His friendships, still to few confined,
Were always of the middling kind;
No fools of rank, or mongrel breed,
Who fain would pass for lords indeed,
Where titles give no right or power,
And peerage is a wither'd flower:
He would have deem'd it a disgrace
If such a wretch had known his face.
On rural squires, that kingdom's bane,
He vented oft his wrath in vain;
squires to market brought,
the church, their tenants rack,
Go snacks with **** justices,
And keep the peace to pick up fees;
In every job to have a share,
A gaol or turnpike to repair,
And turn the
Commodious to their own abodes.
'He never thought an honour done him, Because a peer was proud to own him; Would rather slip aside, and choose
To talk with wits in dirty shoes :
And scorn the tools with stars and garters,
So often seen caressing Chartres.
He never courted men in station,
Nor persons held in admiration;
Of no man's greatness was afraid,
Because he sought for no man's aid.
Though trusted long in great affairs,
He gave himself no haughty airs:
Without regarding private ends,
Spent all his credit for his friends,
And only chose the wise and good;
No flatterers, no allies in blood;
But succour'd virtue in distress,
And seldom fail'd of good success,
As numbers in their hearts must own,
Who but for him had been unknown.
'He kept with princes due decorum,
Yet never stood in awe before 'em.
He follow'd David's lesson just,
In princes never put his trust;
And, would you make him truly sour,
Provoke him with a slave in power.
The Irish senate if you named,
With what impatience he declaim'd!
Fair liberty was all his cry;
For her he stood prepared to die;
For her he boldly stood alone;
For her he oft exposed his own.
Two kingdoms, just as faction led,
Had set a price upon his head :
But not a traitor could be found,
To sell him for six hundred pound.
'Had he but spared his tongue and pen,
He might have rose like other men;
But power was never in his thought,
And wealth he valued not a groat.
Ingratitude he often found,
And pitied those who meant the wound,
But kept the tenor of his mind
To merit well of humankind;
Nor made a sacrifice of those
Who still were true, to please his foes.
He labour'd many a fruitless hour
To reconcile his friends in power;
Saw mischief by a faction brewing,
While they pursued each other's ruin;
But finding vain was all his care,
He left the court in mere despair.
" And, oh! how short are human schemes! Here ended all our golden dreams.
What St. John's skill in state affairs,
What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares,
To save their sinking country lent,
Was all destroy'd by one event;
Too soon that precious life was ended
On which alone our weal depended.
When up a dangerous faction starts,
With wrath and vengeance in their hearts,
By solemn league and covenant bound,
To ruin, slaughter, and confound;
To turn religion to a fable,
And make the government a Babel;
Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown,
Corrupt the senate, rob the crown;
To sacrifice old England's glory,
And make her infamous in story.
When such a tempest shook the land,
How could unguarded Virtue stand?
'With horror, grief, despair, the Dean
Beheld the dire destructive scene;
His friends in exile or the Tower,
Himself within the frown of power;
Pursued, by base envenom'd pens,
Far to the land of S- and fens,
A servile race, in folly nursed,
Who truckle most when treated worst.
6 By innocence and resolution He bore continual persecution,
While numbers to preferment rose,
Whose merits were to be his foes;
When even his own familiar friends,
Intent upon their private ends,
Like renegadoes, now he feels
Against him lifting up their heels.
'The Dean did by his pen defeat
An infamous destructive cheat;
Taught fools their interest how to know,
And gave them arms to ward the blow.
Envy hath own'd it was his doing,
To save that hapless land from ruin,
While they who at the steerage stood,
And reap'd the profit, sought his blood.
'To save them from their evil fate
In him was held a crime of state.
A wicked monster on the bench,
Whose fury blood could never quench,
As vile and profligate a villain
As modern Scroggs or old Tressilian;
Who long all justice had discarded,
Nor fear'd he God, nor man regarded,
Vow'd on the Dean his rage to vent,
And make him of his zeal repent;
But Heaven his innocence defends ;
The grateful people stand his friends:
Not strains of law, nor judges' frown,
Nor topics brought to please the crown,
Nor witness hired, nor jury pick'd,
Prevail to bring him in convict.
'In exile with a steady heart He spent his life's declining part, Where folly, pride, and faction sway, Remote from St. John, Pope, and Gay.'
'Alas, poor Dean! his only scope
Was to he held a misanthrope;
This into general odium drew him,
Which if he liked, much good may't do him.
His zeal was not to lash our crimes,
But discontent against the times:
For had we made him timely offers
To raise his post or fill his coffers,
Perhaps he might have truckled down,
Like other brethren of his gown.
For party he would scarce have bled:-
I say no more-because he's dead-'
'What writings has he left behind?—'
'I hear they're of a different kind :
A few in verse; but most in prose-
'Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose,-
All scribbled in the worst of times,
To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes;
To praise Queen Anne, nay, more, defend her,
As never favouring the Pretender :-
Or libels yet conceal'd from sight,
Against the court to show his spite.
Perhaps his Travels, part the third,
A lie at every second word-
Offensive to a loyal ear:-
But not one sermon, you may swear.'
'He knew a hundred pleasant stories, With all the turns of Whigs and Tories Was cheerful to his dying day,
And friends would let him have his way.
As for his works in verse or prose,
I own myself no judge of those;
Nor can I tell what critics thought them,
But this I know, all people bought them,
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