Both heroes in a righteous cause,
Assert their liberties and laws;
He’s now the same Montrose was then,
But that the sword is turn’d a pen,
A pen of so great power, each word
Defends beyond the hero’s sword.” 
  Now words grew high—­we can’t suppose
Immortals ever come to blows,
But lest unruly passion should
Degrade them into flesh and blood,
An angel quick from Heaven descends,
And he at once the contest ends: 
  “Ye reverend pair, from discord cease,
Ye both mistake the present case;
One kingdom cannot have pretence
To so much virtue! so much sense! 
Search Heaven’s record; and there you’ll find
That he was born for all mankind.”

AN EPISTLE TO ROBERT NUGENT, ESQ.[1]

WITH A PICTURE OF DR. SWIFT.  BY WILLIAM DUNKIN, D.D.

To gratify thy long desire,
(So love and piety require,)
From Bindon’s colours you may trace
The patriot’s venerable face. 
The last, O Nugent! which his art
Shall ever to the world impart;
For know, the prime of mortal men,
That matchless monarch of the pen,
(Whose labours, like the genial sun,
Shall through revolving ages run,
Yet never, like the sun, decline,
But in their full meridian shine,)
That ever honour’d, envied sage,
So long the wonder of the age,
Who charm’d us with his golden strain,
Is not the shadow of the Dean: 
He only breathes Boeotian air—­
“O! what a falling off was there!”
  Hibernia’s Helicon is dry,
Invention, Wit, and Humour die;
And what remains against the storm
Of Malice but an empty form? 
The nodding ruins of a pile,
That stood the bulwark of this isle? 
In which the sisterhood was fix’d
Of candid Honour, Truth unmix’d,
Imperial Reason, Thought profound,
And Charity, diffusing round
In cheerful rivulets to flow
Of Fortune to the sons of woe? 
  Such one, my Nugent, was thy Swift,
Endued with each exalted gift,
But lo! the pure ethereal flame
Is darken’d by a misty steam: 
The balm exhausted breathes no smell,
The rose is wither’d ere it fell. 
That godlike supplement of law,
Which held the wicked world in awe
And could the tide of faction stem,
Is but a shell without the gem. 
  Ye sons of genius, who would aim
To build an everlasting fame,
And in the field of letter’d arts,
Display the trophies of your parts,
To yonder mansion turn aside,
And mortify your growing pride. 
Behold the brightest of the race,
And Nature’s honour, in disgrace: 
With humble resignation own,
That all your talents are a loan;
By Providence advanced for use,
Which you should study to produce
Reflect, the mental stock, alas! 
However current now it pass,
May haply be recall’d from you
Before the grave demands his due,
Then, while your morning star proceeds,