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Bleft in each Science, blest in ev'ry Strain!
Dear to the Muse, to Harley dear – in vain!

For him, thou oft haft bid the World attend, Fond to forget the Statesman in the Friend; For Swift and him, despis'd the Farce of State, The sober Follies of the Wise and Great ; Dextrous, the craving, fawning Crowd to quit, And pleas'd to 'scape from Flatterý to Wit.

Absent or dead, still let a Friend be dear, (A Sigh the Absent claims, the Dead a Tear) Recall those Nights that clos’d thy toilsom Days, Still hear thy Parnell in his living Lays: Who careless, now, of Int'rest, Fame, or Fate, Perhaps forgets that OXFORD e'er was Great ; Or deeming meanest what we greatest call, Beholds thee glorious only in thy Fall.

And

And sure if ought below the Seats Divine Can touch Immortals, 'tis a Soul like thine: A Soul supreme, in each hard Instance try'd, Above all Pain, all Anger, and all Pride, The Rage of Pow'r; the Blast of publick Breath, The Lust of Lucre, and the Dread of Death.

In vain to Desarts thy Retreat is made ; The Muse attends thee to the silent Shade: 'Tis hers, the brave Man's latest Steps to trace, Re-judge his Acts, and dignify Disgrace. When Int'rest calls off all her sneaking Train, When all th' Oblig'd desert, and all the Vain; She waits, or to the Scaffold, or the Cell, When the last ling’ring Friend has bid farewel. Ev'n now she shades thy Evening Walk with Bays, (No Hireling she, no Prostitute to Praise)

Ev'n now, observant of the parting Rays
Eyes the calm Sun-set of thy Various Day,
Thro’ Fortune's Cloud One truly Great can see,
Nor fears to tell, that MORTIMER is He.

Sept, 25.

1721.

A POPE.

HESIOD;

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