His entrails groan'd with tenfold pain,
He lick'd his lips, and lick'd again;
At last, with lightning in his eyes,

He bounces forth, and fiercely cries,

66

Shepherds, I am not given to scolding, But now my spleen I cannot hold in. By Jove, such scandalous oppression Would put an elephant in passion. You, who your flocks (as you pretend) By wholesome laws from harm defend, Which make it death for any beast, How much soe'er by hunger press'd, To seize a sheep by force or stealth, For sheep have right to life and health; Can you commit, uncheck'd by shame, What in a beast so much you blame? What is a law, if those who make it Become the forwardest to break it? The case is plain: you would reserve All to yourselves, while others starve. Such laws from base self-interest spring, Not from the reason of the thing-"

He was proceeding, when a swain Burst out." And dares a wolf arraign His betters, and condemn their measures, And contradict their wills and pleasures? We have establish'd laws, 'tis true, But laws are made for such as you. Know, sirrah, in its very nature A law can't reach the legislature.

For laws, without a sanction join'd,
As all men know, can never bind:
But sanctions reach not us the makers,
For who dares punish us though breakers?
"Tis therefore plain, beyond denial,
That laws were ne'er design'd to tie all;
But those, whom sanctions reach alone;
We stand accountable to none.

Besides, 'tis evident, that, seeing
Laws from the great derive their being,
They as in duty bound should love
The great, in whom they live and move,
And humbly yield to their desires:
'Tis just what gratitude requires.
What suckling dandled on the lap
Would tear away its mother's pap?
But hold-Why deign I to dispute
With such a scoundrel of a brute?
Logic is lost upon a knave.
Let action prove the law our slave.”
angry nod his will declar'd
To his gruff yeoman of the guard;
The full-fed mongrels, train'd to ravage,
Fly to devour the shaggy savage.

An

The beast had now no time to lose In chopping logic with his foes; "This argument," quoth he, " has force, And swiftness is my sole resource."

He said, and left the swains their prey, And to the mountains scour'd away.

ON THE REPORT OF A MONUMENT

TO BE ERECTED IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY, TO THE MEMORY OF A LATE AUTHOR.

[Part of a letter to a person of quality.

* Lest your Lordship, who are so well acquainted with every thing that relates to true honour, should think hardly of me for attacking the memory of the dead, I beg leave to offer a few words in my own vindication.

If I had composed the following verses, with a view to gratify private resentment, to promote the interest of any faction, or to recommend myself to the patronage of any person whatsoever, I should have been altogether inexcusable. To attack the memory of the dead from selfish considerations, or from mere wantonness of malice, is an enormity which none can hold in greater detestation than I. But I composed them from very different motives; as every intelligent reader, who peruses them with attention, and who is willing to believe me upon my own testimony, will undoubtedly perceive. My motives proceeded from a sincere desire to do some small service to my country, and to the 1 Churchill.

L

cause of truth and virtue. The promoters of faction I ever did, and ever will consider as the enemies of mankind; to the memory of such I owe no veneration; to the writings of such I owe no indulgence.

Your Lordship knows that

owed the

greatest share of his renown to the most incompetent of all judges, the mob; actuated by the most unworthy of all principles, a spirit of insolence; and inflamed by the vilest of all human passions, hatred to their fellow citizens. Those who joined the cry in his favour seemed to me to be swayed rather by fashion than by real sentiment. He therefore might have lived and died unmolested by me; confident as I am, that posterity, when the present unhappy dissensions are forgotten, will do ample justice to his real character.

But when I saw the extravagant honours that were paid to his memory, and heard that a monument in Westminster Abbey was intended for one, whom even his admirers acknowledge to have been an incendiary and a debauchee, I could not help wishing that my countrymen would reflect a little on what they were doing, before they consecrated, by what posterity would think the public voice, a character which no friend to virtue or to true taste can approve. It was this sentiment, enforced by the earnest request of a friend, which produced the following little poem; in which I have said nothing of 's manners

that is not warranted by the best authority; nor of his writings, that is not perfectly agreeable to the opinion of many of the most competent judges in Britain. January 1765.]

*

*

BUFO, begone! with Thee may Faction's fire,
That hatch'd thy salamander-fame, expire.
Fame, dirty idol of the brainless crowd,

What half-made moon-calf can mistake for good!
Since shar'd by knaves of high and low degree;
Cromwell, and Catiline; Guido Faux, and Thee.
By nature uninspir'd, untaught by art;

With not one thought that breathes the feeling heart,

With not one offering vow'd to Virtue's shrine,
With not one pure unprostituted line;

Alike debauch'd in body, soul, and lays ;-
For pension'd censure, and for pension'd praise,
For ribaldry, for libels, lewdness, lies,

For blasphemy of all the Good and Wise;
Coarse virulence in coarser doggerel writ, [wit;
Which bawling blackguards spell'd, and took for
For conscience, honour, slighted, spurn'd, o'er-
thrown ;-

Lo, Bufo shines the minion of renown!

Is this the land that boasts a Milton's fire, And magic Spenser's wildly-warbling lyre? The land that owns th' omnipotence of song, When Shakespeare whirls the throbbing heart along?