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P A R T I.
gave the word ; the cruel arrow sped ;
Resign'd he fell ; superior to the dart,
But You, O WARBURTON! whose
eye Can see the greatness of an honest 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 ; 20 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,
In ev'ry Breast there burns an active frame,
Thus Heav'n in Pity wakes the friendly Flame, To urge
Mankind on Deeds that merit Fame :
Eager to catch the visionary Prize,
Thus still imperious NATURE plies her part ; And still her Dictates work in ev'ry heart, Each Pow'r that sov'reign Nature bids enjoy, 55 Man may corrupt, but Man can ne'er destroy. Like mighty rivers, with resistless force The Passions rage, obstructed in their course ; Swell to new heights, forbidden paths explore, And drown those Virtues which they fed before. 60
And sure, the deadliest Foe to Virtue's flame,
Behold yon Wretch, by impious fashion driv'n, 75 Believes and trembles, while he scoffs at Heav'n. By weakness strong, and bold thro' fear alone, He dreads the ineer by shallow Coxcombs thrown; Dauntless pursues the path Spinoza trod; To man a Coward, and a Brave to God. 80
Faith, Justice, 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 subdue his Virtue, but his Pride. Hence chaste Lucretia's Innocence betray'd Fell by that Honour which was meant its aid. Thus Virtue sinks beneath unnumber'd woes, When Paffions, born her friends, revolt her foes.
Hence Satire's pow'r: 'Tis her corrective part, To calm the wild disorders of the heart.
go She points the arduous height where Glory lies, And teaches mad Ambition to be wise :
VER. 80. To Man a Coward, etc.]
Vois tu ce Libertin en public intrepide,
Boileau, Ep. iii.
In the dark bosom wakes the fair defire,
Nor boasts the Muse a vain imagin'd Pow'r, Tho' oft she mourn those ills she cannot cure. 100 The Worthy court her, and the Worthless fear ; Who shun 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 she smiles, no more are vain ; Desponding Fops resign the clouded cane : Hush'd at her voice, pert Folly's self is still, And Dulness wonders while she drops her quill. Like the arm'd Bee, with art most subtly true, From pois'nous Vice she.draws a healing dew: Weak are the ties that civil arts can find, To quell the ferment of the tainted mind : Cunning evades, fecurely wrapt in wiles ; And Force strong-finew'd rends th' unequal toils :
In the nice Bee what Art fo subtly true,