His every strain the Smiles and Graces own;
But stronger Shakespeare felt for man alone :
Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand
The unrivall'd picture of his early hand.

With gradual steps and slow, exacter France Saw Art's fair empire o'er her shores advance: By length of toil a bright perfection knew, Correctly bold, and just in all she drew: Till late Corneille, with Lucan's spirit fir'd, Breath'd the free strain, as Rome and he inspir'd: And classic judgment gain'd to sweet Racine The temperate strength of Maro's chaster line.

But wilder far the Pritish laurel spread,
And wreaths less artful crown our Poet's head.
Yet he alone to every scene could give

The historian's truth, and bid the manners live.
Wak'd at his call I view, with glad surprise,
Majestic torins of mighty monarchs rise.

There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms;
And laurell'd Conquest waits her hero's arms.
Here gentle Edward claims a pitying sigh,
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 time shall come when Glo'ster's heart shall bleed,

In life's last hours with horror of the deed:

* Their characters are thus distinguished by Mr. Dryden.

+ About the time of Shakespeare, the poet Hardy was in great repute in France. He wrote, according to Fontenelle, six hundred plays. The French poets after him applied themselves in general to the correct improvement of the stage, which was almost totally disregarded by those of our own country, Jonson excepted.

The favourite author of the elder Corneille.

Turno tempus erit, magno cum optaverit emptum
Intactun. Pallanta, &c.

C

Virg.

When dreary visions shall at last present
Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent:

Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear ;
Blunt the weak sword, and break th' oppressive
spear!

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' enchanted 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 songs support me, and thy morals heal!
There every thought the Poet's warmth may raise;
There native music dwells in all the lays.

O might some verse with happiest skill persuade
Expressive picture to adopt thine aid!

What wondrous draughts might rise from every page!
What other Raphaels charm a distant age!

Methinks e'en now I view some free design Where breathing Nature lives in every line: Chaste and subdu'd 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 sunk 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.

See the Tragedy of Julius Cæsar.

But who is he whose brows exalted bear
A wrath impatient and a fiercer air?
Awake to all that injur'd worth can feel,
On his own Rome he turns th' avenging steel;
Yet shall not war's insatiate fury fall

(So heaven ordains it) on the destin'd wall.
See the fond mother, 'midst the plaintive train,
Hung on his knees, and prostrate on the plain!
Touch'd to the soul, in vain he strives to hide
The son's affection in the Roman's pride:
O'er all the man conflicting passions rise;
Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes.

Thus, generous Critic, as thy Bard inspires,
The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping fires;
Each from his scenes her stores alternate bring;
Blend the fair tint, or wake the vocal string:
Those Sibyl-leaves, the sport of ev'ry wind,
(For Poets ever were a careless kind)
By thee dispos'd, no farther toil demand,
But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.

So spread o'er Greece, the harmonious whole unknown,

E'en 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.

Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's Dialogue on the Odyssey.

Dirge in Cymbeline.

Sung by Guiderus and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed to be dead.

TO. fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove ;
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen;
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chase, on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell;

Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Belov'd, till life can charm no more,

And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.

Ode on the Death of Mr. Thomson.

The Scene of the following Stanzas is supposed to lie on the Thames, near Richmond.

I

N yonder grave a Druid lies,

Where slowly winds the stealing wave!
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise,
To deck its poet's sylvan grave!

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid;
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here;
And, while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest;
And oft suspend the dashing oar,

To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And, oft as ease and health retire
To breezy lawn, or forest deep,

The friend shall view yon whitening + spire
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.

But thou who own'st that earthly bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail!
Or tears which Love and Pity shed,
That mourn beneath the gliding sail!

The harp of Eolus, of which see a description in the Castle of Indolence.

Richmond Church, in which Thomson was buried.'