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JOHN BROWN, A. M., afterwards D.D. and author of the following Essay on Satire, is also advantageously known to the literary public by several other works, and particularly by his Essays on the Characteristics of Lord Shaftesbury, of which there have been many editions. Another work of his, which obtained still greater popularity, was his "Estimate of the Manners and Principles of the Times," where he endeavoured, by the severity of his invective against the indolence and selfishness of his countrymen, to rouse them to useful and honourable exertion, in which noble and patriotic attempt he is supposed to have had considerable success. His Tragedy of Barbarossa was brought forwards with great advantage by Garrick, and for some time kept possession of the stage. He also wrote a poem, intitled "Honour," addressed to Lord Lonsdale, and an ode intitled "The Cure of Saul," which was set to music and performed as an oratorio. The former of these may be found in the third volume of Dodsley's Collection of Poems, and the latter in the second volume of the supplemental collection of Pearch. Many other pieces of his are enumerated in the Biographia Britannica, where a further account of the circumstances of his life, and of its unhappy termination, may be found.

To the character of Dr. Brown, both moral and intellectual, the following piece does great credit; and in the situation where it is now placed, it may serve as no unsuitable introduction to the Satires of Pope, as it contains sound principles and correct critical opinions, and is upon the whole one of the best imitations of the style and manner of Pope that have hitherto appeared.

PART 1.

FATE gave the word; the cruel arrow sped; And POPE lies number'd with the mighty dead! Resign'd he fell; superior 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 !) slumbers o'er her wound. Exulting Dulness eyed the setting light,

And flapp'd her wing, impatient for the night;
Roused at the signal, Guilt collects her train,
And counts the triumphs of her growing reign; 10
With inextinguishable rage they burn,

And snake-hung ENVY hisses o'er his urn;
Th' envenom'd monsters spit their deadly foam,
To blast the laurel that surrounds his tomb.

But you, O WARBURTON! whose eye refined 15
Can see the greatness of an honest mind;
Can see 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 treasured there;
You trace the chain that links his deep design,
And pour new lustre on the glowing line.
Yet deign to hear the efforts of a Muse,

Whose eye, not wing, his ardent flight pursues:

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