'Tis not thy face, though that by Nature's made An index to thy soul; though there display'd We see thy mind at large, and through thy skin Peeps out that courtesy which dwells within; 'Tis not thy birth, for that is low as mine, Around our heads no lineal glories shine-- But what is birth,--when, to delight mankind, Heralds can make those arms they cannot find, When thou art to thyself, thy sire unknown, A whole Welsh genealogy alone? 60 No; 'tis thy inward man, thy proper worth, Thy right just estimation here on earth, Thy life and doctrine uniformly join'd, And flowing from that wholesome source, thy mind; Thy known contempt of Persecution's rod, Thy charity for man, thy love of God, Thy faith in Christ, so well approved 'mongst men, Which now give life and utterance to my pen. Thy virtue, not thy rank, demands my lays; 'Tis not the Bishop, but the Saint, I praise: 70 Raised by that theme, I soar on wings more strong, And burst forth into praise withheld too long. Much did I wish, e'en whilst I kept those sheep Which, for my curse, I was ordain'd to keep,-- Ordain'd, alas! to keep, through need, not choice, Those sheep which never heard their shepherd's voice, Which did not know, yet would not learn their way, Which stray'd themselves, yet grieved that I should stray; Those sheep which my good father (on his bier Let filial duty drop the pious tear) 80 Kept well, yet starved himself, e'en at that time Whilst I was pure and innocent of rhyme, Whilst, sacred Dulness ever in my view, Sleep at my bidding crept from pew to pew,-- Much did I wish, though little could I hope, A friend in him who was the friend of Pope. His hand, said I, my youthful steps shall guide, And lead me safe where thousands fall beside; His temper, his experience, shall control, And hush to peace the tempest of my soul; 90 His judgment teach me, from the critic school, How not to err, and how to err by rule; Instruct me, mingle profit with delight, Where Pope was wrong, where Shakspeare was not right; Where they are justly praised, and where, through whim, How little's due to them, how much to him. Raised 'bove the slavery of common rules, Of common-sense, of modern, ancient schools, Those feelings banish'd which mislead us all, Fools as we are, and which we Nature call, 100 He by his great example might impart A better something, and baptize it Art; He, all the feelings of my youth forgot, Might show me what is taste by what is not; By him supported, with a proper pride, I might hold all mankind as fools beside; He (should a world, perverse and peevish grown, Explode his maxims and assert their own) Might teach me, like himself, to be content, And let their folly be their punishment; 110 Might, like himself, teach his adopted son, 'Gainst all the world, to quote a Warburton.