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 diftant age! [page!

Methinks even now I view fome free design,
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 Odyffey.

Awake

Awake to all that injur'd worth can feel,

On his own Rome he turns th' avenging fteel.
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 ftrives to hide
The fon's affection, in the Roman's pride:
O'er all the man conflicting passions rise,
Rage grafps the fword, while Pity melts the eyes.

Thus, generous Critic, as thy Bard infpires,
The fifter Arts fhall nurse their drooping fires;
Each from his fcenes her ftores alternate bring,
Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal string:
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

So fpread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole

unknown,

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.

DIRGE

DIRGE

1

IN CYMBELYNE.

SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER

T

FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

O fair Fidele's graffy tomb

Soft maids, and village hinds shall bring

Each opening fweet, of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing Spring.

No wailing ghoft fhall dare appear
To vex with fhrieks this quiet grove,

But fhepherd 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 fhall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The red-breaft oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,

With hoary mofs, and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempefts shake the fylvan cell;
Or 'midft the chace on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly fhed;

Belov'd, till life can charm no more;
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead:

A