Touch'd to the foul, in vain he ftrives 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, gen rous Critick, as thy Bard inspires,
The fifter Arts fhall nurfe their drooping fires;
Each from his fcenes her ftores alternate bring,
Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal firing
Those Sibyl-leaves, the sport of ev'ry wind,'
(For poets ever were a careless kind)
By thee difpos'd, no farther toil demand,
But, juft 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 fcarce had wander'd more,
By winds and water caft on ev'ry shore :
When rais'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 op'ning sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing Spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with fhrieks this quiet grove:
But fhepherd 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!
IV.
The red-breaft oft at ev'ning hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid:
With hoary mofs, and gather'd flow'rs,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
V.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the fylvan cell:
Or 'midft the chace on ev'ry plain,
The tender thought on thee fhall dwell.
VI.
Each lonely scene fhall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly fhed:
Belov'd, till life could charm no more;
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.
Where now's my boasted liberty and rest!
Where the gay moments which I once have known,
O where that heart I fondly thought my own!
From place to place I folitary roam,
Abroad uneasy, nor content at home.
I scorn the beauties common eyes adore,
The more I view them, feel thy worth the more;
Unmov'd I hear them fpeak, or see them fair,
And only think on thee-who art not there.
In vain would books their formal fuccour lend,
Nor wit, nor wifdom can relieve their friend ;
Wit can't deceive the pain I now endurc,
And wisdom fhews the ill without the cure.
When from thy fight I waste the tedious day,
A thousand schemes I form, and things to fay;
But when thy prefence gives the time I feek,
My heart's fo full, I wish, but cannot speak.
And cou'd I fpeak with eloquence and ease,
Till now not ftudious of the art to please,
Coy'd I, at woman who so oft exclaim,
Expofe (nor blush) thy triumph and my shame,
Abjure thofe maxims I fo lately priz'd,
And court that fex I foolishly defpis'd,
Own thou haft foften'd my obdurate mind,
And thou reveng'd the wrongs of womankind:
Loft were my words, and fruitless all my pain,
In vain to tell thee all I write in vain ;
My humble fighs fhall only reach thy ears,
And all my eloquence fhall be my tears.
And now (for more I never must pretend)
Hear me not as thy lover, but thy friend;
Thousands will fain thy little heart enfnare,
For without danger none like thee are fair;
But wifely chufe who beft deferves thy flame,
So fhall the choice itself become thy fame;
Nor yet defpife, tho' void of winning art,
The plain and honeft courtship of the heart:
The fkilful tongue in love's perfuafive lore,
Tho' lefs it feels, will please and flatter more,
And meanly learned in that guilty trade
Can long abuse a fond, unthinking maid.
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