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ATE gave the word: the cruel arrow sped; 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 Dulnefs 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 Snake-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, O Warburton! whose eye refin'd
Can fee the greatnefs of an honeft mind;
Can fee each Virtue and each Grace unite,
And taste the Raptures of a pure Delight;
You visit oft his awful Page with Care,
And view that bright assemblage treasur'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,
Whofe 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 every breaft there burns an active flame,
The Love of Glory, or the Dread of Shame:
The Paffion One, though various it appear,
As brighten'd into Hope, or dimm'd by Fear.
'The lifping Infant, and the hoary Sire,
And Youth and Manhood feel the heart-born fire:
The Charms of Praise the Coy, the Modest woo,
And only fly, that Glory may pursue:
She, Power refiltlefs, rules the wife and great;
Bends ev'n reluctant Hermits at her feet;
Haunts the proud City, and the lowly Shade,
And sways alike the Sceptre and the Spade.
Thus Heaven in Pity wakes the friendly Flame,
urge Mankind on Deeds that merit Fame:
But Man, vain Man, in Folly only wife,
Rejects the Manna fent him from the Skies:
With raptures hears corrupted Paffion's call,
Still proudly prone to mingle with the stall.
As each deceitful Shadow tempts his view,
He for the imag'd Substance quits the true;
Eager to catch the vifionary Prize,
In queft of Glory plunges deep in Vice;
Till madly zealous, impotently vain,
He forfeits every Praise he pants to gain.
Thus ftill imperious Nature plies her part;
And still her Dictates work in every heart.
Each Power that fovereign Nature bids enjoy,
Man may corrupt, but Man can ne'er destroy.
Like mighty rivers, with refiftlefs force
The Paffions rage, obftructed in their course;
Swell to new heights, forbidden paths explore,
And drown thofe Virtues which they fed before.
And fure, the deadlieft Foe to Virtue's flame,
Our worst of Evils, is perverted Shame..
Beneath this load, what abject numbers groan,
Th' entangled Slaves to folly not their own!
Meanly by fashionable fear oppress'd,
We feek our Virtues in each other's breast;
Blind to ourselves, adopt each foreign Vice,
Another's weakness, interest, or caprice.
Each Fool to low Ambition, poorly great,
That pines in fplendid wretchedness of state,
Tir'd in the treacherous Chace, would nobly yield,
And, but for fhame, 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 driven, 75
Believes and trembles, while he fcoffs at Heaven.
By weakness strong, and bold through 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, Juftice, Heaven itself now quit their hold,
When to falfe Fame the captive Heart is fold:
Hence, blind to truth, relentlefs Cato dy'd ;
Nought could fubdue his Virtue, but his Pride.
Hence chaste 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 power: '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 rise;
Strikes towering Pride and lawless Rapine dead,
And plants the wreath on Virtue's awful head.
Nor boafts the Mufe a vain imagin'd Power,
Though oft the mourns thofe ills fhe cannot cure. 100
The Worthy court her, and the Worthless fear;
Who fhun her piercing eye, that eye revere.
Her awful voice the Vain and Vile obey,
And every foe to Wisdom feels her fway.
Smarts, Pedants, as fhe fmiles, no more are vain; 105
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.
Like the arm'd Bee, with art moft fubtly true,
From poisonous Vice she draws a healing dew:
Weak are the ties that civil arts can find,
To quell the ferment of the tainted mind:
Cunning evades, fecurely wrapp'd in wiles!
And Force ftrong-finew'd rends th' unequal toils:
'The stream of Vice impetuous drives along,
Too deep for Policy, for Power too strong.
Ev'n fair Religion, Native of the fkies,
Scorn'd by the Crowd, feeks refuge with the Wife;
The Crowd with laughter fpurns her awful train,
And Mercy courts, and Juftice frowns in vain.
But Satire's Shaft can pierce the harden'd breast:
She plays a ruling Paffion on the rest:
Undaunted forms the battery of his pride,
And awes the Brave that Earth and Heaven defy'd.
When fell Corruption, by her vaffals crown'd,
Derides fall'n Juftice proftrate on the ground;,
Swift to redrefs an injur'd People's groan,
Bold Satire hakes the Tyrant on her throne;
Powerful as Death, defies the fordid train,
And Slaves and Sycophants furround in vain.
But with the friends of Vice, the focs of Satire,
All truth is Spleen; all just reproof, Ill-nature.
Well may they dread the Mufe's fatal skill;
Well may they tremble when she draws her quill:
Her magic quill, that, like Ithuriel's spear,
Reveals the cloven hoof, or lengthen'd ear:
Bids Vice and Folly take their natural shapes,
Turns Ducheffes to ftrumpets, Beaux to apes;
Drags the vile Whisperer from his dark abode,
Till all the Dæmon starts up from the toad.
O fordid maxim, form'd to fcreen the vile,
That true good-nature still must wear a smile!
In frowns array'd her beauties ftronger rise,
When love of Virtue wakes her fcorn of Vice:
Where Juftice calls, 'tis Cruelty to fave;
And 'tis the Law's good-nature hangs the Knave.