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PARTI. 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,
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 rey’rence His and SATIRE's generous end.
In every breast there burns an active flame,