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By length of toil a bright perfection knew,
But wilder far the British laurel spread, And wreaths less artful crown our poet's head. Yet He alone to every scene could give Th' historian's truth, and bid the manners live. Wak'd at his call I view, with glad surprize, Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise. There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms, And laurel'd Conquest waits her hero's arms. Here gentler Edward claims a pitying figh, Scarce born to honours, and so soon to die ! Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring No beam of comfort to the guilty king :
+ The favourite author of the elder Corneille.
The * time shall come, when Glo'ster's heart fall
Where'er we turn, by fancy charm'd, we find Some sweet illusion of the cheated mind. Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove With humbler nature, in the rural grove ; Where swains contented own the quiet scene, And twilight fairies tread the circled green: Dress'd by her hand, the woods and valleys smile, And Spring diffusive decks th' inchanted isle.
O more than all in powerful genius blest, Come, take thine empire o'er the willing breast! Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel, Thy fongs support me, and thy morals heal!
* Tempus erit Turno, magno cùm optaverit emptum Intactum pallanta, &c.
There every thought the poet's warmth may raise,
Methinks even now I view some free design, Where breathing Nature lives in every line : Chafte and subdued the modest lights decay, Steal into shades, and mildly melt away. -And see, where * Anthony, in tears approv’d, Guards the pale relics of the chief he lov'd : O'er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend, Deep funk in grief, and mourns his murder'd friend ! Still as they press, he calls on all around, Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound.
But + who is he, whose brows exalted bear A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air ?
* Şee the tragedy of Julius Cæsar.
Awake to all that injur'd worth can feel,
Thus, generous Critic, as thy Bard inspires,
So spread o'er Greece, th' harimonious whole
unknown, Even Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone. Their own Ulysses scarce had wander'd more, By winds and waters cast on every shore : When rais'd by fate, some 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.