Our FAKEER reprefents all the vot'ries of fame; Their ideas, their means, and their end is the fame: The sportsman, the buck; all the heroes of vice, With their gallantry, lewdness, the bottle and dice; The poets, the critics, the metaphysicians, The courtier, the patriot, all politicians; The statesman begirt with th' importunate ring. (I had almost compleated my lift with the king) All labour alike to illuftrate my tale ; All tortur'd by choice with th' invisible nail.

To Mr. WHITEHEAD,

On his being made POET LAUREAT.

By the Same.

IS fo-though we're furpris'd to hear it:

The laurel is beftow'd on merit.

How hush'd is every envious voice!
Confounded by fo just a choice,
Though by prefcriptive right prepar'd
To libel the felected bard.

But as you see the statesman's fate
In this our democratic state,

Whom virtue ftrives in vain to guard
From the rude pamphlet and the card;

You'll

You'll find the demagogues of Pindus
In envy not a jot behind us:

For each Aonian politician

(Whose element is oppofition,)

Will fhew how greatly they furpafs us,

In gall and wormwood at Parnaffus.

Thus as the fame detracting fpirit
Attends on all diftinguish'd merit,
When 'tis your turn, obferve, the quarrel
Is not with you, but with the laurel.
Suppose that laurel on your brow,
For cyprefs chang'd, funereal bough!
See all things take a diff'rent turn !
The very critics fweetly mourn,
And leave their fatire's pois'nous fting
In plaintive elegies to fing:
With folemn threnody and dirge
Conduct you to Elyfium's verge.
At Westminster the furplic'd dean
The fad but honorable scene
Prepares. The well-attended herfe
Bears you amid the kings of verse.
Each rite obferv'd, each duty paid,
Your fame on marble is difplay'd,

With fymbols which your genius fuit,

The mask, the buskin, and the flute:
The laurel crown aloft is hung;

And o'er the sculptur'd lyre unftrung
Sad allegoric figures leaning-

(How folks will gape to find their meaning!)
And a long epitaph is spread,

Which happy You will never read.
But hold-The change is fo inviting

I own, I tremble while I'm writing.
Yet, WHITEHEAD, 'tis too foon to lose you:
Let critics flatter or abuse you,

O! teach us, ere you change the scene

To Stygian banks from Hippocrene,

How free-born bards should strike the strings,
And how a Briton write to kings.

Verses on the Profpect of planting ARTS and LEARNING in AMERICA.

By the late Dr, BERKELEY, Bishop of CLOYNE.

HE Mufe, difgufted at an age and clime,

TH

Barren of every glorious theme,

In diftant lands now waits a better time,

Producing fubjects worthy fame:

In

In happy climes, where from the genial fun
And virgin earth such scenes enfue,

The force of art by nature seems outdone,
And fancied beauties by the true :

In happy climes, the feat of innocence,
Where nature guides and virtue rules,
Where men shall not impofe for truth and sense
The pedantry of courts and fchools:

There fhall be fung another golden age,
The rife of empire and of arts,

The good and great inspiring epic rage,
The wifeft heads and nobleft hearts.

Not fuch as Europe breeds in her decay;
Such as the bred when fresh and young,
When heav'nly flame did animate her clay,
By future poets fhall be fung.

Weftward the course of empire takes its way;
The four first acts already past,

A fifth shall close the drama with the day;

Time's nobleft offspring is the laft.

ELIEVE me, MASON, 'tis in vain
Thy fortitude the torrent braves;
Thou too must bear th' inglorious chain;

The world, the world will have its flaves.
The chosen friend, for converse sweet,
The small, yet elegant retreat,

Are peaceful unambitious views
Which early fancy loves to form,
When aided by th' ingenuous Muse,
She turns the philofophic page,
And fees the wife of every age
With Nature's dictates warm.

II.

But ah! to few has Fortune given
The choice, to take or to refuse;
To fewer ftill indulgent Heaven

Allots the very will to choose.
And why are varying schemes prefer❜d?
Man mixes with the common herd,

By