Where men, miscall'd, God's image have defac'd,
Their form belied, and human shape disgrac'd!
Ye two-legg'd wolves! slaves! superstitious sons!
Lords! soldiers! holy Vandals! modern Huns!
Boors, mufties, monks; in Russia, Turkey, Spain!
Who does not know Sir Isaac, and The Dean?
TO THE MEMORY OF DOCTOR SWIFT.
WHEN wasteful death has clos'd the poet's eyes,
And low in earth his mortal essence lies;
When the bright flame, that once his breast inspir'd,
Has to its first, its noblest seat retir'd;
All worthy minds, whom love of merit sways,
Should shade from slander his respected bays;
And bid that fame, his useful labours won,
Pure and untainted through all ages run.
Envy's a fiend all excellence pursues,
But mostly poets favour'd by the Muse:
Who wins the laurel, sacred verse bestows,
Makes all, who fail in like attempts, his foes:
No puny wit of malice can complain,
The thorn is theirs, who most applauses gain.
Whatever gifts or graces Heaven design'd
To raise man's genius, or enrich his mind,
Were Swift's to boast — alike his merits claim,
The statesman's knowledge, and the poet's flame;
The patriot's honour, zealous to defend
His country's rights — and faithful to the end;
The sound divine, whose charities display'd
He more by virtue than by forms was sway'd;
