Yet Satire oft affumes a gentler mien,
And beams on Virtue's friends a smile ferene!
She wounds reluctant; pours her balm with joy;
Glad to commend where worth attracts her eye.
But chief, when Virtue, Learning, Arts decline,
She joys to fee unconquer'd merit shine;
Where bursting glorious, with departing ray,
True Genius gilds the clofe of Britain's Day:
With joys the fees the stream of Roman art
From Murray's tongue flow purer to the heart:
Sees Yorke to fame, ere yet to Manhood known, 325 And just to every virtue, but his own;
Hears unftain'd Cam with generous pride proclaim
A Sage's, Critic's, and a Poet's name:
Beholds, where Widcombe's happy hills afcend,
Each orphan'd Art and Virtue find a friend :
To Hagley's honour'd fhade directs her view;
And culls each flower to form a Wreath for you.
But tread with cautious ftep this dangerous ground,
Befet with faithlefs precipices round:
Truth be your guide: disdain Ambition's call;
And if you fall with Truth, you greatly fall.
'Tis Virtue's native luftre that must shine;
The Poet can but fet it in his line:
And who unmov'd with laughter can behold
A fordid pebble meanly grac'd with gold?
Let real Merit then adorn your lays,
For Shame attends on prostituted praise :
And all your wit, your most distinguish'd art,
But makes us grieve you want an honeft heart.
Nor think the Mufe by Satire's Law confin'd:
She yields defcription of the noblest kind.
Inferior art the Landscape may design,
And paint the purple evening in the line:
Her daring thought essays a higher plan;
Her hand delineates Paffion, pictures Man.
And great the toil, the latent foul to trace,
To paint the heart, and catch internal grace;
By turns bid Vice or Virtue strike our eyes,
Now bid a Wolfey or a Cromwell rife;
Now, with a touch more facred and refin'd,
Call forth a Chesterfield's or Lonfdale's mind.
Here sweet or strong may every Colour flow,
Here let the pencil warm, the canvass glow:
Of light and shade provoke the noble strife,
And wake each ftriking feature into life.
HROUGH Ages thus has Satire keenly fhin'd, The Friend to Truth, to Virtue, and Mankind: 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,
Till glowing crimes had wak'd her into rage.
Truth faw her honeft fpleen with new delight,
And bade her wing her shafts, and urge their flight. Firft on the Sons of Greece fhe prov'd her art,
And Sparta felt the fierce Iambic dart.
To Latium next, avenging Satire flew :
The flaming falchion rough Lucilius drew;
With dauntless warmth in Virtue's caufe engag'd,
And confcious Villains trembled as he rag'd.
Then sportive Horace caught the generous fire; 375 For Satire's bow refign'd the founding lyre:
Each arrow polifh'd in his hand was seen,
And, as it grew more polish'd, grew more keen.
His art, conceal'd in ftudy'd negligence,
Politely fly, cajol'd the foes of sense :
He feem'd to sport and trifle with the dart,
But, while he fported, drove it to the heart.
In graver ftrains majeftic Perfius wrote,
Big with a ripe exuberance of thought:
Greatly fedate, contemn'd a Tyrant's reign,
And lafh'd Corruption with a calm disdain.
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;
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 Infects from the north-east pour,
To blaft the Spring, and ravage every flower:
So barbarous Millions spread contagious death:
The fickening Laurel wither'd at their breath.
Deep Superftition's night the skies o'erhung,
Beneath whose baleful dews the Poppy fprung.
No longer Genius woo'd the Nine to love,
But Dulness nodded in the Mufe's grove :
Wit, Spirit, Freedom, were the fole offence,
Nor aught was held fo dangerous as Sense.
At length, again fair Science shot her ray,
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 Erafmus breaks the spell,
And wounds triumphant Folly in her Cell!
(In vain the folemn Cowl furrounds her face,
Vain all her bigot cant, her four grimace)
With fhame compell'd her leaden throne to quit,
And own the force of Reafon urg'd by Wit.
'Twas then plain Donne in honeft vengeance rose, His Wit harmonious, though his Rhyme was profe: VOL. II.
He 'midft an Age of Puns and Pedants wrote
With genuine sense, and Roman ftrength of thought.
Yet fcarce had Satire well relum'd her flame,
(With grief the Muse records her Country's shame) 420-
Ere Britain faw the foul revolt commence,
And treacherous Wit began her war with Senfe.
Then rofe a fhameless mercenary train,
Whom latest Time fhall view with just disdain:
A race fantastic, in whose gaudy line
Untutor'd thought and tinsel beauty shine:
Wit's fhatter'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.”
Proud for a jeft obfcene, 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 Thee!
Flames that could mount, and gain their kindred skies,
Low creeping in the putrid fink of vice:
A Mufe 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 fcorn of honeft fame;
And Genius rife, a Monument of fhame!
More happy France: immortal Boileau there
Supported Genius with a Sage's care:
Him with her love propitious Satire bleft,
And breath'd her airs divine into his breast:
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