Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow :
The rest is all but leather or prunella.† . . .

...

But by your father's worth if yours you rate,
Count me those only who were good and great.
Go! if your ancient but ignoble blood
Has crept through scoundrels ever since the flood,
Go! and pretend your family is young;
Nor own your fathers have been fools so long.
What can ennoble sots, or slaves, or cowards?
Alas! not all the blood of all the Howards.

Look next on greatness; say where greatness lies:
'Where, but among the heroes and the wise ?'
Heroes are much the same, the point's agreed,
From Macedonia's madman to the Swede;
The whole strange purpose of their lives to find,
Or make, an enemy of all mankind! . . .
If parts allure thee, think how Bacon shined,
The wisest, brightest, meanest of mankind :
Or ravished with the whistling of a name,
See Cromwell, damned to everlasting fame!
If all united thy ambition call,

From ancient story learn to scorn them all.
There, in the rich, the honoured, famed, and great,
See the false scale of happiness complete!
In hearts of kings, or arms of queens who lay,
How happy! those to ruin, these betray:
Mark by what wretched steps their glory grows,
From dirt and sea-weed as proud Venice rose ;
In each how guilt and greatness equal ran,
And all that raised the hero, sunk the man:
Now Europe's laurels on their brows behold,
But stained with blood, or ill exchanged for gold:
Then see them broke with toils, or sunk in ease,
Or infamous for plundered provinces.

O wealth ill-fated! which no act of fame
E'er taught to shine, or sanctified from shame!
What greater bliss attends their close of life?
Some greedy minion, or imperious wife,
The trophied arches, storied halls invade,
And haunt their slumbers in the pompous shade.
Alas! not dazzled with their noontide ray,
Compute the morn and evening to the day;
The whole amount of that enormous fame,

A tale, that blends their glory with their shame!‡ Know then this truth-enough for man to know-'Virtue alone is happiness below.'

The only point where human bliss stands still,
And tastes the good without the fall to ill;
Where only merit constant pay receives,
Is blest in what it takes, and what it gives;
The joy unequalled, if its end it gain,
And if it lose, attended with no pain:
Without satiety, though e'er so blessed,
And but more relished as the more distressed :

He

M. de Belsance was made Bishop of Marseilles in 1709. died in 1755. During the plague in Marseilles, in the year 1720, he distinguished himself by his activity.

Prunella was a species of woollen stuff, of which clergymen's gowns were often made.

The allusion in this splendid passage is to the great Duke of Marlborough and his 'imperious' duchess.

The broadest mirth unfeeling Folly wears,
Less pleasing far than Virtue's very tears:
Good from each object, from each place acquired,
For ever exercised, yet never tired;

Never elated, while one man's oppressed;
Never dejected, while another's blessed;
And where no wants, no wishes can remain,
Since but to wish more virtue, is to gain.

From The Prologue to the Satires,' addressed to
Dr Arbuthnot.

P. Shut up the door, good John! fatigued I said,
Tie up the knocker; say I'm sick, I'm dead.
The dog-star rages! nay, 'tis past a doubt,
All Bedlam or Parnassus is let out:
Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide. By land, by water, they renew the charge; They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. No place is sacred, not the church is free, Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day to me; Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme, Happy to catch me just at dinner-time.*

Is there a parson, much bemused in beer,
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,

A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza when he should engross?

Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls
With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls?
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.

Who shames a scribbler? Break one cobweb through,

He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew:
Destroy his fib or sophistry; in vain!
The creature's at his dirty work again.

One dedicates in high heroic prose,
And ridicules beyond a hundred foes:

One from all Grub Street will my fame defend,
And, more abusive, calls himself my friend.
This prints my letters, that expects a bribe,
And others roar aloud: 'Subscribe, subscribe!'

There are, who to my person pay their court:
I cough like Horace, and though lean, am short.
Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high,
Such Ovid's nose, and, 'Sir! you have an eye!'
Go on, obliging creatures, make me see
All that disgraced my betters, met in me.
Say for my comfort, languishing in bed:
'Just so immortal Maro held his head;'
And when I die, be sure you let me know
Great Homer died three thousand years ago.
Why did I write? what sin to me unknown
Dipped me in ink; my parents', or my own?
As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,

I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came.
I left no calling for this idle trade,

No duty broke, no father disobeyed:

The muse but served to ease some friend, not wife;
To help me through this long disease, my life;
To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care,
And teach the being you preserved, to bear....
A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find;
But each man's secret standard in his mind,
That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness,
This, who can gratify? for who can guess?
The bard whom pilfered Pastorals renown,
Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown,
Just writes to make his barrenness appear,

And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines a year; t
He who, still wanting, though he lives on theft,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left:

The Mint in Southwark was a sanctuary for insolvent debtors.
Ambrose Philips.

