No more the Dale, with snowy Blossoms crown'd, SECANDER. In vain Circassia boasts her spicy Groves, For ever fam'd for pure and happy Loves: In vain she boasts her fairest of the Fair, Their Eyes' blue languish, and their golden Hair! Those Eyes in Tears, their fruitless Grief must send, Those Hairs the Tartar's cruel Hand shall rend. AGIB. Ye Georgian Swains that piteous learn from far Circassia's Ruin, and the Waste of War; Some weightier Arms than Crooks and Staves prepare, Oft marks with Blood and wasting Flames the Way; To Death inur'd, and nurst in Scenes of Woe. He said, when loud along the Vale was heard A shriller Shriek, and nearer Fires appear'd: Th' affrighted Shepherds thro' the Dews of Night, Wide o'er the Moon-light Hills, renew'd their Flight. THE END OF THE FOURTH AND LAST ECLOGUE. VERSES HUMBLY ADDRESS'D TO SIR THOMAS HANMER ON HIS EDITION OF SHAKESPEAR'S WORKS. By a GENTLEMAN of OXFORD. LONDON: Printed for M. COOPER, in Pater-Noster-Row. 1748. (Price Six Pence.) SIR, Το SIR THOMAS HANMER. WHILE, own'd by You, with Smiles the Muse surveys Th' expected Triumph of her sweetest Lays: While, stretch'd at Ease, she boasts your Guardian Aid, Secure, and happy in her sylvan Shade: Excuse her Fears, who scarce a Verse bestows, "And oh! she cry'd, shall Science still resign "Twas then fair Isis from her Stream arose, In kind Compassion of her Sister's Woes. "Twas then she promis'd to the mourning Maid Th' immortal Honours, which thy Hands have paid: "My best lov'd Son (she said) shall yet restore "Thy ruin'd Sweets, and Fancy weep no more. Each rising Art by slow Gradation moves, Toil builds on Toil, and Age on Age improves. The Muse alone unequal dealt her Rage, And grac'd with noblest Pomp her earliest Stage. Line after Line our pitying Eyes o'erflow, To Rome remov'd, with equal Pow'r to please, When Rome herself, her envy'd Glories dead, No more Imperial, stoop'd her conquer'd Head: Luxuriant Florence chose a softer Theme, While all was Peace, by Arno's silver Stream. With sweeter Notes th' Etrurian Vales complain'd, And Arts reviving told-a Cosmo reign'd. Their wanton Lyres the Bards of Provence strung, Sweet flow'd the Lays, but Love was all they sung. The gay Description could not fail to move, For, led by Nature, all are Friends to Love. But Heav'n, still rising in its Works, decreed The perfect Boast of Time should last succeed. *The Edipus of Sophocles. |