So from the Letters of our Native Tongue
Put in Greek Scrawls a Myft'ry too is sprung,
Schools are erected, puzzling Grammars made,
And artful Men strike out a gainful Trade;
Strange Characters adorn the learned Gate,
And heedlefs Youth catch at the fhining Bait;
The pregnant Boys the noify Charms declare,
And Taus and Deltas make their Mothers ftare,
Th' uncommon Sounds amaze the vulgar Ear :
And what's uncommon never cofts too dear.
Yet in all Tongues the Hornbook is the fame
Taught by the Grecian Mafter, or the English Dame.
But how fhall I thy endless Virtues tell,

In which thou dost all other Books excel?

No greazy Thumbs thy fpotlefs Leaf can foil,

Nor crooked Dogs-ears thy fmooth Corners fpoil; In idle Pages no Errata stand,

To tell the Blunders of the Printer's Hand;

No

No fulfome Dedication here is writ,

Nor flatt'ring Verfe to praise the Author's Wit.
The Margin with no tedious Notes is vext,
Nor various Readings to confound the Text:
All Parties in thy lit'ral Sense agree,

Thou perfect Centre of bleft Unity!

Search we the Records of an antient Date, Or read what modern Hiftories relate, They all proclaim what Wonders have been done By the plain Letters taken as they run. Too high the Floods of Paffion us'd to rowl, And rend the Roman Youth's impatient Soul; His hafty Anger furnish'd Scenes of Blood, And frequent Deaths of worthy Men enfu'd: In vain were all the weaker Methods try'd, None could fuffice to stem the furious Tide. Thy facred Lines he did but once repeat, And laid the Storm and cool'd the raging Heat.

Thy

Thy Heav'nly Notes, like Angels' Mufick, cheer Departing Souls, and footh the dying Ear.

An aged Peasant, on his latest Bed,

Wish'd for a Friend fome godly Book to read;
The pious Grandson thy known Handle takes,
And (Eyes lift up) this fav'ry Lecture makes.
Great A he gravely roar'd; th' important Sound
The empty Walls and hollow Roof refound:
Th' expiring Antient rais'd his drooping Head,
And thank'd his Stars that Hodge had learnt to read.
Great B the Youngker bawls: O Heav'nly breath!
What ghostly Comforts in the Hour of Death!
What Hopes I feel! Great C pronounc'd the Boy;
The Grandfire dies with Ecstasy of Joy.

Yet in fome Lands fuch Ignorance abounds,
Whole Parishes scarce know thy useful Sounds,
Or ken which End of Thee stands uppermost,
Be the Priest abfent, or the Handle loft.

Of

Of Effex Hundreds Fame gives this Report;
But Fame, I ween, fays many things in sport.
Scarce lives the Man to whom thou'rt quite un-
[known,
Tho' few th' extent of thy vaft Empire own.
Whatever Wonders magic Spell can'do,
In Earth, in Air, in Sea, and Shades below;
What Words profound and dark wife Mah'met
[spoke,

When his old Cow an Angel's Figure took;
What ftrong Enchantments fage Canidia knew,
Or Horace fung, fierce Monsters to fubdue,
O mighty Book, are all contain'd in you!
All human Arts and every Science meet
Within the Limits of thy fingle Sheet,

From thy vaft Root all Learning's Branches grow,
And all her Streams from thy deep Fountain flow.
And lo! while thus thy Wonders I indite,

Inspir'd, I feel the Pow'r of which I write,

The gentler Gout his former Rage forgets,

Lefs frequent now and less severe the Fits Loofe grow the Chains which bound my useless [Feet,

Stiffness and Pain from ev'ry Joint retreat ;

Surprizing Strength comes ev'ry Moment on,
I stand, I step, I walk, and now I run.

Here let me cease, my hobling Numbers stop, And at thy Handle hang my Crutches up.

A

The MONUMENT.

Poft funera virtus.

Monster, in a Course of Vice grown old,

Leaves to his gaping Heir his ill-gain'd [Gold: Streight breathes his Buft, ftreight are his Virtues

[fhown,

Their Date commencing with the sculptur'd Stone.

If on his fpecious Marble we rely,

Pity a Worth like His shou'd ever die !

If Credit to his real Life we give,

Pity a Wretch like Him fhould ever live!