There, as they sneer in consultation deep,
The foolish vulgar deem him fast asleep.
* * senatorial pride,

If silent *

*

Rose into being as his av'rice died,

Scatt'ring his hundreds, rattling in his coach,

What mortal wonders at the fair *

Though royal Horners burn in powder'd flames,
When fell the pretty nymph of many names?
Still we behold her fiery virtue stand,

As firm as

*

⚫ regulating band. ⚫ within whose sacerdotal face, Add all the honorary signs of grace; Great in his accent, greater in his size, But mightier still in turtle and mince-pies : Whose entertaining flows of eloquence,

In spite of affectation, will be sense.

What pension'd lethargy has seiz'd thy quill?
Hast thou forgot the murmurs of applause
Which buzz'd about the leader of the cause;

When drest in metaphors the fluent

Rose from his chair, and slumb'ring drawl'd his speech? • fir'd with loyalty and place,

When

Take off the load of infamy and shame
Which lies on Bristol's despicable name;
Revive thy ardour for thy country's cause,
And live again in honour and applause.
Alas! the patriot listens to his whore,
And popularity is heard no more;
The dying voice of liberty's forgot,

No more he drinks damnation to the Scot.

* * * * no longer in his quarrel fights; No further dulness witty * * * * writes : In organs and an organist renown'd,

He rises into notice by a sound,

Commemorates his spirit in a tone,

By

created, rival of a groan:

* invents and tuneful *

plays;

O be his taste immortal as the lays !
For
And this harmonious gangling of the spheres
To give the whole connexion Bristol hears.

Hail, Kew! thy more important powers I sing, Powers which direct the conscience of a king;

The English number daringly would soar

To thy first power

Come, Newton,* and assist me to explain
The hidden meanings of the present reign.

Newton, accept the tribute of a line,

From one whose humble genius honours thine;

* Bishop of Bristol.

Mysterious shall the mazy numbers seem,
To give thee matter for a future dream,
Thy happy talent meanings to untie
My vacancy of meaning may supply;
And where the muse is witty in a dash,
Thy explanations may enforce the lash.
How shall the line, grown servile in respect,

То

* and

Unless a wise

infamy direct,

* intervene,

How shall I satirize the sleepy dean?

Perhaps the muse might fortunately strike

A highly finish'd picture, very like;

But deans are all so lazy, dull, and fat,
None could be certain worthy Barton sat.

Come then, my Newton, leave the musty lines
Where revelation's farthing candle shines;

In search of hidden truths let others go-
Be thou the fiddler to my puppet-show.
What are these hidden truths but secret lies,
Which from diseased imaginations rise?

What if our politicians should succeed

In fixing up the ministerial creed,

Who could such golden arguments refuse,

Which melts and proselytes the harden'd Jews?

When universal reformation bribes

With words, and wealthy metaphors, the tribes,

Dean of Bristol,

To empty pews the brawny chaplain swears,
Whilst none but trembling superstition hears;
When ministers, with sacerdotal hands,

Baptize the flock in streams of golden sands,
Through every town conversion wings her way,
And conscience is a prostitute for pay.

Faith removes mountains; like a modern dean,
Faith can see virtues which were never seen:
Our pious ministry this sentence quote,

To prove their instrument's superior vote,
Whilst *

*

* happy in his lordship's voice, Bids faith persuade us 'tis the people's choice. This mountain of objections to remove,

This knotty rotten argument to prove,

Faith insufficient,

caught the pen,

And prov'd by demonstration one was ten:
What boots it if he reason'd right or no?

'Twas orthodox-the Thane would have it so. Whoe'er shall doubts and false conclusions draw, Against the inquisition of the law,

With gaolers, chains, and pillories must plead,

And

Is

*'s conscience settle right his creed. *'s conscience then, will Freedom cry, A standard block to dress our notions by? Why what a blunder has the fool let fall, That * * * * has no conscience, none at all: Pardon me, Freedom, this and something more, The knowing writer might have known before ;

But bred in Bristol's mercenary cell,
Compell'd in scenes of avarice to dwell,

What gen'rous passion can my dross refine?
What besides interest can direct the line?
And should a galling truth, like this, be told,
By me, instructed here to slave for gold,

* *

* *

*

* made,

My prudent neighbours (who can read) could see,
Another Savage* to me starved in me.
Faith is a powerful virtue every where;
By this once Bristol drest for Cato
But now the blockheads grumble, *
Lord of this idol, being lord of trade,
They bawl'd for *
when little in their eyes,
But cannot to the titled villain rise,
This state credulity a bait for fools,
Employs his lordship's literary tools;
a bishop of the chosen sect;
A ruling pastor of the Lord's elect:
Keeps journals, posts, and magazines in awe,
And parcels out his only statute law.
Would you the bard's veracity dispute?
He borrows persecution's scourge of Bute,
An excommunication satire writes,
And the slow mischief trifles till it bites.
This faith, the subject of a late divine,

Is not as unsubstantial as his line;

The celebrated Richard Savage, son to the Earl of Rivers, who died in jail at Bristol.