That our moft bitter foes (fo much depends
On men of name) are turn'd to cordial friends;
That our offended friends (such terror flows
From men of name) dare not appear our foes;
That Credit, gafping in the jaws of death,
And ready to expire with ev'ry breath,

Grows ftronger from difeafe; that thou haft fav'd
Thy drooping Country; that thy name engray'd
On plates of brafs defies the rage of time;
Than plates of brafs more firm, that facred rime
Embalms thy mem'ry, bids thy glories live,
And gives thee what the Mufe alone can give ;
Thefe heights of Virtue, these rewards of Fame,
With thee in common other patriots claim.

But that poor fickly Science, who had laid
And droop'd for years beneath Neglect's cold shade,
By those who knew her purpofely forgot,
And made the jeft of those who knew her not.
Whilst Ignorance in pow'r, and pamper'd Pride,
Clad like a prieft, pafs'd by on t' other fide,
Recover'd from her wretched state, at length
Puts on new health, and cloaths herself with ftrength,
To thee we owe, and to thy friendly hand,
Which rais'd, and gave her to poffefs the land.
This praise, tho' in a Court, and near a throne,
This praise is thine, and thine, alas! alone.

With what fond rapture did the Goddess smile,
What bleffings did the promise to this ifle,
What honour to herself, and length of reign!
Soon as the heard, that thou did'st not disdain
To be her steward; but what grief, what shame,
What rage, what difappointment fhook her frame,
When her proud children dar'd her will difpute,
When youth was infolent, and age was mute.

And reign amongst the Scots: to be a Queen
Is worth ambition, tho' in Aberdeen.

O, ftay thy flight, fair Science! What tho' fome,
Some bafe-born children rebels are become,
All are not rebels; fome are duteous ftill,
Attend thy precepts, and obey thy will;
Thy int'reft is oppos'd by thofe alone,
Who either know not, or oppofe their own.

Of stubborn virtue, marching to thy aid,
Behold in black, the liv'ry of their trade,
Marshall'd by Form, and by Difcretion led,
A grave, grave troop, and Smith is at their head,
Black + Smith of Trinity; on Chriftian ground
For faith in myfteries none more renown'd.

Next (for the beft of caufes now and then
Muft beg affiftance from the worft of men)
Next (if old story lies not) sprung from Greece,
Comes Pandarus, but comes without his niece.
Her, wretched maid! committed to his trust,
To a rank letcher's coarfe and bloated luft,
The arch, old, hoary hypocrite had fold,
And thought himself and her well damn'd for gold.
But (to wipe off fuch traces from the mind,
And make us in good humour with mankind)
Leading on men, who, in a College bred,
No woman knew but those which made their bed,
Who, planted Virgins on Cam's virtuous shore,
Continued ftill Male Virgins at threescore,
Comes Sumner, wife, and chafte as chaste can be.
With Long, as wife, and not less chafte than he.

Are there not friends, too, enter'd in thy cause,
Who, for thy fake, defying penal laws,
Were, to support thy honourable plan,
Smuggled from Jerfey and the Ifle of Man ?

That young men fhould be fools, and fome wild Are there not Philomaths of high degree

few,

To wisdom deaf, be deaf to int'reft top,
Mov'd not her wonder; but that men grown grey
In fearch of wisdom, men who own'd the sway
Of Reason, men who ftubbornly kept down
Each fing paffion, men who wore the gown,
That they should crofs her will, that they fhould
dare

Against the cause of int'reft to declare,
That they fhould be fo abject and unwife,
Having no fear of lofs before their eyes,
Nor hopes of gain, fcorning the ready means
Of being Vicars, Rectors, Canons, Deans,
With all thofe honours which on Mitres wait,
And mark the virtuous favourites of State;
That they should dare a Hardwicke to support,
And talk within the hearing of a Court,
Of that vile beggar Confcience, who undone,
And ftarv'd herself, ftarves ev'ry wretched fon;
This turn'd her blood to gall, this made her swear
No more to throw away her time and care
On wayward fons who fcorn'd her love, no more
To hold her courts on Cam's ungrateful fhore.
Rather than bear fuch infults, which difgrace
Her royalty of nature, birth, and place,

