Classic Poem

The day will come, when't shall be said,
"D'ye hear the news--? the Dean is dead--!
Poor man! he went, all on a sudden--!'
Ha's dropp'd, and giv'n the crow a pudden!
What money was behind him found?
"I hear about two thousand pound--
'Tis own'd he was a man of wit--,'
Yet many a foolish thing he writ--;
"And, sure he must be deeply learn'd--!'
That's more than ever I discern'd--;
"I know his nearest friends complain,
He was too airy for a dean--.
He was an honest man I'll swear--:'
Why Sir, I differ from you there,
For, I have heard another story,
He was a most confounded Tory--!
"Yet here we had a strong report,
That he was well-receiv'd at Court--.'
Why, then it was, I do assert,
Their goodness, more than his desert--.
He grew, or else his comrades lied,
Confounded dull--, before he died--.

"Must we the Drapier then forget?
Is not our nation in his debt?
'Twas he that writ the Drapier's Letters--!'
He should have left them for his betters;
We had a hundred abler men,
Nor need depend upon his pen--.
Say what you will about his reading,
You never can defend his breeding!
Who, in his satires running riot,
Could never leave the world in quiet--;
Attacking, when he took the whim,
Court, city, camp, all one to him--.

What scenes of evil he unravels,
In satires, libels, lying travels!
Not sparing his own clergy-cloth,
But, eats into it, like a moth--!

I envy not the wits who write
Merely to gratify their spite;
Thus did the Dean: his only scope
Was, to be held a misanthrope.
This into gen'ral odium drew him,
Which if he lik'd, much good may do him:
This gave him enemies in plenty,
Throughout two realms nineteen in twenty.
His zeal was not to lash our crimes,
But, discontent against the times;
For, had we made him timely offers,
To raise his post, or fill his coffers,
Perhaps he might have truckled down,
Like other brethren of his gown,
For party he would scarce have bled--:
I say no more--, because he's dead--.

What writings had he left behind--?
"I hear, they're of a diff'rent kind:
A few, in verse; but most, in prose--.'
Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose--:
All scribbled in the worst of times,
To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes,
To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her,
As never fav'ring the Pretender--:
Or libels yet conceal'd from sight--,
Against the Court to shew his spite--.
Perhaps, his Travels, Part the Third;
A lie, at ev'ry second word:
Offensive to a loyal ear--:
But--not one sermon, you may swear--.

"Sir, our accounts are diff'rent quite,
And your conjectures are not right;
'Tis plain, his writings were design'd
To please, and to reform mankind;
And, if he often miss'd his aim,
The world must own it, to their shame;
The praise is his, and theirs the blame.

"Then, since you dread no further lashes,
You freely may forgive his ashes.'