PARTI. FATE gave the word ; the cruel arrow sped ; And Pope lies number'd with the mighty dead ! Resign'd he fell; superior to the dart, That quench'd its rage in Your's and Britain's

heart : You mourn : But Britain, lull'd in rest profound, (Unconscious Britain !) slumbers o'er her wound. Exulting Dulness ey'd the setting light, And flapp'd her wing, impatient for the night:

Rous’d at the signal, Guilt collects her train,
And counts the triumphs of her growing reign:
With inextinguishable rage they burn,
And snake-hung Envy hisses o'er his urn:
Th' envenom’d monsters spit their deadly foam,
To blast the laurel that surrounds his tomb.

But You, O WARBURTON! whose eye refin’d Can see the greatness of an honest mind; Can see each virtue and each grace unite, And taste the raptures of a pure delight'; You visit oft' his awful page with care, And view that bright assemblage treasur’d there; You trace the chain that links his deep design, And pour new lustre on the glowing line. Yet deign to hear the efforts of a Muse, Whose eye, not wing, his ardent flight pursues ; Intent from this great archetype to draw Satire's bright form, and fix her equal law ; Pleas'd if from hence th' unlearn'd may comprehend, And rey’rence His and SATIRE's generous end.

In every breast there burns an active flame,
The love of glory, or the dread of shame :
The passion One, though various it appear,
As brighten’d into hope, or dimm’d by fear.
The lisping infant, and the hoary sire,
And youth and manhood feel the heart-born fire;
The charms of praise the coy, the modest woo,
And only Ay that glory may pursue :