Ascend this hill, whose cloudy point commands Her boundless empire over seas and lands. See round the Poles where keener spangles shine, Where spices smoke beneath the burning Line, (Earth's wide extremes) her sable flag display'd; And all the nations cover'd in her shade!

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Far eastward cast thine eye, from whence the Sun And orient Science at a birth begun. One godlike Monarch all that pride confounds, He, whose long wall the wand'ring Tartar bounds. Heav'ns! what a pile! whole ages perish there : And one bright blaze turns Learning into air.

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Thence to the south extend thy gladden'd eyes;

There rival flames with equal glory rise,
From shelves to shelves see greedy Vulcan roll,
And lick up all their Physic of the soul.

How little, mark! that portion of the ball,
Where, faint at best, the beams of Science fall;
Soon as they dawn, from Hyperborean skies,
Embodied dark, what clouds of Vandals rise!
Lo where Maotis sleeps, and hardly flows
The freezing Tanais thro' a waste of snows,
The North by myriads pours her mighty sons,
Great nurse of Goths, of Alans, and of Huns.
See, Alaric's stern port! the martial frame
Of Genseric! and Attila's dread name!
See, the bold Ostrogoths on Latium fall;
See, the fierce Visigoths on Spain and Gaul.
See, where the morning gilds the palmy shore
(The soil that arts and infant letters bore)
His conqu❜ring tribes th' Arabian prophet draws,
And saving Ignorance enthrones by Laws.

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See Christians, Jews, one heavy sabbath keep;
And all the Western world believe and sleep.

Lo Rome herself, proud mistress now no more
Of arts, but thund'ring against heathen lore;
Her gray-hair'd Synods damning books unread, 95
And Bacon trembling for his brazen head;
Padua with sighs beholds her Livy burn,
And ev❜n th' Antipodes Virgilius mourn.

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See, the Cirque falls, th' unpillar'd Temple nods,
Streets pav'd with Heroes, Tyber chok'd with Gods:
Till Peter's keys some christen'd Jove adorn,
And Pan to Moses lends his pagan horn;
See graceless Venus to a Virgin turn'd,
Or Phidias broken, and Apelles burn'd.

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Behold yon' Isle, by Palmers, Pilgrims trod, 105 Men bearded, bald, cowl'd, uncowl'd, shod, unshod, Peel'd, patch'd, and piebald, linsey-woolsey brothers, Grave mummers! sleeveless some, and shirtless others. That once was Britain-Happy! had she seen No fiercer sons, had Easter never been! In peace, great Goddess, ever be ador'd; How keen the war, if Dulness draw the sword! Thus visit not thy own! on this blest age Oh spread thy Influence, but restrain thy Rage. And see! my son, the hour is on its way, That lifts our Goddess to imperial sway; This fav'rite Isle, long sever'd from her reign, Dove-like, she gathers to her wings again. Now look thro' Fate! behold the scene she draws! What aids, what armies, to assert her cause!

See all her progeny, illustrious sight!

Behold, and count them, as they rise to light.

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As Berecynthia, while her offspring vie
In homage, to the Mother of the sky,
Surveys around her in the blest abode

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A hundred sons, and every son a God:
Not with less glory mighty Dulness crown'd
Shall take thro' Grub-street her triumphant round,
And her Parnassus glancing o'er at once,
Behold a hundred sons, and each a dunce.

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Mark first that youth who takes the foremost place, And thrusts his person full into your face. With all thy father's virtues blest, be born! And a new Cibber shall the stage adorn.

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A second see, by meeker manners known, And modest as the maid that sips alone; From the strong fate of drams if thou get free, Another Durfey, Ward! shall sing in thee. Thee shall each Ale-house, thee each Gill-house mourn, And answ'ring Gin-shops sowrer sighs return. 140 Lo next two slipshod Muses traipse along, In lofty madness, meditating song, With tresses staring from poetic dreams, And never wash'd, but in Castalia's streams : Haywood, Centlivre, glories of their race! Lo Horneck's fierce, and Room's funereal face; Lo sneering Goode, half malice and half whim, A fiend in glee, ridiculously grim. Jacob, the scourge of Grammar, mark with awe, Nor less revere him, blunderbuss of Law. Lo Bond and Forton, ev'ry nameless name, All crowd, who foremost shall be damn'd to fame. Some strain in rhyme; the Muses, on their racks, Scream like the winding of ten thousand jacks:

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Some free from rhyme or reason, rule or check, 155
Break Priscian's head, and Pegasus's neck;
Down, down they larum, with impetuous whirl,
The Pindars, and the Miltons of a Curl.

Silence, ye Wolves! while Ralph to Cynthia howls, And makes Night hideous-Answer him, ye Owls! Sense, speech, and measure, living tongues and dead, Let all give way-and Morris may be read.

Flow, Welsted, flow! like thine inspirer Beer,
Tho' stale, not ripe; tho' thin, yet never clear;
So sweetly mawkish, and so smoothy dull;
Heady, not strong; and foaming, tho' not full.
Ah Dennis! Gildon ah! what ill-starr'd rage
Divides a friendship long confirm'd by age?
Blockheads with reason wicked wits abhor,
But fool with fool is barb'rous civil war.
Embrace, embrace, my sons! be foes no more!
Nor glad vile Poets with true Critics' gore.
Behold yon Pair, in strict embraces join'd;

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How like in manners, and how like in mind!
Fam'd for good-nature, Burnet, and for truth; 175
Ducket for pious passion to the youth.

Equal in wit, and equally polite,

Shall this a Pasquin, that a Grumbler write;
Like are their merits, like rewards they share;
That shines a Consul, this Commissioner.

"But who is he, in closet closely pent,
Of sober face, with learned dust besprent?
Right well mine eyes arede the myster wight,
On parchment scraps y fed, and Wormius hight."
To future ages may thy dulness last,

As thou preserv'st the dulness of the past!

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There, dim in clouds, the poring Scholiasts mark, Wits, who like owls see only in the dark,

A Lumberhouse of books in ev'ry head,
For ever reading, never to be read!

But, where each Science lifts its modern type,
Hist'ry her Pot, Divinity his Pipe,

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While proud Philosophy repines to show
Dishonest sight! his breeches rent below;
Imbrown'd with native bronze, lo Henley stands, 195
Tuning his voice, and balancing his hands,
How fluent nonsense trickles from his tongue!
How sweet the periods, neither said nor sung !
Still break the benches, Henley! with thy strain,
While Kennet, Hare, and Gibson, preach in vain. 200
Oh great restorer of the good old stage,
Preacher at once, and Zany of thy age!

Oh worthy thou of Egypt's wise abodes,

A decent priest, where monkeys were the gods!
But fate with butchers plac'd thy priestly stall, 205
Meek modern faith to murder, hack, and mawl;
And bade thee live, to crown Britannia's praise,
In Toland's, Tindal's, and in Woolston's days.
Yet oh, my sons! a father's words attend:

(So may the fates preserve the ears you lend) 210
"Tis
yours, a Bacon or a Locke to blame,

A Newton's Genius, or a Milton's flame :
But O! with one, immortal One dispense,
The source of Newton's Light, of Bacon's Sense!
Content, each Emanation of his fires

That beams on earth, each Virtue he inspires,

Each Art he prompts, each Charm he can create, Whate'er he gives, are giv'n for you to hate..

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