the word; the cruel arrow fped, And Pope lies number'd with the mighty dead! Refign'd he fell; fuperior to the dart
That quench'd its rage in Your's and Britain's heart.
You mourn; but Britain, lull'd in rest profound,
(Unconscious Britain!) flumbers o'er her wound.
Exulting Dulness ey'd the setting light,
And flapp'd her wing, impatient for the night:
Rous'd at the signal, Guilt collects her train,
And counts the triumphs of her growing reign:
With inextinguishable rage they burn,
And fnake-hung Envy hiffes o'er his urn:
Th' envenom'd monsters fpit their deadly foam
To blaft the laurel that furrounds his tomb.
But you, O Warburton! whose eye refin'd
Can fee the greatness of an honeft mind;
Can fee each virtue and each grace unite,
And tafte the raptures of a pure delight;
You vifit oft' his awful page
And view that bright affemblage treafur'd there;
You trace the chain that links his deep design,
And pour new luftre on the glowing line.
Yet deign to hear the efforts of a Mufe
Whofe eye, not wing, his ardent flight pursues:
Intent from this great archetype to draw
Satire's bright form, and fix her equal law;
Pleas'd if from hence th' unlearn'd may comprehend,
And rev'rence his and Satire's gen'rous end.
In ev'ry breaft there burns an active flame,
The love of glory, or the dread of shame:
The paffion one, tho' various it appear,
As brighten'd into hope, or dimm'd by fear.
The lifping infant and the hoary fire,
And youth and manhood, feel the heart-born fire:
The charms of praise the coy, the modest, woo,
And only fly that glory may pursue :
She, pow'r refiftlefs, rules the wise and great,
Bends e'en reluctant hermits at her feet;
Haunts the proud city and the lowly shade,
And sways alike the fceptre and the spade.
Thus Heav'n in pity wakes the friendly flame,
To urge mankind on deeds that merit fame :
But man, vain man! in folly only wise,
Rejects the manna fent him from the skies;
With rapture hears corrupted Paffion's call,
Still proudly prone to mingle with the ftall.
As each deceitful fhadow tempts his view,
He for the imag'd fubftance quits the true;
Eager to catch the visionary prize,
In queft of glory plunges deep in vice;
Till madly zealous, impotently vain,
He forfeits ev'ry praife he pants to gain.
Thus ftill imperious Nature plies her part,
And still her dictates work in ev'ry heart.
Each pow'r that sov'reign Nature bids enjoy
Man may corrupt, but man can ne'er destroy :
Like mighty rivers, with refiftless force
The paffions rage, obftructed in their course;
Swell to new heights, forbidden paths explore,
And drown those virtues which they fed before.
And fure the deadlieft foe to virtue's flame,
Or worst of evils, is perverted fhame:
Beneath this load what abject numbers groan,
Th' entangled flaves to folly not their own!
Meanly by fashionable fear oppreft,
We feek our virtues in each other's breaft;
Blind to ourselves, adopt each foreign vice,
Another's weakness, int'reft, or caprice.
Each fool to low ambition, poorly great,
That pines in fplendid wretchedness of state,
Tir'd in the treach'rous chafe, would nobly yield,
And, but for fhame, like Sylla, quit the field:
The dæmon Shame paints ftrong the ridicule,
And whispers clofe," The world will call you fool."
Behold yon' wretch, by impious fashion driv'n,
Believes and trembles while he fcoffs at Heav'n.
By weakness ftrong, and bold thro' fear alone,
He dreads the fneer by fhallow coxcombs thrown ;
Dauntless pursues the path Spinoza trod;
To man a coward, and a brave to God.
Faith, Juftice, Heav'n itself, now quit their hold,
When to falfe fame the captiv'd heart is fold:
Hence, blind to truth, relentless Cato dy'd;
Nought could fubdue his virtue but his pride:
Hence chafte Lucretia's innocence betray'd,
Fell by that honour which was meant its aid.
Thus Virtue finks beneath unnumber'd woes
When paffions, born her friends, revolt her foes.
Hence Satire's pow'r; 'tis her corrective part
To calm the wild diforders of the heart.
She points the arduous height where glory lies,
And teaches mad Ambition to be wife;
In the dark bofom wakes the fair defire,
Draws good from ill, a brighter flame from fire;
Strips black Oppreffion of her gay disguise,
And bids the hag in native horror rife;
Strikes tow'ring Pride and lawless Rapine dead,
And plants the wreath on Virtue's awful head.
Nor boasts the Mufe a vain imagin'd pow'r,
Tho oft' fhe mourns thofe ills fhe cannot cure.
