Nor think the Muse by Satire's Law confin'd: 345 She yields description of the noblest kind. Inferior art the Landscape may design, And paint the purple evening in the line: Her daring thought essays a higher plan; Her hand delineates Passion, pictures Man. And great the toil, the latent foul to trace, To paint the heart, and catch internal grace; By turns bid Vice or Virtue strike our eyes, Now bid a Wolfey or a Cromwell rise; Now, with a touch more facred and refin'd, Call forth a Chesterfield's or Lonsdale's mind. Here sweet or ftrong may every Colour flow, Here let the pencil warm, the canvass glow: Of light and shade provoke the noble strife, And wake each striking feature into life.
HROUGH Ages thus has Satire keenly shin'd,
The Friend to Truth, to Virtue, and Mankind:
Yet the bright flame from Virtue ne'er had sprung,
And Man was guilty ere the Poet sung.
This Muse in filence joy'd each better Age,
Till glowing crimes had wak'd her into rage.
Truth faw her honest spleen with new delight,
And bade her wing her shafts, and urge their flight.
First on the Sons of Greece fhe prov'd her art,
And Sparta felt the fierce Iambic dart.
To Latium next, avenging Satire flew :
The flaming falchion rough Lucilius drew;
With dauntless warmth in Virtue's cause engag'd,
And confcious Villains trembled as he rag'd.
Then sportive Horace caught the generous fire; 375
For Satire's bow resign'd the founding lyre:
Each arrow polish'd in his hand was seen,
And, as it grew more polish'd, grew more keen.
His art, conceal'd in study'd negligence,
Politely fly, cajol'd the foes of sense;
He feem'd to sport and trifle with the dart,
But, while he sported, drove it to the heart.
In graver strains majestic Persius wrote, Big with a ripe exuberance of thought: Greatly fedate, contemn'd a Tyrant's reign, And lash'd Corruption with a calm disdain.
More ardent eloquence, and boundless rage,
Inflame bold Juvenal's exalted page.
His mighty numbers aw'd corrupted Rome,
And swept audacious greatness to its doom;
The headlong torrent, thundering from on high,
Rent the proud rock that lately brav'd the iky.
But lo! the fatal Victor of Mankind,
Swoln Luxury!-pale Ruin stalks behind!
As countless Infects from the north-east pour,
To blaft the Spring, and ravage every flower;
So barbarous Millions spread contagious death:
The fickening Laurel wither'd at their breath.
Deep Superftition's night the skies o'erhung,
Beneath whose baleful dews the Poppy sprung.
No longer Genius woo'd the Nine to love,
But Dulness nodded in the Muse's grove:
Wit, Spirit, Freedom, were the sole offence,
Nor 'aught was held so dangerous as Senfe.
At length, again fair Science fhot her ray,
Dawn'd in the skies, and spoke returning day.
Now, Satire, triumph o'er thy flying foe,
Now load thy quiver, string thy flacken'd bow!
'Tis done-See great Erasmus breaks the spell,
And wounds triumphant Folly in her Cell!
(In vain the folemn Cowl furrounds her face,
Vain all her bigot cant, her four grimace)
With shame compell'd her leaden throne to quit,
And own the force of Reason urg'd by Wit.
'Twas then plain Donne in honest vengeance rose, His Wit harmonious, though his Rhyme was profe: VOL. XLVI.
He 'midst an Age of Puns and Pedants wrote
With genuine sense, and Roman strength of thought.
Yet scarce had Satire well relum'd her flame,
(With grief the Muse records her Country's shame) 420
Ere Britain saw the foul revolt commence,
And treacherous Wit began her war with Senfe.
Then rose a shameless mercenary train,
Whom latest Time shall view with just disdain:
A race fantastic, in whose gaudy line
Untutor'd thought and tinsel beauty shine:
Wit's shatter'd Mirror lies in fragments bright,
Reflects not Nature, but confounds the fight.
Dry Morals the Court-Poet blush'd to sing;
'Twas all his praise to say "the oddest thing."
Proud for a jest obscene, a Patron's nod,
To martyr Virtue, or blafpheme his God.
Ill-fated Dryden! who unmov'd can fee Th' extremes of wit and meanness join'd in Thee? Flames that could mount, and gain their kindred skies, Low creeping in the putrid fink of vice: A Muse whom Wisdom woo'd, but woo'd in vain, The Pimp of Power, the Proftitute to Gain: Wreaths, that should deck fair Virtue's form alone, To Strumpets, Traitors, Tyrants, vilely thrown: 440 Unrival'd Parts, the fcorn of honest fame; And Genius rise, a Monument of shame!
More happy France: immortal Boileau there
Supported Genius with a Sage's care:
Him with her love propitious Satire bleft,
And breath'd her airs divine into his breaft:
Fancy and Sense to form his line confpire,
And faultless Judgment guides the purest Fire.
But fee, at length, the British Genius fmile,
And shower her bounties o'er her favour'd Ifle:
Behold for Pope she twines the laurel crown,
And centers every Poet's power in one:
Each Roman's force adorns his various page;
Gay smiles, collected strength, and manty rage.
Despairing Guilt and Dulness loath the fight,
As Spectres vanish at approaching light:
In this clear Mirror with delight we view
Each Image justly fine, and boldly true:
Here Vice, dragg'd forth by Truth's fupreme decree,
Beholds and hates her own deformity;
While felf-feen Virtue in the faithful line
With modeft joys surveys her form divine.
But oh, what thoughts, what numbers shall I find,
But faintly to express the Poet's mind!
Who yonder Stars effulgence can difplay,
Unless he dip his pencil in the ray?
Who paint a God, unless the God inspire?
What catch the lightning, but the speed of fire?
Sc, mighty Pope, to make thy Genius known,
All power is weak, all numbers but thy own.
Each Muse for thee with kind contention strove,
For thee the Graces left th' Idalian grove;
With watchful fondness o'er thy cradle hung,
Attun'd thy voice, and form'd thy infant tongue.
Next, to her Bard majestic Wisdom came;
The bard enraptur'd caught the heavenly flame:
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