Nor boasts the Muse a vain imagin'd pow'r,
Tho' oft she mourn those ills she cannot cure.
The worthy court her, and the worthless fear;
Who shun her piercing eye, that eye revere.
Her aweful voice the vain and vile obey,
And every foe to wisdom feel her sway.
Smarts, pedants, as she smiles, no more are vain;
Desponding fops resign the
Hush'd at her voice, pert Folly's self is still,
And Dulness wonders while she drops her quill.
Like the arm'd BEE, with art most subtly true
From pois'nous Vice she draws a healing dew:
Weak are the ties that civil arts can find,
To quell the ferment of the tainted mind:
Cunning evades, securely wrapt in wiles;
And Force strong-sinew'd rends th' unequal toils:
The stream of vice impetuous drives along,
Too deep for policy, for pow'r too strong.
Ev'n fair Religion, native of the skies,
Scorn'd by the crowd, seeks refuge with the wise;
The crowd with laughter spurns her aweful train,
And Mercy courts, and Justice frowns in vain.
But SATIRE'S shaft can pierce the harden'd breast:
She  a  passion on the rest:
Undaunted mounts the battery of his pride,
And awes the  that earth and heav'n defy'd.
When fell Corruption, by her vassals crown'd,
Derides fall'n Justice prostrate on the ground;
Swift to redress an injur'd people's groan,
Bold SATIRE shakes the tyrant on her throne;
Pow'rful as death, defies the sordid train,
And slaves and sycophants surround in vain.