The worthy court her, and the worthless fear;
Who fhun her piercing eye that eye revere.
Her awful voice the vain and vile obey,
And ev'ry foe to wifdom feels her fway.
Smarts, pedants, as fhe fmiles, no more are vain ;
Defponding fops resign the clouded cane :
Hush'd at her voice, pert Folly's felf is ftill,
And Dulness wonders while she drops her quill.
Like the arm'd bee, with art moft fubtly true,
From pois'nous vice the draws a healing dew.
Weak are the ties that civil arts can find
To quell the ferment of the tainted mind :
Cunning evades, fecurely wrapt in wiles,
And Force, ftrong-finew'd, rends th' unequal toils
The ftream of vice impetuous drives along,
Too deep for Policy, for Pow'r too strong.
E'en fair Religion, native of the skies,
Scorn'd by the crowd, feeks refuge with the wife;
The crowd with laughter fpurns her awful train,
And Mercy courts and Juftice frowns in vain.
But Satire's fhaft can pierce the harden'd breast ;
She plays a ruling passion on the rest;
Undaunted forms the batt'ry of his pride,
And awes the brave that earth and heav'n defy'd.
When fell Corruption, by her vassals crown'd,
Derides fall'n Justice, proftrate on the ground,
Swift to redrefs an injur'd peoples' groan,
Bold Satire fhakes the tyrant on her throne;
Pow'rful as Death, defies the fordid train,
And flaves and fycophants furround in vain.
But with the friends of Vice, the foes of Satire,
All truth is fpleen, all just reproof ill-nature.
Well may they dread the Mufe's fatal skill;
Well may they tremble when the drews her quill;
Her magic quill, that, like Ithuriel's fpear,
Reveals the cloven hoof or lengthen'd ear;
Bids Vice and Folly take their natʼral shapes,
Turns ducheffes to ftrumpets, beaus to apes;
Drags the vile whifp'rer from his dark abode,
Till all the dæmon starts up from the toad.
O fordid maxim, form'd to fcreen the vile,
That true Good-nature ftill muft wear a finile!
In frowns array'd her beauties stronger rise,
When love of virtue wakes her fcorn of vice.
Where juftice calls 'tis cruelty to fave,
And 'tis the law's good nature hangs the knave.
Who combats virtue's foe is virtue's friend;
Then judge of Satire's merit by her end :
To guilt alone her vengeance ftands confin'd;
The object of her love is all mankind.
Scarce more the friend of man, the wife must own,
E'en Allen's bounteous hand than Satire's frown:
This to chaftife, as that to bless, was giv'n,
Alike the faithful minifters of Heav'n.
Oft' in unfeeling hearts the fhaft is spent ;
Tho' ftrong th' example, weak the punishment.
VOL. I.
S
They leaft are paid who merit Satire moft;
Folly the Laureat's, vice was Chartres' boaft:
Then where's the wrong to gibbet high the name
of fools and knaves already dead to shame?
Oft' Satire acts the faithful Surgeon's part;
Gen'rous and kind, tho' painful, is her art:
With caution bold, fhe only strikes to heal,
Tho' Folly raves to break the friendly steel:
Then fure no fault impartial Satire knows,
Kind e'en in vengeance, kind to Virtues' foes.
Whofe is the crime the scandal too be theirs:
The Knave and Fool are their own libellers.
DARE nobly then: but, confcious of your
As ever warm and bold, be ever just;
Nor court applause in thefe degen'rate days:
The villain's cenfure is extorted praise.
But chief, be fteady in a noble end,
And fhew mankind that truth has yet a friend.
'Tis mean for empty praise of wit to write,
As foplings grin to fhow their teeth are white.
To brand a doubtful folly with a smile,
Or madly blaze unknown defects, is vile:
'Tis doubly vile when, but to prove your art,
You fix an arrow in a blameless heart.
O loft to Honour's voice, O doom'd to shame,
Thou fiend accurs'd, thou murderer of fame!
Fell ravisher, from innocence to tear
That name than liberty, than life, more dear!
Where fhall thy bafenefs meet its just return?
Or what repay thy guilt but endless scorn?
And know, immortal Truth fhall mock thy toil ;
Immortal Truth fhall bid the shaft recoil;
With rage retorted wing the deadly dart,
And empty all its poifon in thy heart.
With caution next the dang'rous pow'r apply;
An eagle's talon afks an eagle's eye:
Let Satire then her proper object know,
And ere the ftrike be fure the ftrike a foe.
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