What! raise the dead? I hear the world exclaim, With less of miracle, ’tis much the same. In olden times the monks by potent spell Could summon spectres from their narrow cell,-- Could send them howling back unto their graves Or sink for ever in Egyptian waves. So now the spiritual courts restore A shade at least of him who breathes no more-- Unlike perhaps in stature, form, and mind, But well for earthly purposes design’d-- A sort of proxy, who in matter civil Must back his principal thro’ good or evil.-- Taste not the honey, tho’ he deem it sweet, Nor ’scape the thorns, altho’ they tear his feet. In wrong or right the court’s rapacious crew Will have their fees, and ready payment too,-- But then all others from the spoil they scare, Like hungry wolves, that no partition bear. The poor trustee a thankless office boasts, Nought can he gain, except a bill of costs. Away from Doctors Commons bear the sprite, And let him thence in Lincolns Inn alight. There will he serve, like Hercules, to drag The suit--a Cacus--from some dusty bag, And rouse fierce Rapine from his lurking den To feed once more upon the sons of men. When time has number’d thus five years or more The cause just stands where it was plac’d before-- Like flickering star, that seems in fancy’s eye To rove, a planet, thro’ the midnight sky;-- But view’d more narrowly or with a glass, We find its station ever, where it was.