Nor Kings, nor Poetry regarding, And writing Odes not worth one farthing, IV. Him Pope affail'd, by Legions back'd, The name of Idle Cibber: Yet Coll, unskill'd in long and short, V. Will. Whitehead bad the reign commence True Poetry, by Genius fir'd, VI. WARTON, on Greek and Roman Bafe, A HORACE and a PINDAR! * Grim Gribber. See Tom's Law Jargon in the Conscious Lovers: "I touched him to the quick about Grim Gribber.” From From the ST. JAMES'S CHRONICLE, May 25, 1786. To the Printer of the ST. JAMES'S CHRONICLE: SIR, WERE ERE we to analyfe the Literary Merits of Dr. Johnson, perhaps an accurate Critick would ascribe his highest praise to his labours in Biography. In that branch, one of his first, and most splendid efforts, was the Life of Savage. This idea might be pursued with no fmail degree of entertainment and inftruction. At prefent, however, I fhall only fay, that this train of thought gave birth to the following Epigram, which (if you pleafe) you may hitch into your Poet's Corner. EPIGRAM. THEE, Johnfon, both dead and alive we may note When living the Life of a Savage you wrote, A POST A POSTHUMOUS WORK OF S. JOHNSON. ANO D E. April 15, 1786. I. ST. Paul's deep bell, from stately tow'r Had founded once and twice the hour, Blue burnt the midnight taper; Hags their dark spells o'er cauldron brew'd, II. Say Herald, Chronicle, or Poft, Which then beheld great JOHNSON'S Ghoft, Grim, horrible, and squalid? Compofitors their letters dropt, Preffmen their groaning engine støpt, And Devils all grew pallid. 1 III. Enough, the Spectre cried! Enough! Rude martyrs of SAM JOHNSON's name, And tarnish all his glories. IV. Firft in the futile tribe is feen TOM TYERS in the Magazine, That teazer of Apollo! With goofe-quill he, like desperate knife, And calls the town to swallow. V. The cry once up, the Dogs of News, Their naufeous praise but moves my bile Yet, garrulous, he tells too much, On fancied-failings prone to touch, VII. At length-Job's patience it would tire- For She a common-place-book kept, VIII. THRALE, loft 'mongst Fidlers and Sopranos, Adagio and Allegro ! I lov'd THRALE's widow and THRALE's wife; But now, believe, to write my life I'd rather truft my Negro. * IX. I gave the Publick works of merit, Applaufe crown'd all my labours. But thy delufive pages fpeak My palfied pow'rs, exhaufted, weak, *His Black Servant X. |