The politics of the times gave birth to two other poems of uncommon merit, both in the burlesque style, but one in that of “Hudibras,” the other in the graver march of “The Dispensary.” The first called “Rodondo,” of which only two cantos appeared, though a third was promised, was written by a Mr. Dalrymple, a Scot, and contained a severe satire on Mr. Pitt, not much inferior in wit to Butler, and like his work, liable by temporary allusions to lose many beauties in the eyes of posterity.[82] The second called “Patriotism; a Mock Heroic,” by Mr. Richard Bentley, though full of negligences and crowded with intricate and sometimes too far-fetched metaphors,--nay, in some places pushed to nonsense by the confusion of those metaphors, in sense and imagination excelled Churchill; and though less sonorous, did not breathe a spirit less poetic. The flattery was profuse and indelicate; the satire rarely unjust. The imitations of Milton, Dryden, and Garth, though frequent, were always happy; and the whole poem, though much more incorrect than “The Dispensary” or “The Dunciad,” has beauties that rank it next to them in merit: in the dignity of its heroes it precedes both. One of its greatest faults seems to be, that though all the personages appear under allegoric names, all were meant for living characters, till the last canto, when Fate is introduced in its own essence, and though maintained with as sublime dignity as the nature of burlesque would allow, still produces a confusion by not being of a piece with the rest of the work. It has the same misfortune with Rodondo of being written on transient ridicules.[83] Two other poets of great merit arose, who meddled not with politics; Dr. Goldsmith, the correct Author of “The Traveller;” and Mr. Anstey, who produced as original a poem as “Hudibras” itself, “The New Bath Guide.” The easiest wit, the most genuine humour, the most inoffensive satire, the happiest parodies, the most unaffected poetry, and the most harmonious melody in every kind of metre, distinguished that poem by their assemblage from the works of all other men. It was a melancholy proof of how little an author can judge of the merit of his own compositions, when he afterwards produced “The Patriot,” in which nobody could discover his meaning, or whether he had any meaning; and in which, amidst various but unsuccessful attempts at humour, nothing remained but his sonorous numbers. He afterwards sunk to no kind of merit at all.[84]