Scarce by North Britons now esteem'd a Scot?[68] Who to the sage devoted from his youth, Imbib'd from him the sacred love of truth; The keen research, the exercise of mind, And that best art, the art to know mankind.-- Nor was his energy confin'd alone To friends around his philosophick throne; Its influence wide improv'd our letter'd isle, And lucid vigour mark'd the general style: As Nile's proud waves, swol'n from their oozy bed, First o'er the neighbouring meads majestick spread; Till gathering force, they more and more expand, And with new virtue fertilise the land. Thus sings the Muse, to Johnson's memory just, And scatters praise and censure o'er his dust; For through each checker'd scene a contrast ran, Too sad a proof, how great, how weak is man! Though o'er his passions conscience held the rein, He shook at dismal phantoms of the brain: A boundless faith that noble mind debas'd, By piercing wit, energick reason grac'd: A generous Briton,[69] yet he seems to hope For James's grandson, and for James's Pope: With courtly zeal fair freedom's sons defames,[70] Yet, like a Hamden, pleads Ierne's claims.[71] Though proudly splenetick, yet idly vain, Accepted flattery, and dealt disdain.-- E'en shades like these, to brilliancy ally'd, May comfort fools, and curb the Sage's pride. Yet Learning's sons, who o'er his foibles mourn, To latest time shall fondly view his urn; And wond'ring praise, to human frailties blind, Talents and virtue of the brightest kind; Revere the man, with various knowledge stor'd, Who science, arts, and life's whole scheme explor'd; Who firmly scorn'd, when in a lowly state, To flatter vice, or court the vain and great;[72] Whose heart still felt a sympathetick glow, Prompt to relieve man's variegated woe; Whose ardent hope, intensely fix'd on high, Saw future bliss with intellectual eye. Still in his breast Religion held her sway, Disclosing visions of celestial day; And gave his soul, amidst this world of strife, The blest reversion of eternal life: By this dispell'd, each doubt and horrour flies, And calm at length in holy peace he dies. The sculptur'd trophy, and imperial bust, That proudly rise around his hallow'd dust, Shall mould'ring fall, by Time's slow hand decay'd, But the bright meed of virtue ne'er shall fade. Exulting Genius stamps his sacred name, Enroll'd for ever in the dome of Fame. THE END. Footnotes: [21] "A Scotchman must be a sturdy moralist, who does not prefer Scotland to truth." Johnson's _Journey to the Western Isles of Scotland_. [22] "The Poems of Dr. Watts were by my recommendation inserted in this collection; the readers of which are to impute to me whatever pleasure or weariness they may find in the perusal of Blackmore, Watts, Pomfret and Yalden." Johnson's _Life of Watts_.