By length of toil a bright perfection knew,
Correctly bold, and juft in all she drew.
Till late Corneille, with † Lucan's fpirit fir'd,
Breath'd the free ftrain, as Rome and He infpir'd:
And claffic judgment gain'd to sweet Racine
The temperate ftrength of Maro's chaster 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,
Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise.
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.
The time fhall come, when Glo'fter's heart fhall
In life's laft hours, with horror of the deed: [bleed
When dreary vifions fhall at last present
Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent:
Thy hand unfeen the fecret death fhall bear, [fpear.
Blunt the weak fword, and break th' oppreffive
Where'er we turn, by fancy charm'd, we find
Some sweet 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 scene,
And twilight fairies tread the circled green:
Dress'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 breaft!
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 fome verse with happiest skill perfuade
Expreffive Picture to adopt thine aid!
What wondrous draughts might rife from every
What other Raphaels charm a distant age! [page!
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 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?
* 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 fhall not war's infatiate fury fall,
(So heaven ordains it) on the destin❜d wall.
See the fond mother, 'midft the plaintive train,
Hung on his knees, and proftrate on the plain!
Touch'd to the foul, in vain he strives 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 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 string:
Thofe Sibyl-leaves, the fport 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.
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