"Who's this with nonsense, nonsense would restrain? "Who's this (they cry) so vainly schools the vain ? "Who damns our trash, with so much trash replete ? "As, three ells round, huge Cheyne rails at meat?" Shall I with Bavius then my voice exalt, And challenge all mankind to find one fault? With huge Examens overwhelm my page, And darken reason with dogmatic rage? As if, one tedious volume writ in rhyme, In prose a duller could excuse the crime : Sure, next to writing, the most idle thing Is gravely to harrangue on what we sing.

At that tribunal stands the writing tribe,
Which nothing can intimidate or bribe:
Time is the judge; Time has nor friend nor foe;
False fame must wither, and the true will grow.
Arm'd with this truth, all critics I defy;
For if I fall, by my own pen I die ;

While snarlers strive with proud but fruitless pain,
To wound immortals, or to slay the slain.

Sore prest with danger, and in awful dread
Of twenty pamphlets levell'd at my head,
Thus have I forg'd a buckler in my brain,
Of recent form, to serve me this campaign :
And safely hope to quit the dreadful field
Delug'd with ink, and sleep behind my shield;
Unless dire Codrus rouses to the fray
In all his might, and damns me-for a day.

As turns a flock of geese, and, on the green, Poke out their foolish necks in awkward spleen, (Ridiculous in rage!) to hiss, not bite,

So war their quills, when sons of dulness write.

A

PARAPHRASE

ON PART OF THE

BOOK OF JOB.

Α

PARAPHRASE

ON PART OF THE

BOOK OF
OF JOB.“

THRICE happy JоB+ long liv'd in Regal State,
Nor saw the sumptuous East a prince so great;
Whose worldly stores in such abundance flow'd,
Whose heart with such exalted virtue glow'd.
At length misfortunes take their turn to reign,
And ills on ills succeed; a dreadful train!
What now but deaths, and poverty, and wrong,
The sword wide-wasting, the reproachful tongue,
And spotted plagues, that mark'd his limbs all o'er.
So thick with pains, they wanted room for more?
A change so sad what mortal heart could bear?
Exhausted woe had left him nought to fear;
But gave him all to grief. Low earth he prest,
Wept in the dust, and sorely smote his breast.

It is disputed amongst the critics who was the author of the book of Job; some give it to Moses, some to others. As I was engaged in this little performance, some arguments occurred to me which favor the former of those opinions; which arguments I have flung into the following notes, where little else is to be expected.

†The Almighty's speech, chapter xxxviii. &c. which is what I paraphrase in this little work, is by much the finest part of the noblest and most ancient poem in the world. Bishop Patrick says, its grandeur is as much above all other poetry, as thunder is louder than a whisper. In or der to set this distinguished part of the poem in a fuller light, and give the reader a clearer conception of it, I have abridged the preceding and sub

His friends around the deep affliction mourn'd,
Felt all his pangs and groan for groan return'd;
In anguish of their hearts their mantles rent,
And sev'n long days in solemn silence spent ;
A debt of rev'rence to distress so great!

Then Joв contain❜d no more; but curs'd his fate.
His day of birth, its inauspicious light
He wishes sunk in shades of endless night,
And blotted from the year; nor fears to crave
Death, instant death; impatient for the grave,
That seat of bliss, that mansion of repose,
Where rest and mortals are no longer foes;
Where counsellors are hush'd and mighty kings
(O happy turn!) no more are wretched things.

His words were daring, and displeas'd his friends;
His conduct they reprove, and he defends;
And now they kindled into warm debate,
And sentiments oppos'd with equal heat;
Fix'd in opinion, both refuse to yield,

And summon all their reason to the field:
So high at length their arguments were wrought,
They reach'd the last extent of human thought:
A pause ensu'd.-When, lo! Heav'n interpos'd,
And awfully the long contention clos'd.
Full o'er their heads, with terrible suprise,
A sudden whirlwind blackened all the skies:

sequent parts of the poem, and joined them to it; so that this piece is a sort of an epitome of the whole book of Jub.

I use the word paraphrase, because I want another which might better answer to the uncommon liberties I have taken. I have omitted, added, and transposed. The mountain, the comet, the sun, and other parts, are entirely added: those upon the peacock, the lion, &c. are much enlarg ed; and I have thrown the whole into a method more suited to our notions of regularity. The judicious, if they compare this piece with the original, will, I flatter myself, find the reasons for the great liberties I have indulged myself in through the whole.

Longinus has a chapter on interrogations, which shews that they contribute much to the sublime. This speech of the Almighty is made up of them. Interrogation seems indeed the proper style of majesty incensed. It differs from our manner of reprooff, as bidding a person execute himself, does from a common execution; for he that asks the guilty a proper question, makes him, in effect, pass sentence on himself.