Tho' Dullness there unrivall'd ftate doth keep,
Would the at Winchester with Burton* fleep;
Or, to exchange the mortifying scene

For fomething ftill more dull, and still more mean,
Rather than bear fuch infults, fhe would fly
Far, far beyond the search of English eye,

Who, always dumb before, fhall speak for thee?
Are there not Proctors, faithful to thy will,
One of full growth, others in embryo still,
Who may, perhaps, in fome ten years, or more,
Be afcertain'd that two and two make four,
Or may a ftill more happy method find,
And, taking one from two, leave none behind?
With fuch a mighty pow'r on foot, to yield
Were death to manhood; better in the field
To leave our carcafes, and die with fame,
Than fly, and purchase life on terms of shame.
Sackvilles alone anticipate defeat,

And, ere they dare the battle, found retreat.

But if perfuafions ineffectual prove,
If arguments are vain, nor pray'rs can move,
Yet in thy bitterness of frantic woe,
Why talk of Burton? Why to Scotland go?
Is there not Oxford? She with open arms
Shall meet thy wish, and yield up all her charms;
Shall for thy love her former loves refign,
And jilt the banish'd Stuarts, to be thine.

Bow'd to the yoke, and foon as she could read,
Tutor'd to get by heart the defpot's creed,
She, of fubjection proud, shall knee thy throne,
And have no principles but thine alone;

+ Dr. Robert Smith, Mafter of Trinity-College, Cambridge.

Dr. John Sumner, Provost of King's College, Cambridge.

§ Dr. Roger Long, Master of Pembroke College,

* Dr. John Burton, Mafter of Winchefter School. Cambridge.

She fhall thy will implicitly receive,
Nor act, nor fpeak, nor think, without thy leave.
Where is the glory of imperial fway,
If fubjects none but juft commands obey?
Then, and then only is obedience feen,
When, by command, they dare do all that's mean.
Hither then wing thy flight, here fix thy stand,
Nor fail to bring thy Sandwich in thy hand.

Gods, with what joy (for Fancy now fupplies,
And lays the future open to my eyes)
Gods, with what joy I fee the worthies meet,
And brother Litchfield brother Sandwich greet!
Bleft be your greetings, bleft each dear embrace,
Bleft to yourselves, and to the human race.
Sick'ning at virtues which she cannot reach,
Which seem her bafer nature to impeach,
Let Envy, in a whirlwind's bofom hurl'd,
Outrageous, fearch the corners of the world,
Ranfack the present times, look back to past,
Rip up the future, and confefs at last,

No times, paft, prefent, or to come, could e'er
Produce, and bless the world with such a pair.

Phillips †, the good old Phillips, out of breath,
Efcap'd from Monmouth, and efcap'd from death,
Shall hail his Sandwich, with that virtuous zeal,
That glorious ardour for the common-weal,
Which warm'd his loyal heart, and blefs'd
tongue,

When on his lips the cause of rebels hung;
Whilft Womanhood, in habit of a nun,
At Mednam lies, by backward monks undone ;
A nation's reck'ning, like an alehouse score,
Whilft Paul the aged chalks behind a door,
Compell'd to hire a foe to caft it up;
Dashwood fhall pour, from a communion cup,
Libations to the goddess without eyes,
And hob or nob in Cyder and Excife.

Who,threads, like beads, loofe thoughts on fuch a

ftring,

They're praife, and cenfure; nothing, ev'ry thing;
Pantomime thoughts, and tile fo full of trick,
They even make a Merry Andrew fick;
Thoughts all fo dull, fo pliant in their growth,"
They're verfe, they're profe, they're neither, and
and they're both

Shall (tho' by Nature ever loth to praise)
Thy curious worth fet forth in curious phrafe ;
Obfcurely ftiff, fhall crush poor Senfe to death,
Or in long periods run her out of breath;
Shall make a babe, for which, with all his fame,
Adam could not have found a proper name;
Whilft, beating out his features to a smile,
He hugs the bastard brat, and calls it Stile.
Hufh'd be all Nature as the land of death;
Let each stream fleep, and each wind hold his breath;
Be the bells muffled, nor one found of care,
Preffing for audience, wake the flumb'ring air;
Brown comes behold how cautiously he creeps-
How flow he walks, and yet how faft he fleeps-
But to thy praise in fleep he fhall agree;
He cannot wake, but he shall dream of thee.

