FRIENDSHIP.

DEAR to the heart in sorrow's hour,
'Midst pride's neglect and fortune's lower,
When cares and woe the bosom rend,
Dear is the soothing, faithful friend.
Not those whose proffers teem with guile,
Or wait the world's approving smile;
Not those whose specious arts intend
To blast the sacred name of friend,
But those who own a kindred mind,
Just, liberal, candid, true, and kind,
Who prudence, feeling, interest blend,
And prove in word and deed a friend.
Such may be worn within the heart,
Share in our joys, bid grief depart,
On such undoubting, safe depend,
Acknowledge, love, and claim as friend.

MR. EDITOR,

I send you the following poetical effusion of the last century for your use, under the idea that it will prove a valuable acquisition to the cluster of attractions in your publication. It was copied from an ancient manuscript, somewhat multilated by the hand of time, and unaccompanied by the name of the author, or the date of its composition. It does not appear to have ever been given to the world in a printed form, being probably too keen and caustic for the temper of the times in which it was written. Its personality and asperity will now have disappeared, without impairing or blunting the pungency of the satire conveyed in it. The point couched in the expressions is the peculiar merit of the poem, and is far beyond the talents of men of ordinary mould; and this

energy is well borne out by the strength and harmony of the verse. To political characters, and to men of education interested in the history of those days, it must possess unusual charms, as it may be considered the voice of a large part of the then population, and indicates the sentiments of one who, if less than a nobleman, was yet at least ennobled in the endowments of mind. The original manuscript was in the possession of an ancient and illustrious family, only reduced from their pristine splendour by the increased number of the descendants, and the consequent distribution of the property.

I have preserved the various ellipsis in the state in which they present themselves in the original; and have only made some slight alterations in the orthography. L. H. W.

THE STATE DUNCES.

Inscribed to Mr. Pope.

1 from my soul sincerely hate
Both and Mrs of State.

SWIFT.

WHILE cringing crowds at faithless levees wait,
Fond to be fools of fame, or slaves of state;
And others, studious to increase their store,
Plough the rough ocean for Peruvian ore;
How blest thy fate whom calmer hours attend,
Peace thy companion, fame thy faithful friend.
While in thy Twick'nham bowers, devoid of care,
You feast the fancy, and enchant the fair;
Thames gently rolls her* silver tide along,
And the charm'd Naiads listen to thy song.
Here peaceful pass the gentle hours away,
While tuneful science measures out the day;
Here, happy bard, as various fancies lead,
You paint the blooming maid or flow'ry mead,
Sound the rough clamour of tumultuous war,
Or sing the ravish'd tendrils † of the fair;

So in the manuscript, but I should presume it to have been an error, in the copying, for his.

This is the language of the manuscript, which I should otherwise have supposed to have usurped the place of Tresses. The illusion is doubtless to the Rape of the Lock.

Eur. Mag, June, 1823.

P

Now melting move the tender tear to flow,
And wake our sighs with Eloisa's woe.
But chief to dullness ever foe decreed,
The apes of science with thy satire bleed:
P-rs, poets, panders, mingle in thy throng,
Smart with thy touch, and tremble at thy song.

Yet vain, O Pope, is all thy sharpest rage,
Still starv'ling Dunces persecute the age;
Faithful to folly, or enrag'd with spite,
Still tasteless Timons build, and Tibbalds write:
Still Welstead tunes his beer-inspired lays,

And Ralph in metre howls forth Stanhope's praise,—
Ah! hapless victim to the poet's flame,
While his eulogiums crucify thy fame.

Shall embryo wits thy studious hours engage,
Live in thy labours, and profane thy page,
While virtue, ever lov'd, demands thy lays,
And claims the tuneful tribute of thy praise?
Can Pope be silent, and not grateful fend
One strain to sing the patriot and the friend,
Who, nobly anxious in his country's cause,
Maintains her honours, and defends her laws?
Could I, my bard, but equal numbers raise,
Then would I sing,-for Oh, I burst to praise.
Sing how a Pulteney charms the list'ning throng,
While senates hang enraptur'd on his tongue;
With Tully's fire how each oration glows,
In Tully's music how each period flows;
Instruct each babe to lisp the patriot's name,
Who in each bosom breathes a Roman flame.

So when the genius of the Roman age
Stem'd the strong torrent of tyrannic rage,
In freedom's cause each glowing breast he warm'd,
And, like a Pulteney, then a Brutus charm'd.
How blest while we a British Brutus see,

*

And all the Roman stands confest in thee!
Equal thy worth, but equal were thy doom
To save Britannia as he rescu'd Rome:
He from a Tarquin snatch'd the destin'd prey,
Britannia still faments a W―'s † sway.

Arise, my tuneful bard, nor thus in vain
Let thy Britannia, whom thou lov'st, complain.
If thou in mournful lays relate her woe,

Each heart shall bleed, each eye with pity flow.
If to revenge you swell the sounding strain,
Revenge and fury fire each British swain.
Obsequious to thy verse each breast shall move,
Or burn with rage, or soften into love.
O let Britannia be her poet's care,
And lash the spoiler while you save the fair.
Lo! where he stands amidst the servile crew,
Nor blushes stain his cheek with crimson hue,

This is an expression used in the optative sense. As though he should say, "O, that thy fate were but equal," to effect the desired object.

