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More ardent eloquence, and boundless rage,
Inflame bold Juvenal's exalted page,
His mighty numbers aw'd corrupted Rome,
And swept audacious greatness to its doom ;

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The headlong torrent, thundering from on high,
Rent the proud rock that lately brav’d the sky.

But lo! the fatal Victor of Mankind,
Swoln Luxury !--pale Ruin stalks behind!
As countless Insects from the north-east pour,

395 To blast the Spring, and ravage every

flower:
So barbarous Millions spread contagious death :
The fickening Laurel wither'd at their breath.
Deep Superstition's night the skies o'erhung,
Beneath whose baleful dews the Poppy sprung,
No longer Genius woo'd the Nine to love,
But Dulness nodded in the Muse's grove :
Wit, Spirit, Freedom, were the sole offence,
Nor aught was held so dangerous as Sense.

At length, again fair Science shot her ray, 405
Dawn'd in the skies, and spoke returning day.
Now, Satire, triumph o'er thy flying foe,
Now load thy quiver, string thy flacken’d bow!
'Tis done- See great Erasmus breaks the spell,
And wounds triumphant Folly in her Cell! 410
(In vain the solemn Cowl surrounds her face,
Vain all her bigot cant, her four grimace)
With same compellid her leaden throne to quit,
And own the force of Reason urg'd by Wit.

'Twas then plain Donne in honest vengeance rose, His Wit harmonious, though his Rhyme was profe: VOL. II.

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He 'midst an Age of Puns and Pedants wrote
With genuine sense, and Roman strength of thought.

Yet scarce had Satire well relum'd her flame,
(With grief the Muse records her Country's shame) 420
Ere Britain saw the foul revolt commence,
And treacherous Wit began her war with Sense.
Then rose a shameless mercenary train,
Whom latest Time fhall view with just disdain :
A race fantastic, in whose gaudy line

425 Untutor'd thought and tinsel beauty shine: Wit's shatter'd Mirror lies in fragments bright, Reflects not Nature, but confounds the fight. Dry Morals the Court-Poet blush'd to fing; 'Twas all his praise to say “the oddest thing." 430 Proud for a jest obscene, a Patron's nod, To martyr Virtue, or blaspheme his God.

Ill-fated Dryden! who unmov'd can see Th’ extremes of wit and meanness join'd in Thee ! Flames that could mount, and gain their kindred skies, Low creeping in the putrid fink of vice : A Muse whom Wisdom woo'd, but woo'd in vain, The Pimp of Power, the Prostitute to Gain : Wreaths, that should deck fair Virtue's form alone, To Strumpets, Traitors, Tyrants, vilely thrown :

440 Unrival'd Parts, the scorn of honest fame; And Genius rise, a Monument of shame!

More happy France: immortal Boileau there
Supported Genius with a Sage's care:
Him with her love propitious Satire bleft,

445 And breath'd her airs divine into his breast :

:

:

Fancy

Fancy and Sense to form his line conspire,
And faultless Judgment guides the purest Fire.

But see, at length, the British Genius smile,
And shower her bounties o'er her favour'd Ile :

450 Behold for Pope she twines the laurel crown, And centers every Poet's power in one: Each Roman's force adorns his various page; Gay smiles, collected ftrength, and manly rage. Despairing Guilt and Dulness loath the fight, .455 As Spectres vanish at approaching light : In this clear Mirror with delight we view Each Image juftly fine, and boldly true : Here Vice, dragg’d forth by Truth’s fupreme decree, Beholds and hates her own deformity;

460 While self-seen Virtue in the faithful line With modest joys surveys her form divine. But oh, what thoughts, what numbers fhail I find, But faintly to express the Poet's mind! Who yonder Stars effulgence can display, Unless he dip his pencil in the ray? Who paint a God, unless the God inspire ? What catch the lightning, but the speed of fire? So, mighty Pope, to make thy Genius known, All power

is weak, all numbers- but thy own. 470 Each Muse for thee with kind contention strove, For thee the Graces left th' Idalian grove; With watchful fondness o'er thy cradle hung, Attun'd thy voice, and form'd thy infant tongue. Next, to her Bard majestic Wisdom came; 473 The bard enraptur'd caught the heavenly Aame : C 2

With

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With taste superior scorn'd the venal tribe,
Whom fear can sway, or guilty greatness bribe;
At Fancy's call who rear the wanton fail,
Sport with the stream, and trifle in the gale :
Sublimer views thy daring Spirit bound;
Thy mighty Voyage was Creation's round;
Intent new Worlds of Wisdom to explore,
And bless Mankind with Virtue's facred store

;
A nobler joy than Wit can give, impart :
And

pour moral transport o'er the heart.
Fantastic Wit shoots momentary fires,
And, like a meteor, while we gaze, expires :
Wit kindled by the sulphurous breath of Vice,
Like the blue lightning, while it shines, destroys :

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But Genius, fir'd by Truth's eternal ray,
Burns clear and constant, like the source of day :
Like this its beam, prolific and refin'd,
Feeds, warms, inspirits, and exalts the mind;
Mildly dispels each wintery Passion's gloom,

495 And opens all the Virtues into bloom. This praise, immortal Pope, to thee be given. Thy Genius was indeed a Gift from Heaven. Hail, Bard unequal'd, in whose deathless line Reason and wit with strength collected shine ;

500 Where matchless Wit but wins the second praise, Loft, nobly loft, in Truth's superior blaze. Did Friendship e’er mislead thy wandering Muse ? That Friendship sure may plead the great excuse : That sacred Friendship which inspir'd thy Song, 905 Fair in defect, and amiably wrong.

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Error like this ev'n Truth can scarce reprove; 'Tis almost Virtue when it flows from Love.

Ye deathless Names, ye Sons of endless praise, By Virtue crown'd with never-fading bays ! Say, shall an artless Muse, if you inspire, Light her pale lamp at your immortal fire ? Or if, o Warburton, inspir’d by You, The daring Muse a nobler path pursue, By You inspir’d, on trembling pinions foar, 515 The sacred founts of social bliss explore, In her bold numbers chain the Tyrant's rage, And bid her Country's glory fire her page : If such her fate, do thou, fair Truth, descend, And watchful guard her in an honeft end :

520 Kindly severe, instruct her equal line To court no Friend, nor own a Foe but thine. But if her giddy eye should vainly quit Thy sacred paths, to run the maze of wit; If her apostate heart should e'er incline

525 To offer incense at Corruption's fhrine ; Urge, urge thy power, the black attempt confound, And dash the smoaking Cenfer to the ground. Thus aw'd to fear, instructed Bards

may

see That guilt is doom'd to link in Infamy.

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