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 fwept audacious Greatnefs 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, Swol'n 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 Superstition's night the skies o'erhung, Beneath whofe baleful dews the Poppy fprung. 400 No longer Genius woo'd the Nine to love, But Dulnefs nodded in the Mufe's grove: Wit, Spirit, Freedom, were the fole offence, Nor aught was held fo dangerous as Senfe.
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 spell, 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 Reason 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 fenfe, and Roman ftrength of thought.
Yet fcarce had SATIRE well relum'd her flame, (With grief the Mufé records her Country's fhame) 420 Ere Britain faw the foul revolt commence,
And treach❜rous Wit began her war with Sense.
Then rose a shameless mercenary train,
Whom latest Time shall view with just difdain:
A race fantastic, in whofe gaudy line
Untutor'd thought, and tinfel beauty shine :
Wit's fhatter'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 praife to fay," the oddeft thing."
Proud for a jest obscene, a Patron's nod,
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! Flames that could mount, and gain their kindred skies, Low creeping in the putrid fink of vice:
A Mufe whom Wifdom woo'd, but woo'd in vain,
The Pimp of Pow'r, the Prostitute to Gain :
Wreaths, that should deck fair Virtue's form alone,
To Strumpets, Traitors, Tyrants, vilely thrown: 440
Unrival'd Parts, the fcorn of honest fame;
And Genius rise, a Monument of shame!
More happy France: immortal BOILEAU there
Supported Genius with a Sage's care:
Him with her love propitious SATIRE bleft,
And breath'd her airs divine into his breast:
Fancy and Senfe to form his line confpire,
And faultlefs Judgment guides the purest Fire.
But fee, at length, the British Genius fmile,
And fhow'r her bounties o'er her favour'd Ifle:
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.
Despairing Guilt and Dulness loath the fight,
As Spectres vanish at approaching light:
In this clear Mirror with delight we view
Each Image juftly fine, and boldly true:
Here Vice, dragg'd forth by Truth's fupreme decree, Beholds and hates her own deformity;
While felf-feen Virtue in the faithful line
With modest joy furveys her form divine.
But oh, what thoughts, what numbers fhall I find,
But faintly to exprefs the Poet's mind!
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-but thy own.
Each Mufe 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;
The Bard enraptur'd caught the heav'nly flame:
With tafte fuperior fcorn'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 ftore;
A nobler joy than Wit can give, impart;
And pour a moral transport o'er the heart.
Fantastic Wit shoots momentary fires,
And, like a meteor, while we gaze, expires:
Wit kindled by the fulph'rous breath of Vice,
Like the blue lightning, while it fhines, deftroys: 490
But Genius, fir'd by Truth's eternal ray,,
Burns clear and conftant, like the source of day:
Like this its beam prolific and refin'd,
Feeds, warms, infpirits, and exalts the mind;
Mildly difpels each wintry 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.
Hail, Bard unequal'd, in whofe deathless line
Reafon and Wit with strength collected shine;
Where matchlefs Wit but wins the second praise,
Loft, nobly loft, in Truth's fuperior blaze.
Did FRIENDSHIP e'er mislead thy wand'ring Muse?
That Friendship fure may plead the great excuse :
That facred Friendship which infpir'd thy Song, 505
Fair in defect, and amiably wrong.
Error like this ev'n Truth can scarce reprove ; 'Tis almoft Virtue when it flows from Love.
Ye deathlefs Names, ye Sons of endless praife,
By Virtue crown'd with never fading bays!
Say, fhall an artless Mufe, if you inspire,
Light her pale lamp at your immortal fire ?
C 6
Or if, O WARBURTON, infpir'd by You,
The daring Mufe a nobler path pursue,
By You infpir'd, on trembling pinions 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:
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;
If her apoftate heart should e'er incline
To offer incenfe at Corruption's fhrine;
Urge, urge thy pow'r, the black attempt confound,
And dash the fmoaking Cenfer to the ground.
Thus aw'd to fear, instructed Bards may fee
That Guilt is doom'd to fink in Infamy.
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