And swear, not Addison himself was safe.

Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires
True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires;
Blest with each talent and each art to please,
And born to write, converse, and live with ease:
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes,
And hate for arts that caused himself to rise;
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer;
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;
Alike reserved to blame or to commend,
A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend;
Dreading even fools, by flatterers besieged,
And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged;
Like Cato, give his little senate laws,
And sit attentive to his own applause ;
While wits and Templars every sentence raise,
And wonder with a foolish face of praise.
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be?
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he?*..
Let Sporus tremble A. What! that thing
of silk,

Sporus, that mere white curd of asses' milk?
Satire or sense, alas ! can Sporus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?

P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings,
This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings;
Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys,
Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys:
So well-bred spaniels civilly delight

In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
Eternal smiles his emptiness betray,

As shallow streams run dimpling all the way;
Whether in florid impotence he speaks,

And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks;
Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad,

Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad,
In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,

Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies;
His wit all seesaw, between that and this,
Now high, now low, now master up, now miss,
And he himself one vile antithesis.
Amphibious thing! that acting either part,
The trifling head, or the corrupted heart,
Fop at the toilet, flatterer at the board,
Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord.
Eve's tempter thus the Rabbins have expressed:
A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest,
Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust,
Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust.
Not fortune's worshipper, nor fashion's fool;
Not lucre's madman, nor ambition's tool;
Not proud nor servile: be one poet's praise,
That, if he pleased, he pleased by manly ways;
That flattery even to kings he held a shame,
And thought a lie in verse or prose the same;
That not in fancy's maze he wandered long,
But stooped to truth, and moralised his song;
That not for fame, but virtue's better end,
He stood the furious foe, the timid friend,

the lines and imagery as
It will be found in this cas
of Dryden, that, though nat
rectly described, the beaut
versification elevates the
a high imaginative order :

The troops exulting sat in or
And beaming fires illumined:
As when the moon, refulgent
O'er heaven's clear azure spre:
When not a breath disturbs th
And not a cloud o'ercasts the s
Around her throne the vivid pl
And stars unnumbered gild the
O'er the dark trees a yellower
And tip with silver every moun
Then shine the vales, the rocks
A flood of glory bursts from all
The conscious swains, rejoicing
Eye the blue vault, and bless the
So many flames before proud Ili
And lighten glimmering Xanthus
The long reflections of the distan
Gleam on the walls and tremble
A thousand piles the dusky horro
And shoot a shady lustre o'er the
Full fifty guards each flaming pile
Whose umbered arms, by fits, thic
Loud neigh the coursers o'er their
And ardent warriors wait the risin

Pope followed the old version

And spent all night in open fields them shined,

As when about the silver moon, wh wind,

And stars shine clear, to whose s prospects, and the brows

Of all steep hills and pinnacles, thr for shows;

And even the lowly valleys joy t sight,

When the unmeasured firmament 1

her light,

And all the signs in heaven are se shepherd's heart;

So many fires disclosed their bean Trojan part,

Before the face of Ilion, and her

shewed.

A thousand courts of guard kept guard allowed

Fifty stout men, by whom their hors hard-white corn,

And all did wistfully expect the

morn.

Cowper's translation is brief, b distinct :

As when around the clear bright moon, Shine in full splendour, and the winds a The groves, the mountain-tops, the head Stand all apparent, not a vapour streak The boundless blue, but ether opened w All glitters, and the shepherd's heart is So numerous seemed those fires, betwee Of Xanthus blazing, and the fleet of Gre In prospect all of Troy, a thousand fires Each watched by fifty warriors seated ne The steeds beside the chariot stood, thei Chewing, and waiting till the golden-thr Aurora should restore the light of day.

Associated with Pope in his Hom

501

Sandy, genervais, CEO's 2

have saved some w ro perchance, in him, have

me of late repentance !aNUT es but full undrens --my hope find rest

et my infant innocence ** **E › guardian han, my WI my virtues, or from, vis

at time to snatch som: powere

Fasadvance, then screen trim t
Am I returned from death to dve z −
Or would imperial pity save in var
I strast it not. What hame car
Which gives at once a lék, an

Mother, miscalled, farewel-e
This sad reflection ret marr
A. I was wretched ha en vec
££e !«i!s1བ་ལགས་ལ་ས་པ་

st to the lie von JPEG

k of Pope. It is a satire on the petty of that period. It has also been constated, that both the Volunteer Laureate Bastard were written by Aaron Hill to e cause of his friend or protégé.

