HERE Johnson reclines, in this grave, den, or pit,
The bugbear of folly,--the tyrant of wit.
As an ox over-driven, attacks in the streets,
And goars without mercy each creature he meets,
So this bellowing critic toss'd every day
All his friends who had something or nothing to say.
Then he pitch'd and he roll'd with a turbulent motion,
Like a first-rate, just after a storm on the ocean.
And if prudently silent, his censures to balk,
He exclaim'd in a fury,--'Sir, why don't you talk?'
If you said black was black, his answer was, 'No, sir,'
And thundering arguments follow'd the blow, sir;
For tho' lies he disclaim'd from the days of his youth,
Still the Doctor loved victory better than truth.
But peace to his shade! if his powerful mind
Would sometimes break loose in expressions unkind,
At others, in streams, deep, majestic, and strong,
Full tides of morality flow'd from his tongue;
Religion in him found a zealous defender,
And he never attempted to garble or mend her;
In his presence profaneness presum'd not to dwell,
And sedition and treason shrunk back to their cell.