Phyfick, her head with opiate poppies crown'd,
Her loins by the chafte matron Camphire bound,
his Phyfick, obtaining fuccour from the pen
Of her foft fon, her gentle Heberden.
If there are men who can thy virtue know,
Yet spite of virtue treat thee as a foe,
Shall, like a Scholar, ftop their rebel breath,
And in each Recipe fend Claffic death.

From thofe deep shades, where Vanity, unknown,
Doth penance for her pride, and pines alone;
Curs'd in herself, by her own thoughts undone,
Where the fees all, but can be feen by none ;
Where the no longer, mistress of the Schools,
Hears praise loud pealing from the mouths of fools,
Qr hears it at a distance; in defpair
To join the croud, and put in for a share,
Twisting each thought a thousand diff'rent ways,
For his new friends new-modelling old praife,
Where frugal fenfe so very fine is fpun,

It ferves twelve hours, tho' not enough for one,
f King thall arife, and burfting from the dead,
Shall hurl his piebald Latin at thy head,

Burton (whilst aukward Affectation's hung
In quaint and labour'd accents on his tongue,
Who 'gainst their will makes junior blockheads
fpeak,

Ign'rant of both, new Latin, and new Greek,
Not fuch as was in Greece and Latium known,
But of a modern cut, and all his own;

So deep in knowledge, that few lines can found
And plumb the bottom of that vaft profound,
Few grave ones with fuch gravity can think,
Or follow half fo faft as he can fink,
With nice diftinctions gloffing o'er the text,
Obfcure with meaning, and in words perplext,
With fubtleties on fubtleties refin'd,
Meant to divide, and fubdivide the mind,
Keeping the forwardness of youth in awe,
The fcowling Blackftone || bears the train of law.
Divinity, enrob'd in College fur,

In her right-hand a Nerv Court Kalendar
Bound like a book of pray'r, thy coming waits
With all her pack, to hymn thee in the gates.

Loyalty, fix'd on Ifis' alter'd fhore,

A ftranger long, but ftranger now no more,
Shall pitch her tabernacle, and with eyes
Brim-full of rapture, view her new allies,
Shall with much pleasure and more wonder view
Men great at Court and great at Oxford too.

O facred Loyalty! accurs'd be those
Who feeming friends, turn out thy deadliest foes ;
Who prostitute to Kings thy honour'd name,
And foothe their paffions to betray their fame :
Nor prais'd be thofe, to whofe proud nature clings
Contempt of Government, and hate of Kings;
Who, willing to be free, not knowing how,
A ftrange intemperance of zeal avow,
And ftart at Loyalty, as at a word
Which without danger Freedom never heard.

Vain errors of vain men-wild both extremes,
And to the State not wholesome, like the dreams,

Sir William Blackftone, afterwards one of the Judges of the Common Pleas.

Children of Night, of Indigeftion bred,
Which, Reafon clouded, feize and turn the head.
Loyalty without Freedom is a chain
Which men of lib'ral notice can't sustain;
And Freedom without Loyalty, a name
Which nothing means, or means licentious fhame.
Thine be the art, my Sandwich, thine the toil,
In Oxford's ftubborn and untoward foil
To rear this plant of union, till at length,
Rooted by time, and fofter'd into strength,
Shooting aloft, all danger it defies,

And proudly lifts its branches to the skies;
Whilft, Wifdom's happy fon, but not her flave,
Gay with the gay, and with the grave ones grave,
Free from the dull impertinence of thought,
Beneath that shade which thy own labours wrought
And fashion'd into strength, fhalt thou repose,
Secure of lib'ral praife, fince Ifis flows,
True to her Tame, as duty hath decreed,
Nor longer, like a harlot, luft for Tweed,

F. Thy Country, and what then? Is that meré

word

Against the voice of Reafon to be heard?

