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the word; the cruel arrow sped ; And POPE lies number'd with the mighty



Refign'd he fell; fuperior to the dart,

That quench'd its rage in YOURS and BRITAIN'S

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:
Rouz'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 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 vifit 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 25
SATIRE'S bright Form, and fix her equal Law;
Pleas'd if from hence th' unlearn'd may compre-

And rev'rence HIS and SATIRE's gen'rous End.

IN ev'ry Breast there burns an active flame, The Love of Glory, or the Dread of Shame: 30 The Paffion ONE, tho' various it appear, As brighten'd into Hope, or dimm'd by Fear. The lisping Infant, and the hoary Sire,

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 : 36 She, Pow'r refiftlefs, 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 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 stall. As each deceitful fhadow 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 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, 55 Man may corrupt, but Man can ne'er destroy. Like mighty rivers, with refiftless force The Paffions rage, obftructed 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 Shame. Beneath this load what abject numbers groan, Th' entangled Slaves to folly not their own! Meanly by fashionable fear oppress'd, We seek our Virtues in each other's breaft; Blind to ourselves, adopt each foreign Vice, Another's weakness, int'rest, or caprice. Each Fool to low Ambition, poorly great, That pines in fplendid wretchedness of state, 70 Tir'd in the treach'rous Chafe, would nobly yield, And, but for Shame, like SYLLA, quit the field : The Dæmon Shame paints ftrong the ridicule, And whispers clofe," the World will call you Fool."

Behold yon Wretch, by impious fashion driv'n, Believes and trembles while he fcoffs 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.




VER. 80. To Man a Coward, etc.]

Vois tu ce Libertin en public intrepide,
Qui preche contre un Dieu que dans fon Ame il croit?
Il iroit embraffer la Verité, qu'il voit ;

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Faith, Juftice, 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 could fubdue his Virtue, but his Pride. Hence chafte Lucretia's Innocence betray'd 85 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 Muse a vain imagin'd Pow'r, Tho' oft fhe mourn thofe ills fhe cannot cure. 100


Mais de fes faux Amis il craint la Raillerie,
Et ne brave ainfi Dieu que par Poltronnerie.

BOILEAU, Ep. iii.

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