Графични страници
PDF файл

They kear, returning from the field at eve,
Strange whisp’ring of sweet musick thro’ the air). .
Here, as with honey gathered from the rock,
She fed the little prattler, and with songs
Oft sooth’d his wond'ring ears, with deep delight .
On her soft lap he sat, and caught the sounds.
The Enthusiast, or The Lover of Nature, a Poem,

by the Rev. Joseph WARTON.

From the Rev. THOMAS WARTON'S Address to the

Queen on her Marriage.
Here, boldly mark'd with every living hue,
Nature's unbounded portrait Shakspere drew:
But, chief, the dreadful groupe of human woes
The daring artist's tragick pencil chose ;
Explor’d the pangs that rend the royal breast,
Those wounds that lurk beneath the tissued vest.

Monody, written near Stratford upon Avon. Avon, thy rural views, thy pastures wild, The willows that o'erhang thy twilight edge, Their boughs entangling with th' embattled sedge: Thy brink with watery foliage quaintly fring'd, Thy surface with reflected verdure ting'd; Sooth me with many a pensive pleasure mild. But while I muse, that here the Bard Divine, 3 A ij


Whose sacred dust yon high-arch’d isles enclose,
Where the tall windows rise in stately rows,
Above th' embowering shade;
Here first, at Fancy's fairy-circled shrine,
Of daisies pied his infant offering made ;
Here playful yet, in stripling years unripe,
Fram'd of thy reeds a shrill and artless pipe:
Sudden thy beauties, Avon, all are fled,
As at the waving of some magick wand;
An holy trance my charmed spirit wings,
And awful shapes of leaders, and of kings,
People the busy mead,
Like spectres swarming to the wizard's hall;
And slowly pace, and point with trembling hand
The wounds ill-cover'd by the purple pall.
Before me Pity seems to stand
A weeping mourner, smote with anguish sore,
To see Misfortune rend in frantick mood
His robe, with regal woes embroider'd o'er.
Pale Terror leads the visionary band,
And sternly shakes his sceptre, dropping blood.

By the Same.

Far from the sun and summer gale,
In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,
To him the mighty mother did unveil
Her awful face: The dauntless child
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smild.

This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year:
Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy!
This can unlock the gates of joy;
Of horror that, and thrilling fears,
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetick tears.

Gray's Ode on the Progress of Poesy*.

Next Shakspere sat, irregularly great,
And in his hand a magick rod did hold,
Which visionary beings did create,
And turn the foulest dross to purest gold:
Whatever spirits rove in earth or air,
Or bad, or good, obey his dread command;
To his behests these willingly repair,
Those aw'd by terrors of his magick wand,
The which not all their powers united might withstand.

Lloyd's Progress of Envy, 1751.

Oh, where's the bard, who at one view Could look the whole creation through, Who travers’d all the human heart, Without recourse to Grecian art?

* Of all the many encomiums passed on our great draa matick poet, the most truly poetical one, seems to be contained in the third strophe of Mr. Gray's admirable Ode on the PROGRESS OF Poesy, particularly in the fine Prosopopeia and Speech of NATURE to him. Dr. J. WARTON.


He scorn'd the rules of imitation,
Of altering, pilfering, and translation;
Nor painted horror, grief, or rage,
From models of a former age;
The bright original he took,
And tore the leaf from nature's book.
'Tis Shakspere-

LLOYD's Shakspere, a Poem.

In the first seat, in robes of various dyes,
A noble wildness flashing from his eyes,
Sat Shakspere.-In one hand a wand he bore,
For mighty wonders fam’d in days of yore;
The other held a globe, which to his will
Obedient turn'd, and own'd a master's skill:
Things of the noblest kind his genius drew,
And look'd through nature at a single view :
A loose he gave to his unbounded soul,
And taught new lands to rise, new seas to roll;
Call'd into being scenes unknown before,
And, passing nature's bounds, was something more,

CHURCHILL's Rosciad.


« ПредишнаНапред »