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 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 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 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 purfues: 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
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 Modeft 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 sent 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 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 ftill her Dictates work in every heart,
Each Power that fovereign Nature bids enjoy,
Man may corrupt, but Man can ne'er deftroy.

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