To the Duke of Buckingham, on his Essay on Poetry. Several small pieces in the Free Thinker. Epistles, Odes, &c. written on several Subjects; with a Disseration concerning the Perfection of the English Language. Mr. Welsted has translated Longinus's Treatise on the Sublime. * * * * * JAMES MORE SMYTH, Esq; This gentleman was son of Arthur More, esq; one of the lords commissioners of trade, in the reign of Queen Anne; his mother was the daughter of Mr. Smyth, a man of considerable fortune, who left this his grandson a handsome estate, on which account he obtained an Act of Parliament to change his name to Smyth. Our author received his education at Oxford, and while he remained at the university he wrote a comedy called The Rival Modes, his only dramatic performance. This play was condemned in the representation, but he printed it in 1727, with the following motto, which the author of the Notes to the Dunciad, by way of irony, calls modest. Hic coestus, artemque repono. Upon the death of our author's grandfather, he enjoyed the place of paymaster to the band of gentlemen-pensioners, in conjunction with his younger brother, Arthur More; of this place his mother procured the reversion from his late Majesty during his father's lifetime. Being a man of a gay disposition, he insinuated himself into the favour of his grace the duke of Wharton, and being, like him, destitute of prudence, he joined with that volatile great man in writing a paper called the Inquisitor, which breathed so much the spirit of Jacobitism, that the publisher thought proper to sacrifice his profit to his safety, and discontinue it. By using too much freedom with the character of Pope, he provoked that gentleman, who with great spirit stigmatized him in his Dunciad. In his second book Mr. Pope places before the eyes of the dunces the phantom of a poet. He seems willing to give some account of the possibility of dulness making a wit, which can be done no otherwise than by chance. The lines which have relation to Mr. More are so elegantly satyric, that it probably will not displease our readers to find them inserted here. A poet's form she plac'd before their eyes, And bad the nimblest racer seize the prize; No meagre muse-rid mope, adult and thin, In a dun night gown of his own loose skin, But such a bulk as no twelve bards could raise, Twelve starv'ling bards of these degenerate days. All as a partridge plump, full-fed, and fair, She form'd this image of well-bodied air, With pert, slat eyes, she window'd well its head, A brain of feathers, and a heart of lead, And empty words she gave, and sounding strain, But senseless, lifeless! idol void and vain! Never was dash'd out at one lucky hit, A fool so just a copy of a wit; So like, that critics said, and courtiers swore, A wit it was, and call'd the phantom More.