How our hearts burnt within us at the fcene! Whence this brave bound o'er limits fixt to man! His God fuftains him in his final hour! His final hour brings glory to his God! Man's glory Heav'n vouchfafes to call her own. We gaze; we weep; mixt tears of grief and joy! Amazement ftrikes! Devotion bursts to flame! Chriftians adore, and Infidels believe... As fome tall tow'r, or lofty mountain's brow, Detains the Sun, illuftrious from its height; While rifing vapours, and defcending fhades, With damps and darkness drown the fpacious vale; Undampt by Doubt, undarken'd by Despair, Philander, thus, auguftly rears his head, At that black hour, which gen'ral horror sheds Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies, SATIRE SATIRE I. Young's Satires were in higher reputation when published, than they ftand in at prefent. He feems fonder of dazzling than pleasing; of raising our admiration for his wit, than our dislike of the follies he ridicules. M Y verfe is Satire; Dorfet, lend your ear, To poets facred is a Dorfet's name, Their wonted paffport thro' the gates of Fame; But you decline the mistress we pursue! Others are fond of Fame, but Fame of you. Inftructive Satire, true to Virtue's cause! Thou fhining fupplement of public laws! When flatter'd crimes of a licentious age Reproach our filence and demand our rage; When purchas'd follies from each diftant land, Like arts, improve in Britain's skilful hand; When the law fhews her teeth, but dares not bite, And South-fea treasures are not brought to light; When Churchmen Scripture for the Claffics quit, Polite apoftates from God's Grace to Wit; When When men grow great from their revenue spent, When dying finners, to blot out their score, Shall Poefy, like Law, turn wrong to right, The The love of Praife, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns, more or lefs, and glows in ev'ry heart: The proud, to gain it, toils on toils endure; The modeft fhun it, but to make it fure. O'er globes and scepters, now, on thrones it fwells; What is not proud? The Pimp is proud to fee The Whore is proud her beauties are the dread And the brib'd Cuckold, like crown'd victims born Some go to church, proud humbly to repent, Others with wifhful eyes on Glory look, Meant to betray dull fots to wretched wine. If If at his Title T T had dropt his quill, might have pafs'd for a great genius ftill; But T, alas! (excufe him, if you can) Is now a fcribbler, who was once a man. Imperious, fome, a claffic Fame demand, For heaping up, with a laborious hand, A waggon-load of meanings for one word, While A's depos'd, and B with pomp restor❜d. Some, for Renown, on fcraps of learning dote, And think they grow immortal as they quote. To patch-work learn'd quotations are ally'd; Both ftrive to make our Poverty our Pride. On Glafs how witty is a noble peer? Did ever diamond coft a man fo dear? Polite difeafes make fome idiots vain, Which, if unfortunately well, they feign. On death-beds fome in confcious glory lie, Since of the doctor in the mode they die; Whofe wond'rous skill is, headfman-like, to know, For better pay to give a furer blow. Of Folly, Vice, Difeafe, men proud we fee; And (ftranger ftill) of blockhead's flattery, Whose praise defames; as if a fool should mean, By spitting on your face, to make it clean. Nor is't enough all hearts are fwol'n with Pride, Her paw'r is mighty, as her realm is wide. What can fhe not perform? The love of Fame Made bold Alphonfus his Creator blame, Empedocles hurl'd down the burning fteep, And (ftronger ftill !) made Alexander weep. Nay, |