Direct your course to worthy deeds,
In fuller day discharge your debts;
For, when your sun of reason sets,
The night succeeds; and all your schemes
Of glory vanish with your dreams. 
  Ah! where is now the supple train,
That danced attendance on the Dean? 
Say, where are those facetious folks,
Who shook with laughter at his jokes,
And with attentive rapture hung,
On wisdom, dropping from his tongue;
Who look’d with high disdainful pride
On all the busy world beside,
And rated his productions more
Than treasures of Peruvian ore? 
  Good Christians! they with bended knees
Ingulf’d the wine, but loathe the lees,
Averting, (so the text commands,)
With ardent eyes and upcast hands,
The cup of sorrow from their lips,
And fly, like rats, from sinking ships. 
While some, who by his friendship rose
To wealth, in concert with his foes
Run counter to their former track,
Like old Actaeon’s horrid pack
Of yelling mongrels, in requitals
To riot on their master’s vitals;
And, where they cannot blast his laurels,
Attempt to stigmatize his morals;
Through Scandal’s magnifying glass
His foibles view, but virtues pass,
And on the ruins of his fame
Erect an ignominious name. 
So vermin foul, of vile extraction,
The spawn of dirt and putrefaction,
The sounder members traverse o’er,
But fix and fatten on a sore. 
Hence! peace, ye wretches, who revile
His wit, his humour, and his style;
Since all the monsters which he drew
Were only meant to copy you;
And, if the colours be not fainter,
Arraign yourselves, and not the painter. 
  But, O! that He, who gave him breath,
Dread arbiter of life and death: 
That He, the moving soul of all,
The sleeping spirit would recall,
And crown him with triumphant meeds,
For all his past heroic deeds,
In mansions of unbroken rest,
The bright republic of the bless’d! 
Irradiate his benighted mind
With living light of light refined;
And there the blank of thought employ
With objects of immortal joy! 
  Yet, while he drags the sad remains
Of life, slow-creeping through his veins,
Above the views of private ends,
The tributary Muse attends,
To prop his feeble steps, or shed
The pious tear around his bed. 
  So pilgrims, with devout complaints,
Frequent the graves of martyr’d saints,
Inscribe their worth in artless lines,
And, in their stead, embrace their shrines.

[Footnote 1:  Created Baron Nugent and Viscount Clare, Dec. 20, 1766.—­Scott.]

ON THE DRAPIER.  BY DR. DUNKIN.[1]

Undone by fools at home, abroad by knaves,
The isle of saints became the land of slaves,
Trembling beneath her proud oppressor’s hand;
But, when thy reason thunder’d through the land,
Then all the public spirit breathed in thee,
And all, except the sons of guilt, were free. 
Blest isle, blest patriot, ever glorious strife! 
You gave her freedom, as she gave you life! 
Thus Cato fought, whom Brutus copied well,
And with those rights for which you stand, he fell.