Ill-fated DRYDEN! who unmov'd can fee
Th' extremes of wit and meannefs join'd in Thee! Flames that could mount, and gain their kindred skies, Low creeping in the putrid fink of vice; 436 A Mufe whom Wisdom 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: Unrival'd parts, the fcorn of honest fame; And Genius rife, 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 pureft Fire.
But fee at length the British Genius fmile, And fhow'r her bounties o'er her favour'd Ifle: 450 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, corrected strength, 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 : 7
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 express 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 inspire? 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 Muse for thee with kind contention strove, For thee the Graces left th' IDALIAN grove; With watchful fondnefs 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 scorn'd the venal tribe, Whom fear can fway, or guilty Greatness bribe; At Fancy's call, who rear the wanton fail, Sport with the stream, 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 bless Mankind with Virtue's facred ftore e;
A nobler joy than Wit can give, impart ;
And pour a moral transport o'er the heart.
Fantastic Wit fhoots momentary fires,
And, like a Meteor, while we gaze, expires:
Wit kindled by the fulph'rous breath of Vice, Like the blue Light'ning, while it fhines, deftroys: But Genius, fir'd by Truth's eternal ray, Burns clear and conftant, like the fource of day: Like this, its beam prolific and refin'd, Feeds, warms, inspirits, 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 deathlefs line Reason and Wit, with ftrength collected fhine; 500 Where matchless Wit but wins the second praise, Loft, nobly loft, in Truth's fuperior blaze.
Did FRIENDSHIP e'er mislead thy wand'ring Mufe? That Friendship fure may plead the great excufe: That facred Friendship which infpir'd thy Song, Fair in defect, and amiably wrong.
Error like this ev'n Truth can fcarce reprove;
'Tis almoft Virtue when it flows from Love.
Ye deathless Names, ye Sons of endless praise,
By Virtue crown'd with never-fading bays!
Say, shall an artless Mufe, if you inspire, Light her pale lamp at your immortal fire? Or if, O WARBURTON! inspir'd by You, The daring Mufe a nobler path pursue, By You infpir'd, on trembling pinion soar, 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, inftru&t 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 incense at Corruption's fhrine;
Urge, urge thy pow'r, the black attempt confound, And dash the smoaking Cenfer to the ground. Thus aw'd to fear, inftructed Bards may fee,
That Guilt is doom'd to fink in Infamy.
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