SIR SAMUEL GARTH.

AMUEL GARTH, an eminent physician, tive of Yorkshire, and educated at PeterCambridge, of which he was admitted n 1693. Garth published in 1699 his

The Dispensary, to aid the College of is in a war they were then waging with ecaries. The latter had ventured to as well as compound medicines; and icians, to outbid them in popularity, 1 that they would give advice gratis poor, and establish a dispensary of for the sale of cheap medicines. The riumphed; but in 1703 the House of ided that apothecaries were entitled to e privilege which Garth and his brother› resisted. Garth was a popular and t man, a firm Whig, yet the early r of Pope; and when Dryden died, he d a Latin oration over the poet's With Addison, he was, politically and on terms of the closest intimacy. On ion of George I. he was knighted with gh's sword, and received the double nt of Physician in ordinary to the King, cian-general to the Army. He edited etamorphoses, translated by the most inds,' in 1717. In that irreligious age, ms to have partaken of the general and voluptuousness. Several anecdotes e related by Pope to Spence, and he is e remarked in his last illness, that he he was dying, for he was weary of shoes pulled off and on! Yet, if the ed to his birth (1670) be correct, he have been only forty-nine years of age. nuary 18, 1718-19, and was buried in of the church at Harrow-on-the-Hill. sary is a mock-heroic poem in six ne of the leading apothecaries of the ily ridiculed; but the interest of the issed away, and it does not contain life of poetry to preserve it. A few è a specimen of the manner and the of the poem. It opens in the following

xtract from the Dispensary.

ss! since 'tis thou that best canst tell leagues to modern discord fell; sicians were so cautious grown s, and lavish of their own; rney to the Elysian plain, ed, and old time returned again. 1 that most celebrated place! ustice shews her awful face; llains must submit to fate, s may enjoy the world in state; dome, majestic to the sight, s arches bear its oval height; ,placed high with artful skill, listant sight, a gilded pill; by the pious patron's aim, e as noble as its frame;

2 The College of Physicians.

Nor did the learned society decline
The propagation of that great design;
In all her mazes, Nature's face they viewed,
And, as she disappeared, their search pursued.
Wrapt in the shade of night the goddess lies,
Yet to the learned unveils her dark disguise,
But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes.

Now she unfolds the faint and dawning strife
Of infant atoms kindling into life;
How ductile matter new meanders takes,
And slender trains of twisting fibres makes ;
And how the viscous seeks a closer tone,
By just degrees to harden into bone;
While the more loose flow from the vital urn,
And in full tides of purple streams return;
How lambent flames from life's bright lamps arise,
And dart in emanations through the eyes;
How from each sluice a gentle torrent pours,
To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers;
Whence their mechanic powers the spirits claim;
How great their force, how delicate their frame;
How the same nerves are fashioned to sustain
The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain;
Why bilious juice a golden light puts on,
And floods of chyle in silver currents run;
How the dim speck of entity began

To extend its recent form, and stretch to man;
Why Envy oft transforms with wan disguise,
And why gay Mirth sits smiling in the eyes; . . .
Whence Milo's vigour at the Olympic's shewn,
Whence tropes to Finch, or impudence to Sloane;
How matter, by the varied shape of pores
Or idiots frames, or solemn senators.

Hence 'tis we wait the wondrous cause to find,
How body acts upon impassive mind;
How fumes of wine the thinking part can fire,
Past hopes revive, and present joys inspire;
Why our complexions oft our soul declare,
And how the passions in the features are;
How touch and harmony arise between
Corporeal figure and a form unseen;
How quick their faculties the limbs fulfil,
And act at every summons of the will;
With mighty truths, mysterious to descry,
Which in the womb of distant causes lie.

But now no grand inquiries are descried;
Mean faction reigns where knowledge should preside;
Feuds are increased, and learning laid aside;
Thus synods oft concern for faith conceal,
And for important nothings shew a zeal :
The drooping sciences neglected pine,
And Pean's beams with fading lustre shine.
No readers here with hectic looks are found,
Nor eyes in rheum, through midnight watching
drowned:

The lonely edifice in sweats complains
That nothing there but sullen silence reigns.
This place, so fit for undisturbed repose,
The god of Sloth for his asylum chose;
Upon a couch of down in these abodes,
Supine with folded arms, he thoughtless nods;
Indulging dreams his godhead lull to ease,
With murmurs of soft rills, and whispering trees:
The poppy
and each numbing plant dispense
Their drowsy virtue and dull indolence;
No passions interrupt his easy reign,
No problems puzzle his lethargic brain:
But dark oblivion guards his peaceful bed,
And lazy fogs hang lingering o'er his head.