PART I.

FATE gave

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 YOURS and BRITAIN'S Heart:

You mourn but BRITAIN, lull'd in rest profound, 5 (Unconscious BRITAIN!) flumbers o'er her wound. Exulting Dulnefs ey'd the fetting Light,

And flapp'd her wing, impatient for the Night:
Rouz'd at the fignal, Guilt collects her train,
And counts the Triumphs of her growing Reign: 10
With inextinguishable rage they burn;

And Snake-hung ENVY hiffes o'er his Urn :
Th' envenom'd Monsters spit their deadly foam,
To blaft the Laurel that furrounds his Tomb.

'But You, O WARBURTON! whofe eye refin'd 15 Can fee the greatnefs 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 with Care,

And view that bright Affemblage treafur'd there; 20

You trace the Chain that links his deep defign,
And pour new Luftre on the glowing Line.
Yet deign to hear the efforts of a Muse,
Whofe eye, not wing, his ardent flight purfues:
Intent from this great Archetype to draw
SATIRE'S bright Form, and fix her equal Law;
Fleas'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 Sire,

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And Youth and Manhood feel the heart-born fire:
The Charms of Praise the Coy, the Modeft woo, 35
And only fly, that Glory may pursue:

She, Pow'r refiftlefs, rules the wife and great;
Bends ev'n reluctant Hermits at her feet;
Haunts the proud City, and the lowly Shade,
And fways alike the Sceptre and the Spade.

40

Thus Heav'n in Pity wakes the friendly Flame, To urge Mankind on Deeds that merit Fame: But Man, vain Man, in folly only wife, Rejects the Manna fent him from the Skies: With rapture hears corrupted Paffion's call, Still proudly prone to mingle with the stall.

45

As each deceitful fhadow tempts his view,
He for the imag'd Substance quits the true;
Eager to catch the vifionary Prize,
In queft of Glory plunges deep in Vice;
'Till madly zealous, impotently vain,
He forfeits ev'ry Praise he pants to gain.

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Thus ftill imperious NATURE plies her part; And ftill her Dictates work in ev'ry heart. Each Pow'r that fov'reign Nature bids enjoy, Man may corrupt, but Man can ne'er destroy. Like mighty rivers, with refiftlefs force The Paffions rage, obstructed in their course; Swell to new heights, forbidden paths explore, And drown thofe Virtues which they fed before. 60

65

And fure, the deadliest Foe to Virtue's flame, Our worst of Evils, is perverted Shame. Beneath this load what abject numbers groan, Th' entangled Slaves to folly not their own! Meanly by fashionable fear opprefs'd, We feek our Virtues in each other's breast; 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 Shame, like SYLLA, quit the field:

70

The Dæmon Shame paints ftrong the ridicule,
And whispers clofe," the World will call you Fool."

Behold yon Wretch, by impious fashion driv'n, 75 Believes and trembles while he fcoffs at Heav'n. By weakness strong, 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.

80

Faith, Juftice, Heav'n itself now quit their hold, When to false 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.

85

Hence SATIRE's pow'r: "Tis her corrective part, To calm the wild diforders of the heart.

IMITATIONS.

VER. 80. To Man a Coward, etc.]

Vois tu ce Libertin en public intrepide,

Qui preche contre un Dieu que dans fon Ame il croit ?
Il iroit embraffer la Verité, qu'il voit;

Mais de fes faux Amis il craint la Raillerie,
Et ne brave ainfi Dieu que par Poltronnerie.

Boileau, Ep. in,

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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 rise;
Strikes tow'ring Pride and lawless Rapine dead,
And plants the wreath on Virtue's awful head.

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100

Nor boasts the Muse a vain imagin'd Pow'r,
Tho' oft fhe mourn those 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 Wisdom feels her fway.
Smarts, Pedants, as fhe fmiles, no more are vain;
Defponding Fops refign the clouded cane:

Hush'd at her voice, pert Folly's felf is still,
And Dulnefs wonders while fhe drops her quill.
Like the arm'd BEE, with art moft fubtly true,

104

From poys'nous Vice she draws a healing dew: 110
Weak are the ties that civil arts can find,
To quell the ferment of the tainted mind:

IMITATIONS.

VER. 110. From poys'nous Vice, etc.] Alluding to these Linee of Mr. Pope;

In the nice Bee what Art fo fubtly true

From poys'nous Herbs extracts a healing Dew?