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
On the low level of th' inglorious throng:
Sweet Peace, and heav'nly Hope, and humble Joy,
Divinely beam on his exalted foul;

Destruction gild, and crown him for the skies,
With incommunicable buftre bright.

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,
Ånd patronize a mufe you cannot fear;

To poets facred is a Dorfet's name,

Their wonted paffport thro' the gates of Fame;
It bribes the partial reader into praise,
And throws a glory round the shelter'd lays;
The dazzled judgment fewer faults can see,
And gives applaufe to B-e, or to me.

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,
And fly from bailiffs into parliament;

When dying finners, to blot out their score,
Bequeath the church the leavings of a whore;
To chafe our spleen when themes like these increase,
Shall Panegyric reign, and Censure cease?

Shall Poefy, like Law, turn wrong to right,
And dedications wash an Æthiop white,
Set up each fenfeless wretch for Nature's boast,
On whom praise fhines as trophies on a post?
Shall Funeral Eloquence her Colours spread,
And scatter rofes on the wealthy dead ?
Shall authors fmile on fuch illuftrious days,
And fatirize with nothing-but their praife?
Why flumbers Pope, who leads the tuneful train,
Nor hears that Virtue, which he loves, complain?
Donne, Dorfet, Dryden, Rochester, are dead,
And Guilt's chief foe in Addison is fled;
Congreve, who, crown'd with laurels fairly won,
Sits fmiling at the goal while others run,
He will not write; and (more provoking ftill!)
Ye Gods! he will not write, and Mævius will.
Doubly diftreft, what author fhall we find
Difcreetly daring, and feverely kind,
The courtly Roman's fhining path to tread,
And sharply fmile prevailing Folly dead?
Will no fuperior genius fnatch the quill,
And fave me, on the brink, from writing ill?
Tho' vain the ftrife, I'll ftrive my voice to raise.
What will not men attempt for facred Praise ?

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;
Now, trims the midnight lamp in college-cells.
'Tis Tory, Whig; it plots, prays, preaches, pleads,
Harangues in fenates, fqueaks in masquerades;
Here, to Se's humour makes a bold pretence;
There, bolder, aims at Pulteney's eloquence.
It aids the dancer's heel, the writer's head,
And heaps the plain with mountains of the dead;
Nor ends with life; but nods in fable plumes,
Adorns our herfe, and flatters on our tombs.

What is not proud? The Pimp is proud to fee
So many like himself in high degree:

The Whore is proud her beauties are the dread
Of peevish Virtue, and the marriage-bed;

And the brib'd Cuckold, like crown'd victims born
To flaughter, glories in his gilded horn.

Some go to church, proud humbly to repent,
And come back much more guilty than they went.
One way they look, another way they steer,
Pray to the gods, but would have mortals hear;
And when their fins they fet fincerely down,
They'll find that their religion has been one.

Others with wifhful eyes on Glory look,
When they have got their picture towards a book.
Or pompous Title, like a gaudy fign

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,