The time shall come, when Glo'fter's heart fhallbleed
In life's laft hours, with horror of the deed:
When dreary vifions shall at last present
Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent:
Thy hand unfeen the fecret death shall bear,
Blunt the weak fword, and break th' oppreffive fpear..
Where'er we turn, by fancy charm'd, we find
Some fweet illufion of the cheated mind.
Oft, wild of wing, fhe calls the foul to rove
With humbler nature, in the rural grove;
Where fwains contented own the quiet fcene,
And twilight fairies tread the circled green:
Drefs'd by her hand, the woods and valleys smile,
And Spring diffufive decks th' inchanted ifle.
O more than all in powerful genius bleft,
Come, take thine empire o'er the willing breast!
Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel,
Thy fongs fupport me, and thy morals heal!
Tempus erit Turno, magno cùm optaverit emptum.
Intactum pallanta, &c.
There every thought the poet's warmth may raise,
There native mufic dwells in all the lays.
O might some verse with happiest skill perfuade
Expreffive Picture to adopt thine aid!
What wondrous draughts might rise from every page!
What other Raphaels charm a distant age!
Methinks even now I view fome free defign,
Where breathing Nature lives in every line:
Chafte and fubdued the modeft lights decay,
Steal into fhades, and mildly melt away.
-And fee, where* Anthony, in tears approv'd,
Guards the pale relics of the chief he lov'd:
O'er the cold corfe the warrior feems to bend,
Deep funk in grief, and mourns his murder'd friend!
Still as they prefs, he calls on all around,
Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound.
But who is he, whofe brows exalted bear
A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air?
* See the tragedy of Julius Cæfar.
+ Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's dialogue on the Odyssey.
Awake to all that injur'd worth can feel,
On his own Rome he turns th' avenging steel.
Yet shall not war's infatiate fury fall,
(So heaven ordains it) on the deftin'd wall.
See the fond mother, 'midst the plaintive train,
Hung on his knees, and proftrate on the plain!
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, generous Critic, as thy bard infpires,
The fifter Arts shall nurse their drooping fires;
Each from his scenes her ftores alternate bring,
Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal ftring:
Thofe Sibyl-leaves, the sport of every wind,
(For poets ever were a careless kind)
By thee difpos'd, no farther toil demand,
But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.
So fpread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole
Even Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone.
Their own Ulyffes fcarce had wander'd more,
By winds and waters caft on every 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, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.
O fair Fidele's graffy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds fhall bring
Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing Spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with fhrieks this quiet grove,
But shepherd lads affemble here,
And melting virgins own their love,
No wither'd witch fhall here be feen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
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