'Twas then plain DONNE in honeft vengeance rose, His wit refulgent, tho' his rhyme was profe:

He 'midft an age of puns and pedants wrote

With genuine sense, and Roman strength of thought.

Yet fcarce had SATIRE well relum'd her flame, (With grief the Mufe records her country's fhame) Ere Britain faw the foul revolt commence,

405

And treach❜rous Wit began her war with Sense.
Then 'rofe a fhameless, mercenary train,
Whom latest time shall view with just disdain :
A race fantastick, in whofe gaudy line
Untutor'd thought, and tinfel beauty fhine;
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 oddeft thing."
Proud for a jeft obfcene, a patron's nod,

410

415

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 !

420

Flames that cou'd 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 pow'r, the prostitute to gain :

Wreaths, that shou'd deck fair Virtue's form alone,

425

To ftrumpets, traitors, tyrants, vilely thrown:
Unrival'd parts, the fcorn of honest fame;

And genius rife, a monument of shame!

More happy France: immortal BOILEAU there
Supported genius with a fage's care:

Him with her love propitious SATIRE bleft,
And breath'd her airs divine into his breast :
Fancy and sense to form his line confpire,
And faultlefs judgment guides the pureft fire.
But fee, at length, the British Genius fmile,
And show'r her bounties o'er her favour'd isle :
Behold for POPE fhe twines the laurel crown,
And centers ev'ry poet's pow'r in one:
Each Roman's force adorns his various page;
Gay fmiles, collected ftrength, and manly rage.
Defpairing Guilt and Dulness loath the fight,
As spectres vanish at approaching light:
In this clear mirror with delight we view

430

435

440

Each image juftly fine, and boldly true:

Here Vice, drag'd forth by Truth's fupreme decree,
Beholds and hates her own deformity:

445

While felf-feen Virtue in the faithful line

With modeft joy furveys her form divine.

But oh, what thoughts, what numbers fhall I find,

But faintly to express the poet's mind!

450

Who yonder star's effulgence can display,

Unless he dip his pencil in the ray?

Who paint a god, unless the god infpire?

What catch the lightning, but the speed of fire?
So, mighty POPE, to make thy genius known,
All pow'r is weak, all numbers

455

but thy own.

Each

Each Mufe for thee with kind contention ftrové;
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 majestick Wisdom came;
The bard enraptur'd caught the heav'nly flame:
With tafte fuperior scorn'd the venal tribe,
Whom fear can fway, or guilty greatness bribe;
At fancy's call who rear the wanton fail,
Sport with the ftream, 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 blefs mankind with Virtue's facred store;
A nobler joy than wit can give, impart ;
And pour a moral transport o'er the heart.
Fantastick wit shoots momentary fires,

460

465

470

And like a meteor, while we gaze, expires:
Wit kindled by the fulph'rous breath of Vice,

475

Like the blue lightning, while it shines, destroys:

But genius, fir'd by truth's eternal ray,

Burns clear and conftant, like the fource of day:

Like this, its beam prolifick and refin'd

Feeds, warms, infpirits, and exalts the mind;

480

Mildly dispels each wint'ry paffion's gloom,

And opens all the virtues into bloom.

This praise, immortal POPE, to thee be giv❜n:

Thy genius was indeed a gift from heav'n.

VOL. III.

Y

Hail,

Hail, bard unequall'd, in whofe deathlefs line
Reafon and wit with ftrength collected shine :
Where matchlefs wit but wins the second praise,
Loft, nobly lost, in truth's fuperior blaze.

485

Did FRIENDSHIP e'er mislead thy wand'ring Muse?
That friendship fure may plead the great excufe:
That facred friendship which infpir'd thy fong,
Fair in defect, and amiably wrong.

490

Error like this ev'n truth can scarce reprove;
"Tis almoft virtue when it flows from love.

Ye deathless names, ye fons 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, infpir'd by You,
The daring Mufe a nobler path purfue,
By You infpir'd, on trembling pinion foar,
The facred founts of focial blifs explore,
In her bold numbers chain the tyrant's rage,
And bid her country's glory fire her page:
If fuch her fate, do thou, fair Truth, defcend,
And watchful guard her in an honest end:

495

500

505

Kindly fevere, inftruct her equal line

To court no friend, nor own a foe but thine.

But if her giddy eye fhould vainly quit

Thy facred paths, to run the maze of wit;

510

If her apoftate heart fhou'd e'er incline
To offer incenfe at Corruption's fhrine;

Urge,

1

Urge, urge thy pow'r, the black attempt confound,
And dash the fmoaking cenfer to the ground.
Thus aw'd to fear, inftructed bards may fee,
That guilt is doom'd to fink in infamy.

XXXXX

515

XXXXXXXX

A Character of Mr. POPE'S WRITINGS.

BEING

An Episode from the Poem call'd SICKNESS, Book II.

By the Rev. Mr. THOMPSON.

In meafur'd time:

(So heav'n has will'd) together with their fnows,

The everlafting hills fhall melt away:

This folid globe diffolve, as ductile wax

Before the breath of Vulcan; like a scroll

Shrivel th' unfolded curtains of the sky;

Thy planets, NEWTON, tumble from their spheres;
The moon be perish'd from her bloody orb;
The fun himself, in liquid ruin, rush

And deluge with deftroying flames the globe-
Peace then, my foul, nor grieve that POPE is dead.
If e'er the tuneful fpirit, fweetly strong,
Spontaneous numbers, teeming in my breast,