THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.

(IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.)

LOGICIANS have but ill defin'd

As rational the human mind: Reason, they say, belongs to man; But let them prove it if they can. Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,

By ratiocinations specious,

Have strove to prove with great precision, With definition and division,

Homo est ratione præditum;

But for my soul I cannot credit 'em,
And must in spite of them maintain,

That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature;
That instinct is a surer guide,

Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;
And that brute beasts are far before 'em,
Deus est anima brutorum.

Who ever knew an honest brute

At law his neighbour prosecute,

Bring action for assault and battery,

Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd,

No politics disturb their mind;

They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court.

They never to the levee go,

To treat as dearest friend a foe:

They never importune his grace, Nor ever cringe to men in place; Nor undertake a dirty job, Nor draw the quill to write for Bob. Fraught with invective they ne'er go, To folks at Paternoster-row: No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters, No pick pockets, or poetasters, Are known to honest quadrupeds; No single brute his fellow leads. Brutes vever meet in bloody fray, Nor cut each other's throats for pay. Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape Comes nearest us in human shape; Like man he imitates each fashion, And malice is his ruling passion: But both in malice and grimaces, A courtier any ape surpasses. Behold him, humbly cringing, wait Upon the minister of state : View him soon after to inferiors Aping the conduct of superiors: He promises with equal air, And to perform takes equal care. He in his turn finds imitators: At court the porters, lacqueys, waiters, Their masters' manners still contract, And footmen, lords, and dukes, can act. Thus at the court, hoth great and small Behave alike, for all

ape

all,

ON

A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH,

STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.

(IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH.)

SURE 'twas by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity than in hate,

That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.

A NEW SIMILE,

IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT.

LONG had I racked my brains to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind;
The modern scribbling kind, who write
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite:
'Till reading, I forget what day on,
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there,
To suit my purpose to a hair.
But let us not proceed too furious,
First please to turn to god Mercurius:

You'll find him pictur'd at full length
In book the second, page the tenth:

The stress of all my proofs on him I lay,
And now proceed we to our simile.

Imprimis, pray observe his hat, Wings upon either side-mark that. Well! what is it from thence we gather? Why, these denote a brain of feather. A brain of feather! very right, With wit that's flighty, learning light; Such as to modern bard's decreed. A just comparison,-proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes; Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air; And here my simile unites, For, in a modern poet's flights, I'm sure it may be justly said, His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, vouchsafe ť observe his hand,
Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand;
By classic authors term'd Caduceus,
And highly fam'd for several uses.
To wit, most wondrously endu'd,
No poppy-water half so good;
For, let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,

Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore.
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell.
Now to apply, begin we then:
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twin'd,
Denote him of the reptile kind;

Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike they both conduce to sleep.
This difference only : as the god
Drove souls to Tartarus with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Merc'ry had a failing :
Well! what of that? out with it—Stealing;
In which our scribbling bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he.
But e'en this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards! why, what a pox
Are they but senseless stones and blocks?