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Fancy and Sense to form his line conspire,
But see, at length, the British Genius smile,
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 strength, and manly rage. Despairing Guilt and Dulness loath the sight,
455 As Spectres vanith at approaching light: In this clear Mirror with delight we view Each Image justly fine, and boldly true : Here Vice, dragg'd forth by Truth's fupreme decree, Beholds and hates her own deformity; While self-seen Virtue in the faithful line With modest joys surveys her form divine. But oh, what thoughts, what numbers shall I find, But faintly to express the Poet's mind ! Who yonder Stars effulgence can display, 465 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 ftrove, 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;
47 $ The bard enraptur'd caught the heavenly flame:
With taste superior scorn'd the venal tribe,
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 ! 510 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 honest 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 shrine ; Urge, urge thy power, the black attempt confound, And dash the smoaking Censer to the ground. Thus aw'd to fear, instructed Bards That guilt is doom'd to sink in Infamy.