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And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view,
How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke, Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour'd! 194
When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, And the wild blast upheaved the vanish'd sword !
How have I sat, when piped the pensive wind, To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung!
Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind Believed the magic wonders which he sung!
Hence, at each sound, imagination glows ! Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here !
Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows! Melting it flows, pure, murmuring, strong, and
clear, And fills the impassion'd heart, and wins the
Ver. 193. How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's side,
Like him I stalk'd, and all his passions felt; When charm’d by Ismen, through the forest wide,
Bark'd in each plant a talking spirit dwelt! 201. Hence, sure to charm, his early numbers flow,
Though strong, yet sweet-
harmonious ear. 204. Melting it flows, pure, numerous, strong, and clear,
All hail, ye scenes that o'er
soul prevail ! Ye splendid friths and lakes, which, far away,
Are by smooth Annan' fill’d or pastoral Tay,' Or Don’sP romantic springs, at distance hail ! 209 The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread Your lowly glens, o’erhung with spreading
broom; Or, o'er your stretching heaths, by Fancy led;
Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom ! Then will I dress once more the faded bower, 214
Where Jonson "sat in Drummond's classic shade; Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flower, And mourn, on Yarrow's banks, where Willy's
laid ! Meantime, ye powers that on the plains which bore
The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains,' attend !Where'er Home dwells, on hill, or lowly moor, 220
To him I lose, your kind protection lend, And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my
absent friend !
Ver. 220. Where'er he dwell, on hill, or lowly muir,
p Three rivers in Scotland. 9 Valleys.
? Ben Jonson paid a visit on foot, in 1619, to the Scotch poet Drummond, at his seat of Hawthornden, within four miles of Edinburgh.
• Barrow, it seems, was at the Edinburgh University, which is in the county of Lothian.
AN EPISTLE, ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HANMER, ON HIS EDITION OF
SIR, While, born to bring the Muse's happier days A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays, While nursed by you she sees her myrtles bloom, Green and unwither'd o'er his honour'd tomb; Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell What secret transports in her bosom swell : With conscious awe she hears the critic's fame, And blushing hides her wreath at Shakespeare's
Hard was the lot those injured strains endured, Unown'd by Science, and by years obscured : 10
Ver. 1. While, own'd by you, with smiles the Muse surveys
The expected triumph of her sweetest lays :
With conscious, &c.
Wept o'er his works, and felt the last despair :
Fair Fancy wept; and echoing sighs confess'd
Each rising art by just gradation moves, Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves : The Muse alone unequal dealt her rage, And graced with noblest pomp her earliest stage. Preserved through time, the speaking scenes impart Each changeful wish of Phædra's tortured heart;
And “Oh!” she cried, “shall Science still resign
breast its fondest hopes must bend, And every Muse with tears await her friend.” 'Twas then fair Isis from her stream arose, In kind compassion of her sister's woes. 'Twas then she promised to the mourning maid The immortal honours which thy hands have paid : “My best loved son,” she said, “ shall yet restore Thy ruin'd sweets, and fancy weep no more.” Each rising art by slow gradation moves ; Toil builds, &c.
Or paint the curse that mark'd the Theban's a reign,
To Rome removed, with wit secure to please, The comic Sisters kept their native ease : With jealous fear, declining Greece beheld Her own Menander's art almost excell'd; But every Muse essay'd to raise in vain Some labour'd rival of her tragic strain : Ilissus' laurels, though transferr'd with toil, Droop'd their fair leaves, nor knew the unfriendly
soil. As Arts expired, resistless Dulness rose; Goths, Priests, or Vandals,—all were Learning's
Ver. 25. Line after line our pitying eyes o’erflow,
27. To Rome removed, with equal power to please,
No more imperial, stoop'd her conquer'd head;
a The Edipus of Sophocles.