Or if to gingerbread thou shalt descend, And liquorish learning to thy babes extend; Or sugar'd plane, o'erspread with beaten gold, Does the sweet treasure of thy letters hold; Thou still shalt be my song- -Apollo's choir I scorn t'invoke; Cadmus my verse inspire: 'Twas Cadmus who the first materials brought Of all the learning which has since been taught, Soon made complete! for mortals ne'er shall know More than contain'd of old the Christ-cross row; What masters dictate, or what doctors preach, Wise matrons hence, e'en to our children teach : But as the name of every plant and flower (So common that each peasant knows its power) Physicians in mysterious cant express, T'amuse the patient, and enhance their fees; So from the letters of our native tongue, Put in Greek scrawls, a mystery too is sprung, Schools are erected, puzzling grammars made, And artful men strike out a gainful trade; Strange characters adorn the learned gate, And heedless youth catch at the shining bait; The pregnant boys the noisy charms declare, And Tau's, and Delta's,1 make their mothers stare; Th' uncommon sounds amaze the vulgar ear, And what's uncommon never costs too dear. Yet in all tongues the Hornbook is the same, Taught by the Grecian master, or the English dame.

1 The Greek letters T, A.

But how shall I thy endless virtues tell,
In which thou dost all other books excel?
No greasy thumbs thy spotless leaf can soil,
Nor crooked dogsears thy smooth corners spoil;
In idle pages no errata stand,

To tell the blunders of the printer's hand:
No fulsome dedication here is writ,

Nor flattering verse, to praise the author's wit:
The margin with no tedious notes is vex'd,

Nor various reading to confound the text:
All parties in thy literal sense agree,
Thou perfect centre of concordancy!
Search we the records of an ancient date,
Or read what modern histories relate,
They all proclaim what wonders have been done
By the plain letters taken as they run:
"Too high the floods of passion us'd to roll,
And rend the Roman youth's impatient soul;
His hasty anger furnish'd scenes of blood,
And frequent deaths of worthy men ensued:
In vain were all the weaker methods tried,
None could suffice to stem the furious tide,
Thy sacred line he did but once repeat,
And laid the storm, and cool'd the raging heat.” 1
Thy heavenly notes, like angels' music, cheer
Departing souls, and soothe the dying ear.
An aged peasant, on his latest bed,

Wish'd for a friend some godly book to read;

1 The advice given to Augustus, by Athenodorus the stoic philosopher.

The pious grandson thy known handle takes,
And (eyes lift up) this savory lecture makes:
Great A," he gravely read; the important
sound

The empty walls and hollow roof rebound:
Th' expiring ancient rear'd his drooping head,
And thank'd his stars that Hodge had learn'd to

read.

"Great B," the younker bawls: O heavenly breath! What ghostly comforts in the hour of death! What hopes I feel! "Great C," pronounc'd the boy;

The grandsire dies with ecstasy of joy.

Yet in some lands such ignorance abounds, Whole parishes scarce know thy useful sounds. Of Essex-Hundreds Fame gives this report, But Fame, I ween, says many things in sport. Scarce lives the man to whom thou'rt quite unknown,

Though few th' extent of thy vast empire own. Whatever wonders magic spells can do

On earth, in air, in sea, in shades below;
What words profound and dark wise Mahomet
spoke,

When his old cow an angel's figure took;
What strong enchantments sage Canidia knew,
Or Horace sung, fierce monsters to subdue,
O mighty Book, are all contain'd in you!
All human arts, and every science meet,
Within the limits of thy single sheet:

From thy vast root all learning's branches grow,
And all her streams from thy deep fountain flow.
And, lo! while thus thy wonders I indite,
Inspir'd I feel the power of which I write;
The gentler gout his former rage forgets,
Less frequent now, and less severe the fits:
Loose grew the chains which bound my useless
feet;

Stiffness and pain from every joint retreat;
Surprising strength comes every moment on,
I stand, I step, I walk, and now I run.
Here let me cease, my hobbling numbers stop.
And at thy handle 1 hand my crutches un.

THERISTES, OR THE LORDLING,

THE GRANDSON OF A BRICKLAYER, GREATGRANDSON OF A BUTCHER.

THERISTES of amphibious breed,
Motley fruit of mongrel seed:
By the dam from lordlings sprung,
By the sire exhal'd from dung:

1 Votiva Tabula. HOR.

Think on every vice in both,

Look on him, and see their growth.
View him on the mother's side,

Fill'd with falsehood, spleen, and pride,
Positive and overbearing,

Changing still, and still adhering,
Spiteful, peevish, rude, untoward,
Fierce in tongue, in heart a coward;
When his friends he most is hard on,
Cringing comes to beg their pardon;
Reputation ever tearing,

Ever dearest friendship swearing;
Judgment weak, and passion strong;
Always various, always wrong;
Provocation never waits,

Where he loves, or where he hates;
Talks whate'er comes in his head,
Wishes it were all unsaid.

Let me now the vices trace,
From his father's scoundrel race,
Who could give the looby such airs?
Were they masons? Were they butchers?
Herald lend the Muse an answer,

From his atavus and grandsire!
This was dexterous at his trowel,
That was bred to kill a cow well:
Hence the greasy clumsy mien,
In his dress and figure seen:
Hence that mean and sordid soul,
Like his body, rank and foul: