Drawn by his pen, our ruder paffions stand
Th' unrival'd picture of his early hand.
* With gradual steps, and flow, exacter France
Saw Art's fair empire o'er her shores advance:
By length of toil a bright perfection knew,
Correctly bold, and juft in all fhe drew.
Till late Corneille, with † Lucan's spirit fir'd,
Breath'd the free ftrain, as Rome and he infpir'd:
And claffic judgement gain'd to fweet Racine
The temperate ftrength of Maro's chafter line.
But wilder far the British laurel fpread,
And wreaths lefs artful crown our poet's head.
Yet he alone to every scene could give
Th' hiftorian's truth, and bid the manners live.
Wak'd at his call I view, with glad furprize,
Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rife.
There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms,
And laurel'd Conqueft waits her hero's arms.
Here gentler Edward claims a pitying figh,
Scarce born to honours, and fo foon to die!
Yet fhall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring
No beam of comfort to the guilty king:
* About the time of Shakespeare, the poet Hardy was in great repute in France. He wrote, according to Fontenelle, fix hundred plays. The French poets after him applied themselves in general to the correct improvement of the ftage, which was almoft totally disregarded by those of our own country, Jonfon excepted.
†The favourite author of the elder Corneille.
The time fhall come when Glo'fter's heart fhall bleed
In life's laft hours, with horror of the deed:
When dreary visions shall at last present
Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent:
Thy hand unfeen the secret death shall bear,
Blunt the weak fword, and break th' oppreffive fpear.
Wheree'er we turn, by fancy charm'd, we find
Some sweet illufion of the cheated mind.
Oft, wild of wing, fhe calls the foul to rove
With humbler nature, in the rural grove;
Where swains contented own the quiet scene,
And twilight fairies tread the circled green :
Drefs'd by her hand, the woods and vallies fmile,
And Spring diffufive decks th' inchanted ifle.
O, more than all in powerful genius blest,
Come, take thine empire o'er the willing breast!
Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel,
Thy fongs fupport me, and thy morals heal!
There every thought the poet's warmth may raise,
There native mufic dwells in all the lays.
O, might some verse with happiest skill perfuade
Expreffive Picture to adopt thine aid!
What wondrous draughts might rife from every page!
What other Raphaels charm a distant age!
Methinks ev'n now I view fome free defign,
Where breathing Nature lives in every line:
Chafte and fubdued the modeft lights decay,
Steal into fhades, and mildly melt away.
-And fee, where Anthony, in tears approv'd,
Guards the pale relics of the chief he lov'd:
See the tragedy of Julius Cæfar.
O'er the cold corfe the warrior feems to bend,
Deep funk in grief, and mourns his murder'd friend!
Still as they prefs, he calls on all around,
Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound.
But who is he, whofe 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 steel.
Yet fhall not war's infatiate fury fall,
(So heaven ordains it) on the deftin'd wall.
See the fond mother, 'midst the plaintive train,
Hung on his knees, and proftrate on the plain!
Touch'd to the foul, in vain he strives to hide
The fon's affection, in the Roman's pride :
O'er all the man conflicting paffions rife,
Rage grafps the fword, while pity melts the eyes.
Thus, generous Critic, as thy bard inspires,
The Sister Arts fhall nurse their drooping fires:
Each from his fcenes her stores alternate bring,
Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal string:
Thofe Sibyl-leaves, the sport of every wind,
(For poets ever were a careless kind)
By thee difpos'd, no farther toil demand,
But, just to nature, own thy forming hand.
So fpread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole unknown,
Ev'n Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone.
Their own Ulyffes scarce had wander'd more,
By winds and waters cast on every fhore:
*Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's dialogue on the Odyssey.
When ras'd by fate, fome 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.
Sung by Guiderus and Arviragus over Fidele, fuppofed to be dead.
O fair Fidele's graffy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds fhall bring
Each opening fweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing Spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with fhrieks this quiet grove,
But shepherd lads affemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch fhall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays fhall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew;
The red-breaft oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary mofs, and gather'd flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempefts shake thy fylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chace on every plain,
The tender thought on thee fhall dwell.
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly fhed;
Belov'd, till life can charm no more;
And mourn'd, till Pity's felf be dead.
On the Death of Mr. THOMSON.
The Scene of the following Stanzas is fuppofed to lie on the Thames, near Richmond.
IN yonder grave a Druid lies
Where flowly winds the stealing wave!
The year's beft fweets fhall duteous rife,
To deck its Poet's sylvan grave!
In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in forrow bleeds,
May love through life the foothing fhade.
The harp of Eolus, of which fee a defcription in the Caftle of Indolence.
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