Wide and more wide her flaming bolts are hurl'd,
Till all her wrath involves the guilty World.
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 joy fhe fees the stream of Roman art
From MURRAY's tongue flow purer to the heart:
Sees YORKE to Fame, ere yet to Manhood known,
And just to ev'ry Virtue but his own:
Hears unftain'd CAM with gen'rous 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 Shade directs her view;
And culls each flow'r, to form a Wreath for You.
But tread with cautious ftep this dangerous ground,
Beset with faithlefs precipices round:
Truth be your guide: difdain Ambition's call;
And if you fall with Truth, you greatly fall.
'Tis Virtue's native luftre that must shine;
The Poet can but set it in his line:
And who unmov'd with laughter can behold
And all your wit, your most distinguish'd art,
But make us grieve you want an honest heart.
Nor think the Mufe by SATIRE's Law confin'd:
She yields defcription of the noblest kind.
Inferior art the Landscape may defign,
And paint the purple ev'ning in the line:
Her daring thought effays 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 rise ;
Now with a touch more facred and refin'd,
Call forth a CHESTERFIELD's or LONSDALE's mind.
Here fweet or ftrong may ev'ry Colour flow:
Here let the pencil warm, the canvass glow:
Of light and shade provoke the noble strife,
And wake each striking feature into life.
THROUGH
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 fhafts, and urge their flight.
First 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 faulchion 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 gen❜rous fire; For SATIRE's bow refign'd the founding lyre:
"Archilochum proprio rabies armavit Iambo."
"Enfe velut ftricto quoties Lucilius ardens
Infremuit, rubet auditor cui frigida mens eft
Criminibus, tacita fudant præcordia culpa."
"Omne vafer vitium ridenti Flaccus amico
Tangit, et admiffus circum præcordia ludit,
Callidus excuffo populum fufpendere nafo."
Each arrow polifh'd in his hand was feen,
And, as it grew more polish'd, grew more keen.
His art, conceal'd in study'd negligence,
Politely fly, cajol'd the foes of fense:
He seem'd to sport and trifle with the dart,
But while he sported, drove it to the heart.
In graver ftrains majestic PERSIUS wrote,
Big with a ripe exuberance of thought:
Greatly fedate, contemn'd a Tyrant's reign,
And lafh'd Corruption with a calm difdain.
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 thund'ring from on high,
Rent the proud rock that lately brav'd the sky.
But lo! the fatal Victor of Mankind!
Swoln Luxury!-pale Ruin ftalks behind!
As countless Infects from the north-east pour,
To blaft the Spring, and ravage ev'ry flow'r :
So barb'rous Millions fpread contagious death:
The fick'ning Laurel wither'd at their breath.
Deep Superftition's night the skies o’erhung,
Beneath whofe baleful dews the Poppy sprung.
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 fhot her ray,
Dawn'd in the skies, and spoke returning day.
Now, SATIRE, triumph o'er thy flying foe,
Now, load thy quiver, ftring thy flacken'd bow!
'Tis done!-See, great ERASMUS breaks the fpell,
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 rofe, His Wit harmonious, 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 Muse records her Country's fhame,) Ere Britain faw the foul revolt commence, 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 fantastic, 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 blufh'd to fing: 'Twas all his praife to fay," the oddeft thing." Proud for a jeft obscene, a Patron's nod, To martyr Virtue, or blafpheme his God.
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