Sat. I. The Universal Passion. j

Shall poejy, like law , turn wrong to right,

And Dedications wafli an Æthiop white,

Set up each senseless wretch for nature’s boast,

On whom praise shines, as trophies on a post ?

Shall Funeral eloquence her colours spread,

And scatter roses on the wealthy Dead ?

Shall authors smile on such illustrious days,

And satyrize with nothing-but their praise ?

Why slumberswho leads the tuneful train*Nor hears that Virtue, which he loves, complain?Donne, ‘Dorset, Dryden , Rochester are dead,And guilt’s chief foe in Addison is fled;

Congreve , who crown’d with lawrels fairly won,Sits smiling at the Goal while Others run,

He will not write; and (more provoking still!)Ye Gods! he will not write, and Mavins will.

Doubly distrest, what author shall we findDiscreetly daring, and severely kind,

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