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THE DEATH OF MR. POPE.
BY J. BROWN, A. M.
PART I. `
the word the cruel arrow fped;
ATE 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, (Unconscious Britain!) flumbers o'er her wound. Exulting Dulness ey'd the fetting Light, And flapp'd her wing, impatient for the Night: Rous'd at the fignal, Guilt collects her train, And counts the Triumphs of her growing reign : 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 Can fee the greatness of an honeft mind; Can fee 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 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;
Pleas'd if from hence th' unlearn'd may comprehend, And reverence His and Satire's generous End.
In every breaft there burns an active flame,
And Youth and Manhood feel the heart-born fire:
She, Power refiftlefs, rules the wife and great;
Thus Heaven in Pity wakes the friendly Flame,
Thus ftill imperious Nature plies her part;