Appointed, with Plain Truth, to guard the chair;
The pageant saw, and blasted with her frown,
To Its first state of nothing melted down.

170

175

Nor shall the Muse, (for even there the pride Of this vain nothing shall be mortified) Nor shall the Muse (should fate ordain her rhymes, Fond, pleasing thought! to live in after-times), With such a trifler's name her pages blot; Known be the character, the thing forgot: Let It, to disappoint each future aim, Live without sex, and die without a name! Cold-blooded critics, by enervate sires

Scarce hammer'd out, when Nature's feeble fires Glimmer'd their last; whose sluggish blood, half

181

froze, Creeps labouring through the veins; whose heart ne'er glows

With fancy-kindled heat:—a servile race,

178 We shall not trespass farther on the patience of our readers by reviving the long forgotten history of Fitzpatrick's furious warfare against both the theatres, on the subject of half price, originating, as before observed, in private pique to Garrick, whom he first flattered, then personally insulted, and afterwards attempted to write down, under the signature of X. Y. Z. in a periodical paper called the Craftsman. A detailed account of the dispute may be found in the second volume of Davies's Life of Garrick. The author of the Frib bleriad thus noticed the assistance of his great ally:

With colours flying, beat of drum,
Unlike to this see Churchill come!

And now like Hercules he stands,

Unmask'd his face, but arm'd his hands,

Who, in mere want of fault, all merit place;
Who blind obedience pay to ancient schools,
Bigots to Greece, and slaves to musty rules;
With solemn consequence declared that none
Could judge that cause but Sophocles alone:
Dupes to their fancied excellence, the crowd,
Obsequious to the sacred dictate, bow'd.

190

When, from amidst the throng, a youth stood forth,

195

Unknown his person, not unknown his worth;
His look bespoke applause; alone he stood,
Alone he stemm'd the mighty critic flood:
He talk'd of ancients, as the man became
Who prized our own, but envied not their fame;
With noble reverence spoke of Greece and Rome,
And scorn'd to tear the laurel from the tomb.
"But more than just to other countries grown,
Must we turn base apostates to our own?

Alike prepared to write or drub!
This holds a pen, and that a club!
A club which nerves like his can wield,
And form'd a wit like his to shield.
"Mine is the Rosciad, mine, he cries,
Who says 'tis not, I say he lies.
To falsehood and to fear a stranger,
Not one shall fear my fame or danger;
Let those who write with fear or shame,
Those craftsmen-scribblers, hide their name.
My name is Churchill!" Thus he spoke,
And thrice he waved his knotted oak,
That done, he paused, prepared the blow,
Impartial bard! for friend and foe.

22

205

Where do these words of Greece and Rome excel,
That England may not please the ear as well?
What mighty magic's in the place or air,
That all perfection needs must centre there?
In states, let strangers blindly be preferr❜d;
In state of letters, merit should be heard.
Genius is of no country; her pure ray
Spreads all abroad, as general as the day;
Foe to restraint, from place to place she flies,
And may hereafter e'en in Holland rise.
May not, (to give a pleasing fancy scope,
And cheer a patriot heart with patriot hope)
May not some great extensive genius raise
The name of Britain 'bove Athenian praise;
And, whilst brave thirst of fame his bosom warms,
Make England great in letters as in arms?

210

216

201 A favourite accusation against our author and his literary associates, was what the reviewers termed an affected contempt of the ancients, apparent, as they alleged, in all the productions of this set of writers. It is remarkable, however, that Colman, Thornton, and our author, were all good classical scholars; and Lloyd, in whose mouth Churchill puts this vindication of the moderns, was thoroughly well versed in ancient literature. His Latin verses and his imitations of the Greek and Roman poets place him in the first rank of modern latinists, and what is more meritorious, he had not the least tincture of pedantry in his composition, and entertained a perfect contempt for those empty pedagogues who, possessed of no other talent themselves, think all learning is comprised i~ *he correct scanning of a line. Lloyd was one of those

Whose knowledge unaffected flows,
And sits as easy as their clothes,
Who care not though an ac or sed
Misplaced, endanger Priscian's head,

There may-there hath-and Shakspeare's muse

aspires

Beyond the reach of Greece; with native fires Mounting aloft, he wings his daring flight, Whilst Sophocles below stands trembling at his height.

220

Why should we then abroad for judges roam, When abler judges we may find at home? Happy in tragic and in comic powers, Have we not Shakspeare?—is not Jonson ours? For them, your natural judges, Britons, vote; 225 They'll judge like Britons, who like Britons wrote."

He said, and conquer'd.-Sense resumed her And disappointed pedants stalk'd away. [sway, Shakspeare and Jonson, with deserved applause, Joint judges were ordain'd to try the cause, Meantime the stranger every voice employ'd,

Nor think his wit a grain the worse
Who cannot frame a Latin verse,
Or give a Roman proper word

To things a Roman never heard.

230

205 This line affords the first specimen of our author's political views, which, though in him honourably directed to sound constitutional objects, were, owing to his unfortunate connexion with Wilkes, made subservient to the purposes of an interested faction. The injudicious patronage by Lord Bute of his immediate countrymen, the Scotch, excited the worst species of jealous nationality in this country, of which that faction took advantage, and by affixing the epithet of strangers to so large a proportion of our fellow islanders and fellow subjects, gave rise to a spirit of disunion and mutual irritation, which has now happily, and we hope for ever, subsided.

To ask or tell his name.- -Who is it?-Lloyd.

239

Thus, when the aged friends of Job stood mute, And, tamely prudent, gave up the dispute, Elihu, with the decent warmth of youth, Boldly stood forth the advocate of Truth, Confuted Falsehood, and disabled pride, Whilst baffled Age stood snarling at his side. The day of trial's fix'd, nor any fear Lest day of trial should be put off here. Causes but seldom for delay can call In courts where forms are few, fees none at all. The morning came, nor find I that the sun, As he on other great events hath done, Put on a brighter robe than what he wore To go his journey in the day before.

240

245

232 Robert Lloyd, the bosom friend of Churchill, and of whose life we have given some particulars in the preceding memoirs of our author, had at this time acquired considerable reputation by his poem entitled the Actor, which not only gave proof of great judgment, but had also the merit of smooth versification and strength of poetry. Intoxicated with his literary success, he quitted his situation of usher at Westminster school, and relied entirely on his pen for subsistence; but being of a thoughtless and extravagant disposition, he soon made himself liable for debts which he was unable to discharge. In consequence of this improvidence he was confined in the Fleet Prison, where he depended for support almost wholly on the bounty of his friend Churchill, whose kindness to him continued undiminished during all his necessities. On the death of his liberal benefactor, Mr. Lloyd sunk into a state of despondence, which terminated his existence on the 15th of December 1764, less than one month after he was informed of the death of Churchill. Mr. Wilkes used to say, that "Mr. Lloyd was mild and affable in private