PART III. HRO' Ages thus has SATIRE keenly fhin'd, Yet the bright flame from Virtue ne'er had fprung, And Man was guilty ere the Poet fung. This Mufe in filence joy'd each better Age, 365 Till glowing crimes had wak'd her into rage. 370 374 Then fportive HORACE caught the gen'rous fire; For SATIRE's bow refign'd the founding lyre : Hor. a Archilochum proprio rabies armavit Iambo. b_Enfe velut ftricto quoties Lucilius ardens Infremuit, rubet auditor cui frigida mens eft Criminibus, tacita fudant præcordia culpa. Juv. S. i. c Omne vafer vitium ridenti Flaccus amico Tangit, et admiffus circum præcordia ludit, Callidus excuffo populum fufpendere nafo. Perf. S. i. Each arrow polish'd in his hand was feen, Politely fly, cajol'd the foes of fense: He feem'd to fport and trifle with the dart, In graver ftrains majestic PERSIUS wrote, Big with a ripe exuberance of thought: Greatly fedate, condemn'd a Tyrant's reign, And lafh'd Corruption with a calm difdain. More ardent eloquence, and boundless rage, 380 385 390 395 But lo! the fatal Victor of Mankind, Swoln Luxury! pale Ruin stalks behind! As countless Infects from the north-east pour, To blaft the Spring, and ravish ev'ry flow'r : So barb'rous Millions fpread contagious death : The fick'ning Laurel wither'd at their breath. Deep Superstition's night the skies o'erhung, Beneath whose baleful dews the Poppy sprung. 400 No longer Genius woo'd the Nine to love, But Dulness nodded in the Mufe's grove: Wit, Spirit, Freedom, were the fole offence, 405 At length, again fair Science fhot her ray, Dawn'd in the skies, and spoke returning day. Now, SATIRE, triumph o'er thy flying foe, Now load thy quiver, ftring thy flacken'd bow ! "Tis done See great ERASMUS breaks the fpell, And wounds triumphant Folly in her Cell! (In vain the folemn Cowl surrounds her face, Vain all her bigot cant, her four grimace) With fhame compell'd her leaden throne to quit, And own the force of Reason urg'd by Wit. 410 414 "Twas then plain DONNE in honeft vengeance rofe, His Wit harmonious, tho' his Rhyme was profe: He midft an Age of Puns and Pedants wrote With genuine fenfe, and Roman ftrength of thought. Yet fcarce had SATIRE well relum'd her flame, (With grief the Muse records her Country's fhamé) Ere Britain faw the foul revolt commence, And treach❜rous Wit began her war with Senfe. Then rofe a shameless mercenary train, Whom latest Time shall view with just disdain: A race fantastic, in whofe gaudy line Untutor'd thought, and tinfel beauty fhine; Wit's fhatter'd Mirror lies in fragment's bright, Reflects not Nature, but confounds the fight. 425 Dry Morals the Court-Poet blush'd to fing :' "Twas all his praise to fay," the oddeft thing." 43 Proud for a jest obscene, a Patron's nod, To martyr Virtue, or blafpheme his God. Ill-fated DRYDEN! who unmov'd can fee Th' extremes of wit and meanness join'd in Theet- A Mufe whom Wisdom woo'd, but woo'd in vain, More happy France: immortal BOILEAU there 445 But fee, at length, the British Genius smile, And centers ev'ry Poet's pow'r in one: Despairing Guilt and Dulnefs loath the fight, Here Vice, drag'd forth by Truth's fupreme decree, While felf-feen Virtue in the faithful line 460 But oh, what thoughts, what numbers (hall I find, 465 Who paint a God, unless the God infpire? Each Mufe for thee with kind contention ftrove, 475 480 |