Classic Poem

Behold the fatal Day arrive!
How is the Dean? He's just alive.
Now the departing Pray'r is read:
He hardly breathes. The Dean is dead.
Before the Passing-Bell begun,
The News thro' half the Town has run.
O, may we all for Death prepare!
What has he left? And Who's his Heir?
I know no more than what the News is,
'Tis all bequeath'd to Publick Uses.
To Publick Use! a perfect Whim!
What had the Publick done for him!
Mere Envy, Avarice, and Pride!
He gave it all:--But, first he dy'd.
And had the Dean, in all the Nation,
No worthy Friend, no poor Relation?
So ready to do Strangers good,
Forgetting his own Flesh and Blood?

Here shift the Scene, to represent
How those I love, my Death lament,
Poor POPE will grieve a Month; and GAY
A Week; and ARBUTHNOT a Day.

St John himself will scarce forebear
To bite his Pen, and drop a Tear.
The rest will give a Shrug, and cry,
I'm sorry; but we all must dye.

My female Friends, whose tender Hearts
Have better learn'd to act their Parts,
Receive the News in doleful Dumps,
The Dean is dead (and what is Trumps?)
The Lord have Mercy on his Soul
(Ladies I'll venture for the Vole)
Six Deans they say must bear the Pall,
I wish I knew what King to call.
Madam, your Husband will attend
The Funeral of so good a friend.
No Madam, 'tis a shocking Sight,
And he's engag'd Tomorrow Night!
My Lady Club wou'd take it ill
If he shou'd fail her at Quadrill.
He lov'd the Dean. (I led a Heart.)
But, dearest Friends, they say, must part.
His Time was come, he ran his Race;
We hope he's in a better Place.

Perhaps I may allow, the Dean
Had too much Satyr in his Vein;
And seem'd determined not to starve it,
Because no Age could more deserve it.
Yet, Malice never was his Aim;
He lash'd the Vice, but spar'd the Name.
No Individual could resent,
Where Thousands equally were meant:
His Satyr points at no Defect,
But what all Mortals may correct;
For, he abbhor'd that senseless Tribe
Who call it Humour when they jibe:
He spar'd a Hump or crooked Nose,
Whose owners set not up for Beaux.
True genuine Dulness mov'd his Pity,
Unless it offer'd to be witty.
Those, who their Ignorance confess'd,
He ne'er offended with a Jest;
But, laugh'd to hear an Idiot quote
A Verse from Horace, learn'd by Rote.

He knew an hundred pleasant Stories,
With all the turns of Whigs and Tories:
Was chearful to his dying Day,
And Friends would let him have his Way.

He gave the little Wealth he had,
To build a House for Fools and Mad:
And shew'd by one satyric Touch,
No Nation wanted it so much;
That Kingdom he hath left his Debtor,
I wish it soon may have a Better.