But wilder far the British laurel spread, And wreaths less artful crown our poet's head. Yet He alone to every scene could give Th' historian's truth, and bid the manners live. Wak'd at his call I view, with glad surprize, Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise. There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms, And laureld Conquest waits her hero's arms. Here gentler Edward claims a pitying figh, Scarce born to honours, and so soon to die ! Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring No beam of comfort to the guilty king: The time' shall come, when Glo'ster's heart shall bleed In life's last hours, with horror of the deed : When dreary visions shall at last present Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent, Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear, Blunt the weak fword, and break th' oppressive spear.

Where-e'er we turn, by Fancy charm’d, we find Some sweet illusion of the cheated mind. Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove With humbler nature, in the rural grove;

i Tempus erit Turno, magno cum optaverit emptum
Intactum Pallarta, &c.


Where swains contented own the quiet scene,
And twilight fairies tread the circled green:
Dress’d by her hand the Woods and Vallies smile,
And Spring diffufive decks th' inchanted ifle.

O more than all in pow'rful genius blest,
Comne, take thine empire o'er the willing breast!
Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel,
Thy fongs support me, and thy morals heal!
There every thought the poet's warmth may raise,
There native music dwells in all the lays.
O might some verse with happiest skill persuade
Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid!
What wond'rous draughts might rise from ev'ry page!
What other Raphaels charm a distant age !

Methinks ev'n now I view fome free design, Where breathing Nature lives in every

line : Chaste and subdu'd the modest lights decay, Steal into shades, and mildly melt away.

And see, where * Anthony in tears approv'd, Guards the pale relics of the chief he lov'd: O'er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend, Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murder'd friend! Still as they press, he calls on all around, Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound. * See the tragedy of Julius Cæsar.


But 'who is he, whose brows exalted bear
A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air?
Awake to all that injur'd worth can feel,
On his own Rome he turns th’avenging steed.
Yet shall not War's insatiate fury fall,
(So heav'n ordains it) on the destin'd wall.
See the fond mother 'midst the plaintive train
Hung on his knees, and prostrate on the plain!
Touch'd to the soul, in vain he strives to hide
The son's affection, in the Roman's pride :
O'er all the man conflicting passions rise,
Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes.

Thus, gen'rous Critic, as thy Bard inspires,
The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping fires ;
Each from his scenes her stores alternate bring,
Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal string:
Those Sibyl-leaves, the sport of every wind,
(For poets ever were a careless kind)
By thee dispos’d, no farther toil demand,
But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.

So spread o'er Greece, ch'harmonious whole unknown, Ev'n Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone.

1 Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's dialogue on the Odyssey.

Their own Ulysses scarce had wander'd more,
By winds and water cast on every

When rais’d by Fate, some former Hanmer join'd
Each beauteous image of the boundless mind:
And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim
A fond alliance with the Poet's name.

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supposed to be dead.

By the Same.


10 fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each op’ning sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing Spring.

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No wailing ghost shall dare appear

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove:
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be feen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The red-breast oft at ev’ning hours

Shall kindly lend his little aid :
With hoary moss, and gather'd Aow'rs,
To deck the ground where thou art laid,

When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempests shake the fylvan cell,
Or 'midst the chace on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell,

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,

For thee the tear be duly shed:
Beloy'd, 'till life could charm no more,

And mourn'd, 'till Pity's self be dead.
Vol. IV.



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