ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HANMER, ON HIS
EDITION OF SHAKESPEAR'S WORKS.
Hile born to bring the Mufe's happier days,
A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays,
While nurs'd by you fhe fees her myrtles bloom,
Green and unwither'd o'er his honour'd tomb:
Excufe her doubts, if yet fhe fears to tell
What fecret transports in her bofom fwell:
With conscious awe fhe hears. the critic's fame,
And blushing hides her wreath at Shakefpear's name.
Hard was the lot thofe injur'd ftrains endur'd,
Unown'd by fcience, and by years obfcur'd:
Fair Fancy wept; and echoing fighs confefs'd
A fixt defpair in every tuneful breaft.
Not with more grief th' afflicted fwains appear,
When wintry winds deform the plenteous year;
When lingering frofts the ruin'd feats invade
Where Peace reforted, and the Graces play'd.
Each rifing art by juft gradation moves,
Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves:
The Muse alone unequal dealt her rage,
And grac'd with nobleft pomp her earliest ftage.
Preferv'd thro' time, the fpeaking scenes impart
Each changeful wish of Phædra's tortur'd heart:
Or paint the curfe, that mark'd the * Theban's reign'
A bed incestuous, and a father flain.
With kind concern our pitying eyes o'erflow,
Trace the fad tale, and own another's woe.
To Rome remov'd, with wit fecure to please,
The comic fifters kept their native ease.
With jealous fear declining Greece beheld
Her own Menander's art almoft excell'H
But every Mufe effay'd to raise in vain
Some labour'd rival of her tragic strain ;
Ilyffus' laurels, though transferr'd with toil,
Droop'd their fair leaves, nor knew th' unfriendly foil.
*The Oedipus of Sophocles.
As arts expir'd, refiftlefs Dulness rose;
Goths, priests, or Vandals,—all were Learning's foes.
Till + Julius first recall'd each exil'd maid,
And Cofmo own'd them in th' Etrurian fhade:
Then deeply skill'd in love's engaging theme,
The foft Provencial pass'd to Arno's ftream:
With graceful ease the wanton lyre he ftrung,
Sweet flow'd the lays-but love was all he fung.
The gay description could not fail to move ;
For, led by nature, all are friends to love.
But heaven, ftill various in its works, decreed
'The perfect boast of time should last fucceed.
The beauteous union must appear at length,
Of Tuscan fancy, and Athenian strength:
One greater Muse Eliza's reign adorn,
And even a Shakespear to her fame be born!
Yet ah! fo bright her morning's opening ray,
In vain our Britain hop'd an equal day!
Julius II, the immediate predeceffor of Leo X.
No fecond growth the western ifle could bear,
At once exhaufted with too rich a year.
Too nicely Johnson knew the critic's part;
Nature in him was almoft loft in art.
Of fofter mold the gentle Fletcher came,
The next in order, as the next in name.
With pleas'd attention 'midft his scenes we find
Each glowing thought, that warms the female mind;
Each melting figh, and every tender tear,
The lover's wishes, and the virgin's fear.
His every ftrain the Smiles and Graces own;
But ftronger Shakespear felt for man alone:
Drawn by his pen, our ruder paffions ftand
Th' unrivall❜d picture of his early hand.
+ With gradual fteps, and flow, exacter France Saw Art's fair empire o'er her shores advance:
* Their characters are thus diftinguished by Mr. Dryden: † About the time of Shakespear, the poet Hardy was in great repute in France. He wrote, according to Fontenelle, fix hun- dred plays. The French poets after him applied themselves in general to the correct improvement of the ftage, which was almost totally disregarded by those of our own country, Johnson excepted.
By length of toil a bright perfection knew,
Correctly bold, and just in all fhe drew.
Till late Corneille, with* Lucan's spirit fir'd,
Breath'd the free ftrain, as Rome and He infpir'd:
And claffic judgment gain'd to sweet Racine
The te perate ftrength of Maro's chafter line.
But wilder far the British laurel spread,
And wreaths lefs artful crown our poet's head.
Yet He alone to every fcene could give
Th' hiftorian's truth, and bid the manners live.
Wak'd at his call I view, with glad furprize,
Majeftic forms of mighty monarchs rife.
There Henry's trumpets fpread their loud alarms,
And laurel'd Conqueft waits her hero's arms.
Here gentler Edward claims a pitying figh,
Scarce born to honours, and fo foon to die!
Yet fhall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring
No beam of comfort to the guilty king:
The favourite author of the elder Corneille.
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