Fields, that cool Iliffus laves, Or where Mæander's amber waves In lingering Lab'rinths creep, How do your tuneful Echo's languish, Mute, but to the voice of Anguish? Where each old poetic Mountain · Inspiration breath'd around: Ev'ry shade and hallow'd Fountain Murmur'd deep a folemn found : of Petrarch. The Earl of Surrey and Sir Tho. Wyatt had travelled in Italy, and formed their taste there; Spenfer imitated the Italian writers; Milton improved on them: but this School expired foon after the Restoration, and a new one arose on the French model, which has fubfifted ever fince. Till the fad Nine in Greece's evil hour Left their Parnaffus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant-Power, When Latium had her lofty fpirit loft, They fought, oh Albion! next thy fea-encircled coast. This pencil take (fhe faid) whofe colours clear Richly paint the vernal year : Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy; Of Horrour that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the facred fource of fympathetic Tears. III. 2. Nor fecond Hey, that rode fublime Upon the feraph-wings of Extafy, The fecrets of th' Abyss to spy. "He pafs'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time : * The living Throne, the faphirë-blaze, Where Angels tremble, while they gaze, He faw; but blafted with excess of light, y Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's lefs prefumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear 2 Two Courfers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long-refounding pace. * For the fpirit of the living creature was in the wheels-And above the firmament, that was over their heads, was the likeness of a throne, as the appearance of a faphire-fione.-This was the appearance of the glory of the Lord. Ezekiel i. 20, 26, 28. • Οφθαλμῶν μὲν ἄμερσε· δίδου δ ̓ ἡδεῖαν ἀοιδήν. HOMER. Od. 2 Meant to exprefs the stately march and founding energy of Dry den's rhimes. a Haft thou cloathed his neck with thunder ? Job. III. 3. Hark, his hands the iyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er Scatters from her pictur'd urn b Thoughts, that breath, and words, that burn. But ah! 'tis heard no more Oh! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit Words, that weep, and tears, that speak. Cowley. We have had in our language no other odes of the fublime kind, than that of Dryden on St. Cecilia's day: for Cowley (who had his merit) yet wanted judgment, style, and harmony, for such a task. That of Pope is not worthy of fo great a man. Mr. Mafon indeed of late days has touched the true chords, and with a masterly hand, in fome of his Chorufes, above all in the laft of Caractacus, Hark! heard ye not yon footstep dread? &c. |