AN EPITAPH on A CERTAIN POET. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth One nor to Fortune nor to Fame unknown; Fair Science frown’d not on his humble Birth, And smooth-tongued Flattery mark’d him for her own. Large was his wish――in this he was sincere, Fate did a recompence as largely send, Gave the poor C――――r four hundred pounds a year And made a dirty minister his friend. No further seek his deeds to bring to light For, ah! he offer’d at Corruption’s shrine; And basely strove to wash an Æthiop white, While Truth and Honour bled in every line! ――――:o:―――― AN ELEGY, Written in Covent-Garden. (_Printed before_ 1777.) St. Paul’s proclaims the solemn midnight hour, The wary Cit slow turns the master-key; Time-stinted ’prentices up Ludgate scour, And leave the streets to darkness and to me. Now glimmering lamps afford a doubtful ray, And scarce a sound disturbs the Night’s dull ear; Save where some rumbling Hack directs its way, Or frequent tinklings rouse the tavern-bar: Save that, at yonder iron-grated tower,[3] The watchmen to the constable complain Of such as, in defiance to his power, Molest their ancient, solitary reign. Beneath those butchers stalls, that pent-house shade, Where rankling offals fret in many a heap, Each in his nasty stye of garbage laid, The dextrous sons of Buckhorse stink and sleep. The chearful call of “Chair! your honour――chair!” Rakes drunk and roaring from the Bedford-head, The oaths of coachmen squabbling for a fare, No more can rouse them from their filthy bed. For them the blazing links no longer burn, Or busy bunters ply their evening care; No Setters watch the muddled Cit’s return, In hopes some pittance of the prey to share. Oft to their subtlety the fob did yield, Their cunning oft the pocket-string hath broke: How in dark alleys bludgeons did they wield! How bow’d the wretch beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their humble toil, Their vulgar crimes and villainy obscure; Nor rich rogues hear with a disdainful smile The low and petty knaveries of the poor. The titled villain, and the thief in power, The greatest rogue that ever bore a name, Await alike th’ inevitable hour: The paths of wickedness but lead to shame. Nor you, ye proud! impute to these the fault, If Justice round their necks the halter fix; If, from the gallows to their kindred vault, They ride not pompous in a hearse and six. Gives not the lordly axe as sure a fate? Are Peers exempt from mouldering into dust? Can all the gilded ’scutcheons of the Great Stamp on polluted deeds the name of Just?