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;
Temperate at board, and frugal of his store,
Which he but spared, to make his bounties more: 
The generous friend, whose heart alike caress’d,
The friend triumphant, or the friend distress’d;
Who could, unpain’d, another’s merit spy,
Nor view a rival’s fame with jaundiced eye;
Humane to all, his love was unconfined,
And in its scope embraced all human kind;
Sharp, not malicious, was his charming wit,
And less to anger than reform he writ;
Whatever rancour his productions show’d,
From scorn of vice and folly only flow’d;
He thought that fools were an invidious race,
And held no measures with the vain or base. 
  Virtue so clear! who labours to destroy,
Shall find the charge can but himself annoy: 
The slanderous theft to his own breast recoils,
Who seeks renown from injured merit’s spoils;
All hearts unite, and Heaven with man conspires
To guard those virtues she herself admires. 
  O sacred bard!—­once ours!—­but now no more,
Whose loss, for ever, Ireland must deplore,
No earthly laurels needs thy happy brow,
Above the poet’s are thy honours now: 
Above the patriot’s, (though a greater name
No temporal monarch for his crown can claim.)
From noble breasts if envy might ensue,
Thy death is all the brave can envy you. 
You died, when merit (to its fate resign’d)
Saw scarce one friend to genius left behind,
When shining parts did jealous hatred breed,
And ’twas a crime in science to succeed,
When ignorance spread her hateful mist around,
And dunces only an acceptance found. 
What could such scenes in noble minds beget,
But life with pain, and talents with regret? 
Add that thy spirit from the world retired,
Ere hidden foes its further grief conspired;
No treacherous friend did stories yet contrive,
To blast the Muse he flatter’d when alive,[1]
Or sordid printer (by his influence led)
Abused the fame that first bestow’d him bread. 
Slanders so mean, had he whose nicer ear
Abhorr’d all scandal, but survived to hear,
The fraudful tale had stronger scorn supplied,
And he (at length) with more disdain had died,
  But since detraction is the portion here
Of all who virtuous durst, or great, appear,
And the free soul no true existence gains,
While earthly particles its flight restrains,