There every thought the poet's warmth may raise, O might fome verse with happiest skill perfuade What wondrous draughts might rife from every Methinks even now I view fome free design, 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. (So heaven ordains it) on the destin❜d wall. Thus, generous Critic, as thy Bard infpires, By thee difpos'd, no farther toil demand, So So fpread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole unknown, Even Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone. 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 But fhepherd lads affemble here, And melting virgins own their love. No wither'd witch fhall here be feen, The red-breaft oft at evening hours With hoary mofs, and gather'd flowers, To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds, and beating rain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell. Each lonely scene shall thee restore, Belov'd, till life can charm no more; A |