True to his king, and to his country true; Honest at court, above the baits of gain, Plain in his dress, and in his manners plain; Moderate in wealth, generous, but not profuse, Well worthy riches, for he knew their use; 240 Possessing much, and yet deserving more, Deserving those high honours which he wore With ease to all, and in return gain'd fame Which all men paid, because he did not claim. When the grim war was placed in dread array, Fierce as the lion roaring for his prey, Or lioness of royal whelps foredone; In peace, as mild as the departing sun, A general blessing wheresoe'er he turn'd, Patron of learning, nor himself unlearn'd; 250 Ever awake at Pity's tender call, A father of the poor, a friend to all; Recall such times, and from the grave bring back A worth like this, my heart shall bend, or crack, My stubborn pride give way, my tongue proclaim, And every Muse conspire to swell his fame, Till Envy shall to him that praise allow Which she cannot deny to Temple now. This justice claims, nor shall the bard forget, Delighted with the task, to pay that debt, 260 To pay it like a man, and in his lays, Sounding such worth, prove his own right to praise. But let not pride and prejudice misdeem, And think that empty titles are my theme; Titles, with me, are vain, and nothing worth; I reverence virtue, but I laugh at birth. Give me a lord that's honest, frank, and brave, I am his friend, but cannot be his slave; Though none, indeed, but blockheads would pretend To make a slave, where they may make a friend; 270 I love his virtues, and will make them known, Confess his rank, but can't forget my own. Give me a lord, who, to a title born, Boasts nothing else, I'll pay him scorn with scorn. What! shall my pride (and pride is virtue here) Tamely make way if such a wretch appear? Shall I uncover'd stand, and bend my knee To such a shadow of nobility, A shred, a remnant? he might rot unknown For any real merit of his own, 280 And never had come forth to public note Had he not worn, by chance, his father's coat. To think a M----[317] worth my least regards, Is treason to the majesty of bards. By Nature form'd (when, for her honour's sake, She something more than common strove to make, When, overlooking each minute defect, And all too eager to be quite correct, In her full heat and vigour she impress'd Her stamp most strongly on the favour'd breast) 290 The bard, (nor think too lightly that I mean Those little, piddling witlings, who o'erween Of their small parts, the Murphys of the stage, The Masons and the Whiteheads of the age, Who all in raptures their own works rehearse, And drawl out measured prose, which they call verse) The real bard, whom native genius fires, Whom every maid of Castaly inspires, Let him consider wherefore he was meant,