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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
Where swains contented own the quiet scene,
O more than all in pow'rful genius blest,
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
Thus, gen'rous Critic, as thy Bard inspires,
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,
Sung by GUIDERUS and ARVIR AGUS over FIDELE,
supposed to be dead.
By the Same.
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove:
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
Shall kindly lend his little aid :
In tempests shake the fylvan cell,
For thee the tear be duly shed:
And mourn'd, 'till Pity's self be dead.