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THE manly Wit of Donne, which was the Character of his genius, suited best with Satire; and in this he excelled, tho' he wrote but little ; fix short poems being all we find amongst his writings of this fort. Mr. Pope has embellished two of them with his wit and harmony. He called it verlifying them, because indeed the lines have nothing more of numbers than their being composed of a certain quantity of syllables. This is the more to be admired, because, as appears by his other poems, and especially from that fine one called the Pregress of the Soul, his verse did not want harmony. But, I suppole, he took the sermoni propiora of Horace too seriously: or rather, was content with the character his master gives of Lu. cilius,

Emunctae naris durus componere versus. Having spoken of his Progress of the Soul, let me add, that Poetry never lost more than by his not pursuing and finishing that noble Design; of which he has only given us the Introduction. With regard to his Satires, it is almost as much to be lamented that Mr. Pope did not give us a Paraphrase, in his manner, of the Third, which treats the noblest subject not only of This, but perhaps of any satiric Poet. To supply this lofs, tho' in a very small degree, I have here inserted it, in the versification of Dr. Parnell. It will at least ferve to shew the force of Dr. Donne’s genius, and of Mr. Pope's; by removing all that was rustic and shocking in the one, and not being able to reach a single grace of the other. YOmpassion checks my spleen, yet Scorn denies The tears a passage thro'


swelling eyes;
To laugh or weep at sins, might idly show
Unheedful passion, or unfruitful woe.
Satire! arise, and try thy sharper ways,
If ever Satire cur'd an old disease.


Is not Religion (Heav'n-descended dame)
As worthy all our souls devoutest Alame,
As Moral Virtue in her early sway,
When the best Heathens saw by doubtful day?
Are not the joys, the promis'd joys above,
As great and strong to vanquish earthly love,
As earthly glory, fame, respect, and show,
As all rewards their virtue found below?
Alas ? Religion proper means prepares,

These means are ours, and must its End be theirs ?
And shall thy Father's fpirit meet the fight
Of Heathen Sages cloath'd in heav'nly light,
Whose Merit of striet life, feverely suited
To Reason's dictates, may be faith imputed?
Whilst thou, to whom he taught the nearer road,
Art ever banish'd from the blest abode.

Oh! if thy temper such a fear can find, This fear were valour of the noblest kind.

Dar'st thou provoke, when rebel souls aspire, 25 Thy Maker's Vengeance, and thy Monarch’s Ire? Or live entomb'd in ships, thy leader's prey, Spoil of the war, the famine, or the sea ? In search of pearl, in depth of ocean breathe, Or live, exil'd the sun, in mines beneath?

30 Or, where in tempests icy mountains roll, Attempt a passage by the Northern pole? Or dar'st thou parch within the fires of Spain, Or burn beneath the line, for Indian gain ?


Or for some Idol of thy Fancy draw,

35 Some loose-gown'd dame ; O courage made of straw ! Thus, desp’rate Coward! would'st thou bold appear, Yet when thy God has plac'd thee Centry here, To thy own foes, to bis, ignobly yield, And leave, for wars forbid, th' appointed field? 40

Know thy own foes; th' Apostate Angel, he
You strive to please, the foremost of the Three;
He makes the pleasures of his realm the bait,
But can be give for Love, that acts in Hate?
The World's thy second Love, thy fecond Foe, 45
The World, whose beauties perish as they blow,
They fly, she fades herself, and at the best
You grasp a wither'd strumpet to your breast,
The Flesh is next, which in fruition wastes,
High Aush'd with all the sensual joys it tastes, 50
While men the fair, the goodly Soul destroy,
From whence the flesh has pow'r to taste a joy.

Seekst thou Religion, primitively found -
Well, gentle friend, but where may she be found ?
By Faith Implicite blind Ignaro led,

Thinks the bright Seraph from his Country Aled,
And seeks her seat at Rome, because we know
She there was seen a thousand years ago;
And loves her Relick rags, as men obey
The foot-cloth where the Prince fat yesterday.

These pageant Forms are whining Obed's scorn, Who seeks Religion at Geneva born,


A sullen thing, whose coarseness suits the crowd,
Tho' young,

unhandsome; tho’unhandsome, proud: Thus, with the wanton, some perversely judge 65 All girls unhealthy but the Country drudge.

No foreign schemes make easy Cæpio roam,
The man contented takes his Church at home;
Nay should fome Preachers, servile bawds of gain,
Should some new Laws, which like new-fashions reign,
Command his faith to count Salvation ty'd 71
To visit his, and visit none beside,
He grants Salvation centers in his own,
And grants it centers but in his alone :
From youth to age he grasps the proffer'd dame, 75
And they confer his Faith, who give his Name :
So from the Guardian's hands, the Wards who live
Enthrall'd to Guardians, take the wives they give.

From all professions careless Airy flies,
For, all profesions can't be good, he cries,

And here a fault, and there another views,
And lives unfix'd for want of heart to chuse:
So men, who know what some loose girls have done,
For fear of marrying such, will marry none.

The Charms of all obsequious Courtly strike;
On each he doats, on each attends alike;
And thinks, as diff'rent countries deck the dame,
The dresses altering, and the sex the same ;
So fares Religion, chang'd in outward show,
But 'tis Religion still, where'er we go :


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This blindness springs from an excess of light,
And men embrace the wrong to chuse the right.

But thou of force must one Religion own,
And only one, and that the Right alone.
To find that Right one, ask thy Rev'rend Sire ; 95
Let him of his, and him of his enquire;
Tho' Truth and Falsbood seem as twins ally'd,
There's Eldership on Truth's delightful side,
Her seek with heed - who seeks the foundest First
Is not of No Religion, nor the worst.
T'adore, or scorn an Image, or protest,
May all be bad: doubt wisely for the best;
'Twere wrong to sleep, or headlong run aftray ;
It is not wand'ring, to inquire the way.
On a large mountain, at the Basis wide,

Steep to the top, and craggy at the side,
Sits facred Truth enthron'd; and he who means
To reach the summit, mounts with weary pains,
Winds round and round, and ev'ry turn efsays
Where sudden breaks resist the shorter ways.

Yet labour so, that, ere faint age arrive,
Thy searching foul possess her Rest alive;
To work by twilight were to work too late,
And Age is twilight to the night of fate.
To will alone, is but to mean delay ;

To work at present is the use of day,
For man's employ much thought and deed remain,
High Thoughts the Soul, hard deeds the body strain :

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