F. You're strangely proud. P. So proud, I am no slave; 205 So impudent, I own myself no knave; So odd, my country's ruin makes me grave. Safe from the bar, the pulpit, and the throne, 210 O sacred weapon! left for truth's defence, 216 The Muse may give thee, but the gods must guide : 220 All his grace preaches, all his lordship sings, 224 All that makes saints of queens, and gods of kings; All, all but truth, drops dead-born from the press, Like the last Gazette or the last Address. When black Ambition stains a public cause, A monarch's sword when mad vain glory draws, Not Waller's wreath can hide the nation's scar, 230 Not Boileau turn the feather to a star. Not so when diadem'd with rays divine, Touch'd with the flame that breaks from Virtue's shrine, Her priestess Muse forbids the good to die, And opes the temple of Eternity. There other trophies deck the truly brave 235 240 Or beam, good Digby! from a heart like thine.) Let envy howl, while heav'n's whole chorus sings, And bark at honour not conferr'd by kings; Let Flatt'ry sick’ning see the incense rise, Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies : 245 F. Alas! alas! pray end what you began, 255 |