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The next[34] in Satire felt a nobler rage,
What honest Heart could bear Domitian‘s age?
See his strong Sense, and Numbers masculine!
His Soul is kindled, and he kindles mine:
Scornful of Vice, and fearless of Offence,
He flows a Torrent of impetuous Sense.

Lo! Savage Tyrants Who blasphem’d their God
Turn Suppliants now, and gaze at Julian‘s Rod.[35]

Lucian, severe, but in a gay disguise,
Attacks old Faith, or sports in learned Lyes;[36]
Sets Heroes and Philosophers at odds;
And scourges Mortals, and dethrones the Gods.

Then all was Night–But Satire rose once more
Where Medici and Leo Arts restore.
Tassone shone fantastic, but sublime:
And He, who form’d the Macaronique -Rhime:

Then Westward too by slow degrees confest,
Where boundless Rabelais made the World his Jest;
Marot had Nature, Regnier Force and Flame,
But swallow’d all in Boileau‘s matchless Fame!
Extensive Soul! who rang’d all learning o’er,
Present and past–and yet found room for more.
Full of new Sense, exact in every Page,
Unbounded, and yet sober in thy Rage.
Strange Fate! Thy solid Sterling of two lines,
Drawn to our Tinsel, thro’ whole Pages shines! [37]

In Albion then, with equal lustre bright,
Great Dryden rose, and steer’d by Nature’s light.
Two glimmering Orbs he just observ’d from far,
The Ocean wide, and dubious either Star,
Donne teem’d with Wit, but all was maim’d and bruis’d,
The periods endless, and the sense confus’d:
Oldham rush’d on, impetuous, and sublime,
But lame in Language, Harmony, and Rhyme;
These (with new graces) vig’rous nature join’d
In one, and center’d ’em in Dryden‘s mind.
How full thy verse? Thy meaning how severe?
How dark thy theme? yet made exactly clear.
Not mortal is thy accent, nor thy rage,
Yet mercy softens, or contracts each Page.
Dread Bard! instruct us to revere thy rules,
And hate like thee, all Rebels, and all Fools.

His Spirit ceas’d not (in strict truth) to be;
For dying Dryden breath’d, O Garth! on thee,
Bade thee to keep alive his genuine Rage,
Half-sunk in want, oppression and old age;
Then, when thy pious hands repos’d his head,[38]
When vain young Lords and ev’n the Flamen fled.
For well thou knew’st his merit and his art,
His upright mind, clear head, and friendly heart.
Ev’n Pope himself (who sees no Virtue bleed
But bears th’ affliction) envies thee the deed.

O Pope ! Instructor of my studious days,
Who fix’d my steps in virtue’s early ways:
On whom our labours, and our hopes depend,
Thou more than Patron, and ev’n more than Friend!
Above all Flattery, all Thirst of Gain,
And Mortal but in Sickness, and in Pain!
Thou taught’st old Satire nobler fruits to bear,
And check’d her Licence with a moral Care:
Thou gav’st the Thought new beauties not its own,
And touch’d the Verse with Graces yet unknown.
Each lawless branch thy level eye survey’d.
And still corrected Nature as she stray’d:
Warm’d Boileau‘s Sense with Britain‘s genuine Fire,
And added Softness to Tassone‘s Lyre.

Yet mark the hideous nonsense of the age,
And thou thy self the subject of its rage.
So in old times, round godlike Scaeva ran
Rome‘s dastard Sons, a Million, and a Man.