Are prejudices, deep imbib'd in youth,

To counter-act, and make thee hate the truth?
"Tie the fure fymptom of a narrow foul,
To draw its grand attachment from the whole,
And take up with a part: men not confin'd
Within fuch paltry limits, men design'd
Their nature to exalt; where'er they go,
Wherever waves can roll, and winds can blow,
Where'er the bleffed Sun, plac'd in the sky
To watch this fubject world, can dart his eye,
Are ftill the fame, and, prejudice out-grown,
Confider every country as their own.

At one grand view they take in Nature's plan,
Not more at home in England than Japan.

P. My good, grave Sir of Theory, whose wit,
Grafping at fhadows, ne'er caught fubitance yet,
"Tis mighty ealy o'er a glafs of wine

And thofe old wreaths, which Oxford once dar'd On vain refinements vainly to refine,

twine

To grace a Stuart brow, fhe plants on thine.

END OF THE CANDIDATE.

THE

To laugh at poverty in plenty's reign,
To boaft of apathy when out of pain,

And in each fentence, worthy of the Schools,
Varnish'd with fophiftry, to deal out rules
Moft fit for practice but for one poor fault,
That into practice they can ne'er be brought.

At home, ard fitting in your elbow-chair,
You praise Japan, tho' you was never there.
But was the ship this moment under fail,
Would not your mind be chang'd, your spirits fail,
Would you not caft one longing eye to fhore,
And vow to deal in fuch wild fchemes no more?
Howe'er our pride may tempt us to conceal
Thofe paffions which we cannot chufe but feel,

FARE WELL. There's a ftrange fomething, which without a brain

P.

Fools feel, and which e'en wife men can't explain,
Planted in man, to bind him to that earth,

AREWELL to Europe, and at once fare- In dearest ties, from whence he drew his birth.

FAREWE

well!

To all the follies which in Europe dwell!
To Eastern India now, a richer clime,
Richer, alas! in ev'ry thing but rime,

"The Mufes fteer their course, and fond of change,
At large, in other worlds, defire to range;
Refolv'd at leaft, fince they the fool must play,
To do it in a diff'rent place, and way.

F. What whim is this, what error of the brain,
What madness worse than in the dog-ftar's reign?
Why into foreign countries would you roam,
Are there not knaves and fools enough at home?
If Satire be thy object, and thy lays
As yet have fhewn no talents fit for praise,
If Satire be thy object: fearch all round,
Nor to thy purpose can one spot be found
Like England, where to sampant vigour grown
Vice choaks up ev'ry virtue; where, felf-fown,
The feeds of Folly shoot forth rank and bold,
And every feed brings forth a hundred fold.

P. No more of this-tho' Truth (the more our
fhame

The more our guilt) tho' Truth perhaps may claim,
And juftify her part in this, yet here,

For the first time, e'en Truth offends my ear.
Declaim from morn to night, from night to morn,
Take up
the theme anew, when day's new-born,
I hear, and hate-be England what she will,
With all her faults the is my Country still

If Honour calls, where'er the points the way,
The fons of Honour follow, and obey;
If need compels, wherever we are fent,
'Tis want of courage not to be content;
But, if we have the liberty of choice,
And all depends on our own fingle voice,
To deem of ev'ry country as the fame,
Is rank rebellion 'gainst the lawful claim
Of Nature: and fuch dull indifference
May be Philofophy, but can't be Sense.

F. Weak and unjuft diftinction, strange defign,
Moft peevish, moft perverfe, to undermine
Philofophy, and throw her empire down

By means of Senfe, from whom he holds her

crown.

Divine Philofophy, to thee we owe
All that is worth poffeffing here below;
Virtue and Wisdom confecrate thy reign,
Doubled each joy, and pain no longer pain.

When, like a garden, where for want of toil,
And wholefome difcipline, the rich, rank foil
Teems with incumbrances; where, all around
Herbs noxious in their nature make the ground,
Like the good mother of a thankless fon,
Curfe her own womb, by fruitfulness undone ;
Like fuch a garden, when the human foul,
Uncultur'd, wild, impatient of controul,
Brings forth thofe paffions of luxuriant race,
Which fpread, and stifle ev'ry herb of grace,