There needs no magic to divine your scope, Mark'd, as you are, a flagrant misanthrope: Sworn foe to good and bad, to great and small, Thy rankling pen produces nought but gall: Let virtue struggle, or let glory shine, Thy verse affords not one approving line. 100 POET. Hail, sacred themes! the Muse's chief delight! Oh, bring the darling objects to my sight! My breast with elevated thought shall glow, My fancy brighten, and my numbers flow! The Aonian grove with rapture would I tread, To crop unfading wreaths for William's head, But that my strain, unheard amidst the throng, Must yield to Lockman's ode, and Hambury's song. Nor would the enamour'd Muse neglect to pay To Stanhope's[3] worth the tributary lay, 110 The soul unstain'd, the sense sublime to paint, A people's patron, pride, and ornament, Did not his virtues eternised remain The boasted theme of Pope's immortal strain. Not e'en the pleasing task is left to raise A grateful monument to Barnard's praise, Else should the venerable patriot stand The unshaken pillar of a sinking land. The gladdening prospect let me still pursue, And bring fair Virtue's triumph to the view; 120 Alike to me, by fortune blest or not, From soaring Cobham to the melting Scot.[4] But, lo! a swarm of harpies intervene, To ravage, mangle, and pollute the scene! Gorged with our plunder, yet still gaunt for spoil, Rapacious Gideon fastens on our isle; Insatiate Lascelles, and the fiend Vaneck, Rise on our ruins, and enjoy the wreck; While griping Jasper glories in his prize, Wrung from the widow's tears and orphan's cries. 130 FRIEND. Relapsed again! strange tendency to rail! I fear'd this meekness would not long prevail. POET.