Resolve to perish with his whore;
Or else he raves, and roars, and swears,
And, but for shame, would say his prayers. 
Or, would you see his spirits sink? 
Relaxing downwards in a stink? 
If such a sight as this can please ye,
Good madam Pallas, pray be easy. 
To Neptune speak, and he’ll consent;
But he’ll come back the knave he went.” 
The goddess, who conceived a hope
That Hort was destined to a rope,
Believed it best to condescend
To spare a foe, to save a friend;
But, fearing Berkeley might be scared,
She left him virtue for a guard.

[Footnote 1:  Josiah Hort was born about 1674, and educated in London as a Nonconformist Minister; but he soon conformed to the Church of England, and held in succession several benefices.  In 1709 he went to Ireland as chaplain to Lord Wharton, when Lord Lieutenant; and afterwards became, in 1721, Bishop of Ferns and Leighlin, and ultimately Archbishop of Tuam.  He died in 1751.—­W.  E. B.]

[Footnote 2:  Dr. Theophilus Bolton, afterwards Archbishop of Cashell.—­F.]

[Footnote 3:  Dr. George Berkeley, a senior fellow of Trinity College, Dublin, who became Dean of Derry, and afterwards Bishop of Cloyne.]

[Footnote 4:  The Bishop had a project of a college at Bermuda for the propagation of the Gospel in 1722.  See his Works, ut supra.—­W.  E. B.]

[Footnote 5:  Brigadier Fitzpatrick was drowned in one of the packet-boats in the Bay of Dublin, in a great storm.—­F.]

ODE ON SCIENCE

O, heavenly born! in deepest dells
If fairest science ever dwells
  Beneath the mossy cave;
Indulge the verdure of the woods,
With azure beauty gild the floods,
  And flowery carpets lave.

For, Melancholy ever reigns
Delighted in the sylvan scenes
  With scientific light;
While Dian, huntress of the vales,
Seeks lulling sounds and fanning gales,
  Though wrapt from mortal sight.

Yet, goddess, yet the way explore
With magic rites and heathen lore
  Obstructed and depress’d;
Till Wisdom give the sacred Nine,
Untaught, not uninspired, to shine,
  By Reason’s power redress’d.

When Solon and Lycurgus taught
To moralize the human thought
  Of mad opinion’s maze,
To erring zeal they gave new laws,
Thy charms, O Liberty, the cause
  That blends congenial rays.

Bid bright Astraea gild the morn,
Or bid a hundred suns be born,
  To hecatomb the year;
Without thy aid, in vain the poles,
In vain the zodiac system rolls,
  In vain the lunar sphere.

Come, fairest princess of the throng,
Bring sweet philosophy along,
  In metaphysic dreams;
While raptured bards no more behold
A vernal age of purer gold,
  In Heliconian streams.

Drive Thraldom with malignant hand,
To curse some other destined land,
  By Folly led astray: 
Ierne bear on azure wing;
Energic let her soar, and sing
  Thy universal sway.