And POPE lies number'd with the mighty dead!
Refign'd he fell; fuperior to the dart,
That quench'd its rage in YOURS and BRITAIN's heart:
You mourn: but BRITAIN, lull'd in rest profound,
(Unconscious Britain!) flumbers o'er her wound.
Exulting Dulness ey'd the fetting light,
And flapp'd her wing, impatient for the night:
Rous'd at the fignal, Guilt collects her train,
And counts the triumphs of her growing reign:
With inextinguishable rage they burn,
And fnake-hung Envy hiffes o'er his urn :
'Th' envenom'd monsters spit their deadly foam,
To blaft the laurel that furrounds his tomb.
But You, WARBURTON! whose eye Can fee the greatness of an honest mind; Can fee each virtue and each grace unite, And taste the raptures of a pure delight; You vifit oft' his aweful page with care,
And view that bright affemblage treafur'd there;
You trace the chain that links his deep defign,
And pour new luftre on the glowing line.
Yet deign to hear the efforts of a Muse,
Whose eye, not wing, his ardent flight pursues ;
Intent from this great archetype to draw
SATIRE's bright form, and fix her equal law;
Pleas'd if from hence th' unlearn'd may comprehend,
And reverence His and SATIRE's generous end.
In ev'ry breast there burns an active flame,
The love of glory, or the dread of shame :
The paffion ONE, tho' various it appear,
As brighten'd into hope, or dimm'd by fear.
The lifping infant, and the hoary fire,
And youth and manhood feel the heart-born fire;
The charms of praise the coy, the modest wooe,
And only fly, that glory may pursue :
She, pow'r refiftlefs, rules the wife and great;
Bends ev'n reluctant hermits at her feet:
Haunts the proud city, and the lowly fhade,
And fways alike the scepter and the fpade.
Thus heav'n in pity wakes the friendly flame,
Το
urge mankind on deeds that merit fame:
But man, vain man, in folly only wife,
Rejects the manna fent him from the skies:
With rapture hears corrupted paffion's call,
Still proudly prone to mingle with the ftall.
As each deceitful fhadow tempts his view,
He for the imag'd fubftance quits the true:
Eager to catch the vifionary prize,
In queft of glory plunges deep in vice;
Till madly zealous, impotently vain,
He forfeits ev'ry praise he pants to gain.
Thus ftill imperious Nature plies her part;
And still her dictates work in ev'ry heart.
Each pow'r that fov'reign Nature bids enjoy,
Man may corrupt, but man can ne'er destroy.
Like mighty rivers, with refiftless force
The paffions rage, obstructed in their course;
Swell to new heights, forbidden paths explore,
And drown those virtues which they fed before.
And fure, the deadlieft foe to virtue's flame,
Our worst of evils, is perverted fhame.
Beneath this load what abject numbers groan,
Th' entangled flaves to folly not their own!
Meanly by fashionable fear opprefs'd,
We seek our virtues in each other's breaft;
Blind to ourselves, adopt each foreign vice,
Another's weakness, int'reft, or caprice.
Each fool to low ambition, poorly great,
That pines in fplendid wretchedness of state,
Tir'd in the treach'rous chafe, wou'd nobly yield,
And but for shame, like SYLLA, quit the field :
The dæmon Shame paints ftrong the ridicule,
And whispers close “the world will call you fool.”
Behold, yon wretch, by impious fashion driv❜n,
Believes and trembles while he scoffs at heav'n.
By weakness strong, and bold thro' fear alone,
He dreads the fneer by fhallow coxcombs thrown;
Dauntless pursues the path Spinoza trod;
To man a coward, and a brave to God *.
Faith, justice, heav'n itself now quit their hold, When to false fame the captiv'd heart is fold: Hence blind to truth, relentless Cato dy'd : Nought cou'd fubdue his virtue, but his pride.
*Vois tu ce libertin en public intrepide,
Qui preche contre un Dieu que dans Jon Ame il croit?
Iliroit embraffer la verité qu'il voit ;
Mais de fes faux amis il craint la raillerie,
Et ne brave ainfi Dieu que par poltronnerie.
Hence chafte Lucretia's innocence betray'd
Fell by that honour which was meant its aid.
Thus Virtue finks beneath unnumber'd woes,
When paffions born her friends, revolt, her foes.
Hence SATIRE's pow'r: 'tis her corrective part
To calm the wild diforders of the heart.
She points the arduous height where glory lies,
And teaches mad ambition to be wife :
In the dark bofom wakes the fair defire,
Draws good from ill, a brighter flame from fire;
Strips black Oppreffion of her gay disguise,
And bids the hag in native horror rife ;
Strikes tow'ring pride and lawless rapine dead,
And plants the wreath on Virtue's awful head.
Nor boasts the Mufe a vain imagin'd pow'r,
Tho' oft fhe mourn thofe ills fhe can not cure.
The worthy court her, and the worthless fear
Who fhun her piercing eye, that eye revere.
Her aweful voice the vain and vile obey,
And every foe to wisdom feels her sway.
Smarts, pedants, as fhe fmiles, no more are vain;
Defponding fops refign the clouded cane:
Hufh'd at her voice, pert Folly's felf is ftill,
And Dulness wonders while fhe drops her quill.
a Like the arm'd BEE, with art most subtly true
From pois'nous Vice she draws a healing dew:
a Alluding to thefe lines of Mr. Pope;
In the nice bee what art fo fubtly true,
From pois'nous herbs extracts a healing dew.
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