On the Old Bust, with a Sour Air, on Mr. Dryden's Monument, in Westminster-abbey

At Dryden's tomb, inscrib'd with Sh—d's name, That mite, slow offer'd to establish'd fame! Fill'd with raw wonder, Tyro stopt to gaze; And bless'd his bounteous Grace, in kind amaze: The guardian genius, from the sacred dust, Re-kindling upwards, wak'd the quickening bust, Glowing from every awful feature—broke Disdainful life—and thus the marble spoke: " Teach thy blind love of honesty to see,— " 'Tis not my monument,—tho' built on me. " Great peers, 'tis known, can in oblivion lie; " But no great poet has the power to die. " At cheap expence, behold engrafted fame! " The tack'd associate of a buoyant name. " The pompous craft one lucky lord shall save; " And Sh—d borrow life from Dryden's grave." 'Twas said—and, ere the short sensation died, The stiffening marble writh'd its form aside: Back from the titled waste of mouldering state He turn'd—neglectful of the court, too late! And, sadly conscious of mispointed praise, Frowns thro' the stone, and shrinks beneath his bays.