ATE gave the word: the cruel arrow fped;
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! whose eye refin’d
Can fee the greatness of an honest mind;
Can fee each Virtue and each Grace unite,
And taste the Raptures of a pure Delight;
You vifit 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,
Whose eye, not wing, his ardent flight pursues:
Intent from this great Archetype to draw
Satire's bright Form, and fix her equal Law;