This savours of the prevailing spirit of dislike to the measures of the

then minister, Sir Robert Walpole.

While due corruption all around he spreads,
And every ductile conscience captive leads.
Brib'd by his boons, behold the venal band
Worship the idol they could once command.
So Britain's now, as Judah's sons before,
First raise a golden calf, and then adore.

Let dull Parnassian sons of rhyme no more
Provoke thy satire and employ thy power:
New objects rise to share an equal fate,
The big, rich, mighty Dunces of the State.
Shall Ralph, Cooke, Welstead, then engross thy rage,
While Courts afford a H, Y--, or G-
Dullness no more roosts only near the sky,†
But Senates, Drawing-rooms, with Garrets vie;
Plump P-rs and breadless bards alike are dull,
St. James's and Rag-fair club fool for fool.‡

Amidst the mighty Dull behold how great
An Appius swells the Tibbald of the state;
Long had he strove to spread his lawless sway
O'er Britain's sons, and force them to obey,
But, blasted all his blooming hopes, he flies
To vent his woe, and mourn his lost Ex-se.

Pensive he sat and sigh'd, while round him lay
Loads of dull lumber, all inspired by pay.
Here puny pamphlets spun from Prelate's brains,
There the smooth jingle of Cook's lighter strains:
Here Walsingham's soft lulling opiates spread,
There gloomy Osborn's quintessence of lead.
With these the Statesman strove to ease his care,
To sooth his sorrows and divert despair,
But long his grief sleep's gentle aid denies;
At length the slumb'rous Briton closed his eyes.
Yet vain the healing balm of downy rest,
To chase his woe or ease his labouring breast;
Now frightful forms rise hideous to his view,
More, Stafford, Laud and all his headless crew:
Daggers and halters boding terror breeds,
And here a Dudley swings, there Villars § bleeds.

Now Goddess Dullness, watchful o'er his fate,
And ever anxious for her child of state,
From couch of down slow rais'd her drowsy head,
Forsook her slumbers, and to Appius sped.

"Awake, my son, awake," the Goddess cries,
"Nor longer mourn thy darling lost Ex-se."
(Here the sad sound unseal'd the statesman's eyes.)
Why slumbers thus my son, opprest with care,

While Dullness rules, say, shall her sons despair?
O'er all I spread my universal sway,

K-gs, Pr-tes, P-rs, and Rulers, all obey.

* A Harvey, Younge, or Gage.

† A metaphorical allusion to the tenants of the Grub-street garrets, then occupied entirely by hireling writers.

Share the office of supplying fools; one finds one fool, and the other another.

§ This must mean Villiers, the unfortunate Duke of Buckingham.

Lo in the church my mighty power I shew,
In pulpit preach, and slumber in the pew:
The bench-the bar, alike my influence owns,
Here prate my magpies, and there doze my drones.
In the grave Dons how formal is my mien,
Who rule the gallipots of Warwick-lane.
At Court behold me strut in purple pride,
At Hockley roar, and in Crane-court preside.
But chief in thee my mighty pow'r is seen,
"Tis I inspire thy mind, and fill thy mien;
On thee my child my
duller blessings shed,
And pour my opium o'er thy favourite head:
Rais'd thee a ruler of Britannia's fate,

And led thee blund'ring to the helm of state."

Here bow'd the statesman low, and thus address'd:"O Goddess, sole inspirer of my breast,

To gall the British neck with gallic chain

Long have I strove, but long have strove in vain;
While Caleb, rebel to thy sacred power,

Unveils those eyes which thou hadst curtain'd o'er;
Makes Britain's sons my dark designs foresee,
Blast all my schemes, and struggle to be free.
O had my projects met a milder fate,
How had reigned a Bashaw of the state:
How o'er Britannia spread m' imperial sway,
How taught each free-born Briton to obey.
No smiling freedom then had cheer'd her swains,
But Asia's desarts vi'd with Albion's plains:

Turks, Vandals,-Britain, then compared with thee,
Had hugged their chains, and joy'd that they were free;
While wand'ring nations all around had seen

Me rise a Great Mogul, or Mazarin.

Then had I taught Britannia to adore,
Then led her captive to my lawless power.
Methinks I view her now no more appear
First in the train, and fairest midst the fair;
Joyless I see the lovely mourner lie,

Nor glow her cheek, nor sparkle now her eye;
Faded each grace, no smiling feature warm,
Torn all her tresses, blighted every charm;
Nor teeming plenty now each valley crowns,
Slaves are her sons, and tradeless all her towns;
For this, behold yon peaceful army fed,
For this on senates see my bounty shed;
For this what wonders, Goddess, have I wrought,
How bully'd, begg'd, how treated, and how fought;
What wand'ring maze of error blunder'd through,
And how repair'd old blunders still by new.
Hence the long train of never-ending jars,
Of warlike peaces, and of peaceful wars,
Each mystic treaty of the mighty store,
Which to explain demands ten treaties more ;-
Hence scare-crow navies, floating raree-shows,
And hence Iberia's pride, and Britain's woes.
These wond'rous works, O Goddess, have I done,
Works ever worthy Dullness' fav'rite son.
Lo! on thy sons alone my favours shower,
None share my bounty that disdain thy power.
Yon feathers, ribbons, titles light as air,
Behold thy choicest children only share;
Each views the pageant with admiring eyes,
And fondly grasps the visionary prize;