On mountain'd falsehoods to invade the skies:

Then warmer numbers glow through SATIRE's page,
And all her smiles are darken'd into rage:
On eagle-wing she gains Parnassus' height,
Not lofty EPIC soars a nobler flight:
Then keener indignation fires her eye;

Then flash her lightnings, and her thunders fly;
Wide and more wide her flaming bolts are hurl'd,
Till all her wrath involves the guilty world.

Yet SATIRE oft assumes a gentler mien,
And beams on Virtue's friends a look serene:
She wounds reluctant, pours her balm with joy,
Glad to commend where merit strikes her eye.
But tread with cautious step this dangerous ground,
Beset with faithless precipices round:

Truth be your guide; disdain Ambition's call;
And if you fall with truth, you greatly fall.
'Tis Virtue's native lustre that must shine:
The Poet can but set it in his line:

And who unmov'd with laughter can behold
A sordid pebble meanly grac'd with gold?
Let real merit then adorn your lays,
For shame attends on prostituted praise:
And all your wit, your most distinguish'd art
But makes us grieve, you want an honest heart.

Nor think the Muse by SATIRE's law confin'd: She yields description of the noblest kind.

Inferior art the landscape may design,
And paint the purple evening in the line:
Her daring thought essays a higher plan;
Her hand delineates passion, pictures man.
And great the toil, the latent soul to trace,
To paint the heart, and catch internal grace
By turns bid vice or virtue strike our eyes,
Now bid a Wolsey or a Cromwell rise;

Now with a touch more sacred and refin'd,

Call forth a CHESTERFIELD'S or LONSDALE's mind.
Here sweet or strong may every color flow:
Here let the pencil warm, the canvas glow:
Of light and shade provoke the noble strife,
And wake each striking feature into life.

PART III.

THROUGH ages thus hath SATIRE keenly shin'd,
The friend to truth, to virtue, and mankind:
Yet the bright flame from virtue ne'er had sprung,
And man was guilty ere the poet sung.

This Muse in silence joy'd each better age,
Till glowing crimes had wak'd her into rage.

Truth saw her honest spleen with new delight,

And bade her wing her shafts, and urge their

flight.

First on the sons of Greece she prov'd her art,

And Sparta felt the fierce Iambic dart.

TO LATIUM next avenging SATIRE Яlew:
The flaming faulchion rough LuCILIUS drew;
With dauntless warmth in Virtue's cause engag'd,
And conscious villains trembled as he rag'd.

Then sportive HORACE Caught the generous fire,
For SATIRE's bow resign'd the sounding lyre:
Each arrow polish'd in his hand was seen,
And as it grew more polish'd, grew more keen.
His art, conceal'd in study'd negligence,
Politely sly, cajol'd the foes of sense :

He seem'd to sport and trifle with the dart,
But while he sported, drove it to the heart.

In graver strains majestic PERSIUS wrote, Big with a ripe exuberance of thought: Greatly sedate, contemn'd a tyrant's reign, And lash'd corruption with a calm disdain.

More ardent eloquence, and boundless rage Inflame bold JUVENAL's exalted page. His mighty numbers aw'd corrupted Rome, And swept audacious greatness to its doom; The headlong torrent thundering from on high, Rent the proud rock that lately brav❜d the sky.

But lo! the fatal victor of mankind, Swoln Luxury!-Pale Ruin stalks behind!

As countless insects from the north-east pour,
To blast the spring, and ravage every flow'r:
So barbarous millions spread contagious death:
The sick'ning laurel wither'd at their breath.
Deep superstition's night the skies o'erhung,
Beneath whose baleful dews the poppy sprung.
No longer Genius woo'd the Nine to love,
But dulness nodded in the Muses' grove:
Wit, spirit, freedom, were the sole offence,
Nor aught was held so dangerous as sense.

At length, again fair Science shot her ray,
Dawn'd in the skies, and spoke returning day.
Now, SATIRE, triumph o'er thy flying foe,
Now load thy quiver, string thy slacken'd bow !

'Tis done-See, great ERASMUS breaks the spell, And wounds triumphant Folly in her cell! (In vain the solemn cowl surrounds her face, Vain all her bigot cant, her sour grimace) With shame compell'd her leaden throne to quit, And own the force of reason urg'd by wit.

'Twas then plain DONNE in honest vengeance rose, His wit refulgent, though his rhyme was prose: He midst an age of puns and pedants wrote

With genuine sense, and Roman strength of thought.

Yet scarce had SATIRE well relum'd her flame, (With grief the Muse records her country's shame) Ere Britain saw 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 disdain:
A race fantastic, in whose gaudy line
Untutor❜d thought, and tinsel beauty shine;
Wit's shatter'd mirror lies in fragments bright,
Reflects not nature, but confounds the sight.
Dry morals the court-poet blush'd to sing:
'Twas all his praise to say "the oddest thing."
Proud for a jest obscene, a patron's nod,
To martyr Virtue, or blaspheme his God.

Ill-fated DRYDEN! who unmov'd can see

Th' extremes of wit and meanness join'd in thee! Flames that could mount, and gain their kindred skies,

Low creeping in the putrid sink of vice:

A Muse 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 scorn of honest fame;
And genius rise, a monument of shame!

More happy France: immortal BOILEAU there Supported genius with a sage's care :