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 _Tassonè_'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 _Scæva_ 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.