And that thing made of sound and show
Which mortals have misnamed a beau,
(But in the language of the sky
Is call'd a two-legg'd butterfly,)
Will make your very heartstrings ache
With loud and everlasting clack,
And beat your auditory drum,

Till you grow deaf, or they grow dumb.
But to our story we return:
'Twas early on a Summer morn,
A wolf forsook the mountain-den,
And issued hungry on the plain.

Full many a stream and lawn he pass'd,
And reach'd a winding vale at last;
Where from a hollow rock he spy'd
The shepherds dress'd in flowery pride.
Garlands were strew'd, and all was gay,
To celebrate a holiday.

The merry tabour's gamesome sound
Provoked the sprightly dance around.
Hard by a rural board was rear'd,
On which in fair array appear'd
The peach, the apple, and the raisin,
And all the fruitage of the season.
But, more distinguish'd than the rest,
Was seen a wether ready drest,
That smoking, recent from the flame,
Diffused a stomach-rousing steam.
Our wolf could not endure the sight,
Outrageous grew his appetite:
His entrails groan'd with tenfold pain,
He lick'd his lips, and lick'd again;
At last, with lightning in his eyes,
He bounces forth, and fiercely cries,
"Shepherds, I am not given to scolding,
But now my spleen I cannot hold in.

By Jove, such scandalous oppression
Would put an elephant in passion.
You, who your flocks (as you pretend)
By wholesome laws from harm defend,
Which make it death for any beast,
How much so'er by hunger press'd,
To seize a sheep by force or stealth,
For sheep have right to life and health;
Can you commit, uncheck'd by shame,
What in a beast so much you blame?
What is a law, if those who make it
Become the forwardest to break it?
The case is plain: you would reserve
All to yourselves, while others starve.
Such laws from base self-interest spring,
Not from the reason of the thing—”

He was proceeding, when a swain
Burst out "And dares a wolf arraign
His betters, and condemn their measures.
And contradict their wills and pleasures?
We have establish'd laws, 'tis true,
But laws are made for such as you.
Know, sirrah, in its very nature
A law can't reach the legislature.
For laws, without a sanction join'd,
As all men know, can never bind :
But sanctions reach not us the makers,
For who dares punish us though breakers?
"Tis therefore plain, beyond denial,
That laws were ne'er design'd to tie all;
But those, whom sanctions reach alone;
We stand accountable to none.
Besides, 'tis evident, that, seeing

Laws from the great derive their being,
They as in duty bound should love
The great, in whom they live and move,

And humbly yield to their desires:
"Tis just what gratitude requires.
What suckling dandled on the lap
Would tear away its mother's pap?
But hold-why deign I to dispute
With such a scoundrel of a brute?
Logic is lost upon a knave.
Let action prove the law our slave.”
An angry nod his will declared
To his gruff yeoman of the guard;
The full-fed mongrels, train'd to ravage,
Fly to devour the shaggy savage.

The beast had now no time to lose
In chopping logic with his foes;
"This argument," quoth he, "has force,
And swiftness is my sole resource."

He said, and left the swains their prey,
And to the mountains scour'd away.

ON THE REPORT OF A MONUMENT

TO BE ERECTED IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, TO THE MEMORY OF A LATE AUTHOR.*

[Part of a letter to a person of quality.

Lest your Lordship, who is so well acquainted with everything that relates to true honour, should think hardly of me for attacking the memory of the dead, I beg leave to offer a few words in my own vindication.

If I had composed the following verses, with a view to gratify private resentment, to promote the interest of any faction, or to recommend myself to the patronage of any person whatsoever, I should have been altogether inexcusable. To attack the memory of the dead from selfish considerations, or from mere wantonness of malice,

* Churchill.

is an enormity which none can hold in greater detestation than I. But I composed them from very different motives; as every intelligent reader, who peruses them with attention, and who is willing to believe me upon my own testimony, will undoubtedly perceive, My motives proceeded from a sincere desire to do some small service to my country, and to the cause of truth and virtue. The promoters of faction I ever did, and ever will consider as the enemies of mankind; to the memory of such I owe no veneration; to the writings of such I owe no indulgence.

Your Lordship knows that owed the greatest share of his renown to the most incompetent of all judges, the mob; actuated by the most unworthy of all principles, a spirit of insolence; and inflamed by the vilest of all human passions, hatred to their fellow citizens. Those who joined the cry in his favour seemed to me to be swayed rather by fashion than by real sentiment. He therefore might have lived and died unmolested by me; confident as I am, that posterity, when the present unhappy dissensions are forgotten, will do ample justice to his real character. But when I saw the extravagant honours that were paid to his memory, and heard that a monument in Westminster Abbey was intended for one, whom even his admirers acknowledge to have been an incendiary and a debauchee, I could not help wishing that my countrymen would reflect a little on what they were doing before they consecrated, by what posterity would think the public voice, a character which no friend to virtue or to true taste can approve. It was this sentiment, enforced by the earnest request of a friend, which produced the following little poem; in which I have said nothing of ners that is not warranted by the best authority; nor of his writings, that is not perfectly agreeable to the opinion of many of the most competent judges in Britain.

January 1765.]

BUFO, begone! with thee may Faction's fire,
That hatch'd thy salamander-fame, expire.
Fame, dirty idol of the brainless crowd,
What half-made moon-calf can mistake for good!
Since shared by knaves of high and low degree;
Cromwell, and Catiline; Guido Faux, and thee.
By nature uninspired, untaught by art,

's man

With not one thought that breathes the feeling heart,

With not one offering vow'd to Virtue's shrine
With not one pure unprostituted line;
Alike debauched in body, soul, and lays ;—
For pension'd censure, and for pension'd praise,
For ribaldry, for libels, lewdness, lies,
For blasphemy of all the good and wise;
Coarse virulence in coarser doggerel writ,

Which bawling blackguards spell'd, and took for wit;
For conscience, honour, slighted, spurn'd, o'erthrown ;-
Lo, Bufo shines the minion of renown!

Is this the land that boasts a Milton's fire,
And magic Spenser's wildly-warbling lyre?
The land that owns the omnipotence of song,
When Shakspeare whirls the throbbing heart along?
The land where Pope, with energy divine,

In one strong blaze bade wit and fancy shine;
Whose verse, by Truth in Virtue's triumph borne,
Gave knaves to infamy, and fools to scorn;
Yet pure in manners, and in thought refined,
Whose life and lays adorn'd and bless'd mankind ?
Is this the land where Gray's unlabour'd art
Soothes, melts, alarms, and ravishes the heart;
While the lone wanderer's sweet complainings flow
In simple majesty of manly woe;

Or while, sublime, on eagle-pinion driven,

He soars Pindaric heights, and sails the waste of heaven?
Is this the land, o'er Shenstone's recent urn

Where all the Loves and gentler Graces mourn?
And where, to crown the hoary bard of night,*
The Muses and the Virtues all unite?
Is this the land where Akenside displays
The bold yet temperate flame of ancient days?
Like the rapt sage,† in genius as in theme,
Whose hallow'd strain renown'd Ilissus' stream;
Or him, th' indignant bard,‡ whose patriot ire,

* Dr Young.

+ Plato.

H

Alceus.