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 rev'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 fly that glory may pursue :