And laugh with Webster at your first defeat-- Thus may you hope from Copley’s hand to wrench The seals, and mount the woolsack, or the bench. Whate’er befall, the muse thy worth allows, And turns with laurel to adorn thy brows. Rich hues of green pervade throughout the wreathe, But scarce can hide some wither’d leaves beneath. E’en so thy merit with its better part May serve to cloak the frailties of thine heart. Another name? ’tis thine impetuous Horne[35] With fiery temper, and with looks of scorn. But little read, or else of feeble brain, That can but little at a time contain. Prolix of speech, but coarse and unrefin’d,-- Thou hast no symptom of the cultur’d mind. Thy words, like waters roaring down a rock, Astonish all, whose nerves can bear the shock; Both rise in mists, and end at last in foam, Thus savage nature feels with thee at home! Far, far from me be eloquence so grand; I like to hear, and hearing understand, Not race thy tongue thro’ all it’s barren track, But stop my ears, for fear the drum should crack. Come, gentle Shadwell,[36] in thy modest mein Good sense, good humour are united seen,-- Good sense well temper’d by reflection sage, That crowns the promise of thine early age;-- Good humour, fraught with many a harmless joke, Which studied insult only can provoke. Nought can the muse for censure find in thee,-- Tho’ less than perfect, from great errors free. Be this thy meed for future times to scan, A trusty counsel, and an honest man!-- But who now creeps along with pallid cheek And hollow eyes that disappointment speak?-- ’Tis he, Fonblanque,[37] whose dawning years foretold Of talent cast in Nature’s choicest mould,-- A germ, that ripen’d into fruit with care Rich product worthy of its seed might bear. Alas! chill Penury with sharpen’d dart Drank up the vital current of his heart; Repress’d his Genius in its vernal growth, And left him struggling with the gripe of sloth. The fees, that now his air built hopes repay, Scarce from his door starvation keep away. O lucky Park,[38] in pompous visage drest, How did thy merit earn that ermine vest? If for the book, that falsely bears thy name, Did not Fonblanque at least deserve the same? Go, fine a county for its creaking gate, Hang fifty culprits, lest thy dinner wait! Make mouths at sheriffs, and the bar commit, Or when abused, with Christian patience sit. Heavens! must desert for blighted prospects pine, And honour light on ignorance like thine?-- Must folly to the bench exalted be? And Wisdom buried in obscurity? No more; let Park his childish course pursue, And poor Fonblanque the cud of anguish chew. Be mine the choice, if fortune so would rule, The starving scholar,--not the titled fool!