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No more the Dale, with snowy Blossoms crown'd,
But Ruin spreads her baleful Fires around.

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, To shield your Harvests, and defend your Fair: The Turk’and Tartar like Designs pursue, Fix'd to destroy, and stedfast to undo. Wild as his Land, in native Deserts bred, By Lust incited, or by Malice led, The Villain-Arab, as he prowls for Prey, Oft marks with Blood and wasting Flames the Way; Yet none so cruel as the Tartar Foe, 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.

1743.

(Price Six Pence.)

To

SIR THOMAS HANMER.

SIR, 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, In just Remembrance of the Debt she owes ; With conscious Awe she hears the Critic's Fame, And blushing hides her Wreath at Shakespear's Name.

Long slighted Fancy, with a Mother's Care, Wept o'er his Works, and felt the last Despair. Torn from her Head, she saw the Roses fall, By all deserted, tho' admir'd by all. “And oh! she cry'd, shall Science still resign “Whate'er is Nature's, and whate'er is mine? “Shall Taste and Art, but shew a cold Regard, “And scornful Pride reject th' unletter'd Bard ? “ Ye myrtled Nymphs, who own my gentle Reign, “ Tune the sweet Lyre, and grace my airy Train ! “If, where ye rove, your searching Eyes have known “One perfect Mind, which Judgment calls its own; “There ev'ry Breast its fondest Hopes must bend, “And ev'ry Muse with Tears await her Friend.

'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:

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“My best lov'd Son (she said) shall yet restore “Thy ruind 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. Preserv'd thro' Time, the speaking Scenes impart Each changeful Wish of Phædra's tortur'd Heart; Or paint the Curse, that mark'd the * Theban's Reign, A Bed incestuous, and a Father slain. Line after Line our pitying Eyes o'erflow, Trace the sad Tale, and own another's Woe.

To Rome remov'd, with equal Pow'r to please, The Comic Sisters kept their native Ease. With jealous Fear declining Greece beheld Her own Menander's Art almost excell'd! But ev'ry Muse essay'd to raise in vain Some labour'd Rival of her Tragic Strain : Ilissus' Laurels, tho' transferr'd with Toil, Droop'd their fair Leaves, nor knew th' unfriendly

Soil. 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.

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