Shall find the charge can but himself annoy: The slanderous theft to his own breast recoils, Who seeks renown from injured merit's spoils; All hearts unite, and Heaven with man conspires To guard those virtues she herself admires.

O sacred bard!-once ours!-but now no more, Whose loss, for ever, Ireland must deplore, No earthly laurels needs thy happy brow, Above the poet's are thy honours now: Above the patriot's, (though a greater name No temporal monarch for his crown can claim.) From noble breasts if envy might ensue, Thy death is all the brave can envy you. You died, when merit (to its fate resign'd) Saw scarce one friend to genius left behind, When shining parts did jealous hatred breed, And 'twas a crime in science to succeed, When ignorance spread her hateful mist around, And dunces only an acceptance found. What could such scenes in noble minds beget, But life with pain, and talents with regret? Add that thy spirit from the world retired, Ere hidden foes its further grief conspired; No treacherous friend did stories yet contrive, To blast the Muse he flatter'd when alive, Or sordid printer (by his influence led) Abused the fame that first bestow'd him bread.1 Slanders so mean, had he whose nicer ear Abhorr'd all scandal, but survived to hear,

1 The first of these couplets certainly applies to the Earl of Ossory; the second, perhaps, to Faulkner.---Scott.

The fraudful tale had stronger scorn supplied,

And he (at length) with more disdain had died.

But since detraction is the portion here Of all who virtuous durst, or great, appear, And the free soul no true existence gains, While earthly particles its flight restrains, The greatest favour grimful Death can show, Is with swift dart to expedite the blow. So thought the Dean, who, anxious for his fate, Sigh'd for release, and deem'd the blessing late. And sure if virtuous souls (life's travail past) Enjoy (as churchmen teach) repose at last, There's cause to think, a mind so firmly good, Who vice so long, and lawless power, withstood, Has reach'd the limits of that peaceful shore, Where knaves molest, and tyrants awe, no more; These blissful seats the pious but attain, Where incorrupt, immortal spirits reign. There his own Parnell strikes the living lyre, And Pope, harmonious, joins the tuneful choir; His Stella too, (no more to forms confined, For heavenly beings all are of a kind,) Unites with his the treasures of her mind, With warmer friendships bids their bosoms glow, Nor dreads the rage of vulgar tongues below. Such pleasing hope the tranquil breast enjoys, Whose inward peace no conscious crime annoys; While guilty minds irresolute appear,

And doubt a state their vices needs must fear.

Dublin, Nov. 4, 1755.

RT BN.

VERSES ON THE BATTLE OF THE BOOKS.

BY MR. JAMES STERLING, of the

COUNTY OF MEATH.

WHILE the Dean with more wit than man ever wanted,

Or than Heaven to any man else ever granted, Endeavours to prove, how the ancients in know

ledge

Have excell'd our adepts of each modern college;
How by heroes of old our chiefs are surpass'd
In each useful science, true learning, and taste:
While thus he behaves, with more courage than

manners,

And fights for the foe, deserting our banners;
While Bentley and Wotton, our champions, he foils,
And wants neither Temple's assistance, nor Boyle's;
In spite of his learning, fine reasons, and style,
-Would you think it ?-he favours our cause all
the while:

We raise by his conquest our glory the higher,
And from our defeat to a triumph aspire;
Our great brother-modern, the boast of our days,
Unconscious, has gain'd for our party the bays:
St. James's old authors, so famed on each shelf,
Are vanquish'd by what he has written himself.

A SCHOOLBOY'S THEME.

THE following lines were enclosed in a letter from Mr. Pulteney, (afterwards Earl of Bath,) to Swift, in which he says "You must give me leave to add to my letter a copy of verses at the end of a declamation made by a boy at Westminster school on this theme,-Ridentem dicere verum quid vetat?"

DULCE, Decane, decus, flos optime gentis Hibernæ
Nomine quique audis, ingenioque celer:
Dum lepido indulges risu, et mutaris in horas,
Quò nova vis animi, materiesque rapit?
Nunc gravis astrologus, cœlo dominaris et astris,
Filaque pro libitu Partrigiana secas.
Nunc populo speciosa hospes miracula promis,
Gentesque æquoreas, aëriasque creas.
Seu plausum captat queruli persona Draperi,
Seu levis a vacuo tabula sumpta cado.
Mores egregius mira exprimis arte magister,
Et vitam atque homines pagina quæque sapit;
Socraticæ minor est vis et sapientia chartæ,
Nec tantum potuit grande Platonis opus.

ON DR. SWIFT'S LEAVING HIS ESTATE
TO IDIOTS.

SWIFT, wondrous genius, bright intelligence,
Pities the orphan's, idiot's want of sense;
And rich in supernumerary pelf,

Adopts posterity unlike himself.

To one great individual wit's confined!
Such eunuchs never propagate their kind.
Thus nature's prodigies bestow the gifts
Of fortune, their descendants are no Swifts.
When did prime statesman, for a sceptre fit
His ministerial successor beget?

No age, no state, no world, can hope to see
Two SWIFTS or WALPOLES in one family.

ON SEVERAL PETTY PIECES LATELY PUBLISHED AGAINST DEAN SWIFT, NOW DEAF AND INFIRM.

THY mortal part, ingenious Swift! must die,
Thy fame shall reach beyond mortality!
How puny whirlings joy at thy decline,
Thou darling offspring of the tuneful nine!
The noble lion thus, as vigour passes,
The fable tells us, is abused by asses.

ON FAULKNER'S EDITION OF SWIFT. Ornamented with an Engraving of the Dean, by Vertue. In a little dark room at the back of his shop, Where poets and scribes have dined on a chop, Poor Faulkner sate musing alone thus of late, "Two volumes are done-it is time for the plate; Yes, time to be sure;-but on whom shall I call