riods 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_.

Th' exalted merits of the Wise and Good
Are seen, far off, and rarely understood.
The world's a father to a Dunce unknown,
And much he thrives, for Dulness! he's thy own.
No hackney brethren e'er condemn him _twice_;
He fears no enemies, but dust and mice.

If _Pope_ but writes, the Devil _Legion_ raves,
And meagre Critics mutter in their caves:
(Such Critics of necessity consume
All Wit, as Hangmen ravish'd Maids at _Rome_.)
Names he a Scribler? all the world's in arms,
_Augusta_, _Granta_, _Rhedecyna_ swarms:
The guilty reader fancies what he fears,
And every _