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Of Ministers what mighty matters tell ?
* Till nothing bigger than a grig remain'd,
And painful writers think it a good day,
But while we’re on this subjećt, ’tis worth thinking, How little salt has kept this world from stinking; *Tis the same wit, at different times alive, - Moa Sunk at Whitehall, to rise up at Queenhithe.
Born in whatever clime, whatever age,
And flash his lightnings round on every side,
What was the burst directly over head, So loud its echo, now its fires so red, Tho' oft thro' Time's thick cloud the trembling gleam We only catch, but miss the vivid beam; While half-seen thoughts, like meteors, twinkle light, And draw their lucid trails athwart the night. 24.
Hither, unto their fountain, other stars Repairing, swell their own peculiars, By tinčture or refle&tion; Lucian hence, His golden urn replenish'd, and long since Rabelais from both his urinal drew full; From him, and them, Swift crowded his close-stool. Howe'er it came, with the strange passion stung, To raise his choicest fruit on rankest dung; Fully convinc'd his jessamine and rose Smelt sweetest, planted by his little house: - 27° Yet still some cleaner parts distinguish’d lay, Like cherry-stones upon a child's c-c--.
The nasty lines, my Lord, demand excuse, Happ’ly the times are free from that abuse: Our decent manners all obsceneness flout, ” And Wit is at one entrance quite shut out.
From hence, my Lord, Wit took a tour about, Residing in few countries on his rout, Appear'd in places, but ne'er took his seat in One spot of earth, except Greece, France, and Britain. The rest a single trophy only bear, –242 And just enough to show he had been there. As Nature's ideot never fails to hit, Once in his life, on some sheer strokes of Wit; Then stoops ten thousand fathoms down behind, Plump in his own vacuity of mind, A like excursion never to repeat To the warm regions of aetherial heat. Yet when we look at home, my Lord, at best, We find but little that will stand the test ; zoo But then the boasted days of Charles the Second, Unless Debauchery for Wit is reckon'd, Most that they had appears, by looking back, A fungus growing on their butt of sack. E’en my good cousin Rochester's but barren, From wholesome meat if you dedućt the carrion.
In the next reigns how could it flourish much
Then Halifax, my Lord, as you do yet, 2. Stood forth the friend of Poetry and Wit; Sought silent Merit in its secret cell, And Heav'n, nay even man repaid him well. Man, in the praise of every grateful quill, And Heav’n in him, who bears his title still ; 220 Who, on a kingdom to his virtues won, Reflects the glories of our British Sun.
WITH FENTON's MISCELLANIES.
WALTER HARTE, M.A.
These various strains, where every talent charms,
'Tis hard to say what mysteries of fate, What turns of fortune, on good writers wait. The party slave will wound them as he can, And damns the merit, if he hates the man. zo Nay, ev'n the Bards with wit and laurels crown'd, Bless'd in each strain, in every art renown'd : Misled by pride, and taught to sin by power, Still search around for those they may devour; Like savage monarchs on a guilty throne, Who crush all might that can invade their own.