The Works of the English Poets: Pope

That quench'd its rage in Yours and Britain's Heart:
You mourn: but Britain, lull'd in reft 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! whofe eye refin'd
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 visit oft his awful Page with Care,
And view that bright affemblage 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;
B 2

Pleas'd

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
As brighten'd into Hope, or dimm'd by Fear.
The lifping Infant, and the hoary Sire,

appear,

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 refiftlefs, rules the wife and great;
Bends ev'n reluctant Hermits at her feet;
Haunts the proud City, and the lowly Shade,
And fways alike the Sceptre and the Spade.

Thus Heaven in Pity wakes the friendly Flame,
To
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 Subftance quits the true;
Eager to catch the visionary 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, obstructed 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 opprefs'd,
We feek our Virtues in each other's breast;
Blind to ourselves, adopt each foreign Vice,
Another's weaknefs, intereft, 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 whifpers clofe, "The World will call you
Behold yon Wretch, by impious fashion driven,
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.

Fool."

Faith, Justice, Heaven itself now quit their hold,
When to falfe Fame the captiv'd Heart is fold:
Hence, blind to truth, relentless Cato dy'd;
Nought could fubdue his Virtue, but his Pride.
Hence chafte Lucretia's Innocence betray'd
Fell by that Honour which was meant its aid.

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