F. You're strangely proud.

P. So proud, I am no slave;

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So impudent, I own myself no knave;

So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave.
Yes, I am proud; I must be proud to see
Men not afraid of God, afraid of me;

Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne,
Yet touch'd and sham'd by ridicule alone.

210

O sacred weapon! left for truth's defence,
Some dread of folly, vice, and insolence!
To all but heav'n directed hands deny'd,

216

The Muse may give thee, but the gods must guide :
Rev'rent I touch thee! but with honest zeal,
To rouse the watchmen of the public weal,
To Virtue's work provoke the tardy hall,
And goad the prelate slumb'ring in his stall.
Ye tinsel insects! whom a court maintains,
That counts your beauties only by your stains,
Spin all your cobwebs o'er the eye of day,
The Muse's wing shall brush you all away:

220

All his grace preaches, all his lordship sings,

224

All that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings; All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press, Like the last Gazette or the last Address.

When black Ambition stains a public cause, A monarch's sword when mad vain glory draws,

Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar, 230 Not Boileau turn the feather to a star.

Not so when diadem'd with rays divine,

Touch'd with the flame that breaks from Virtue's

shrine,

Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die,

And opes the temple of Eternity.

There other trophies deck the truly brave
Than such as Anstis casts into the grave;
Far other stars then **** and ****** wear,
And may descend to Mordington from Stair!
(Such as on Hough's unsully'd mitre shine,

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Or beam, good Digby! from a heart like thine.) Let envy howl, while heav'n's whole chorus sings, And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings;

Let Flatt'ry sick’ning see the incense rise,

Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies : 245
Truth guards the poet, sanctifies the line,
And makes immortal verse as mean as mine.
Yes, the last pen for freedom let me draw,
When truth stands trembling on the edge of law.
Here, last of Britons! let your names be read: 250
Are none, none living? let me praise the dead;
And for that cause which made your fathers shine,
Fall by the votes of their degen'rate line.

F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began,
And write next winter more Essays on Man.

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SH