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Fair Fancy wept; and echoing sighs confess'd | Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand
A fix'd despair in every tuneful breast.
Not with more grief th' afflicted swains appear,
When wintry winds deform the plenteous year;
When lingering frosts the ruin'd seats invade,
Where Peace resorted, and the Graces play'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 grac'd with noblest pomp her earliest stage.
Preserv'd through time, the speaking scenes
inrpart

Th' 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 in-
spir'd;

Each changeful wish of Phædra's tortur'd heart:
Or paint the curse that mark'd the Theban's
reign *;

A bed incestuous, and a father slain :
With kind concern our pitying eyes o'erflow,
Trace the sad tale, and own another's woe.
To Rome remov'd, with wit secure to please,
The comic sisters keep 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 labor'd rival of her tragic strain;
Ilissus' laurels, though transferr'd with toil,
Droop'd their fair leaves, nor knew th' un-
friendly soil.

As arts expir'd, resistless Dulness rose; Goths, priests, or Vandals-all were learning's foes,

Till +Julius first recall'd each exil'd maid,
And Cosmo own'd them in th' Etrurian shade.
Then, deeply skill'd in love's engaging theme,
The soft Provençal pass'd to Arno's stream:
With graceful ease the wanton lyre he strung,
Sweet flow'd the lays-but love was all he sung.
The

gay description could not fail to move; For, led by nature, all are friends to love.

But heaven, still various in its works, decreed
The perfect boast of time should last succeed.
The beauteous union must appear at length
Of Tuscan fancy and Athenian strength;
One greater Muse Eliza's reign adorn,
And e'en a Shakspeare to her fame be born!
Yet ah! so bright her morning's opening ray,
In vain our Britain hop'd an equal day!
No second growth the western isle could bear,
At once exhausted with too rich a year.
Too nicely Jonson knew the critic's part;
Nature in him was almost lost in art.
Of softer mould the gentle Fletcher came,
The next in order, as the next in name:
With pleas'd attention 'midst his scenes we find
Each glowing thought that warms the female
mind;

Each melting sigh, and every tender tear,
The lover's wishes, and the virgin's fear.
His every strain the Smiles and Graces own :
But stronger Shakspeare felt for man alone:

The Edipus of Sophocles.

And classic judgement gain'd to sweet Racine
The temperate strength of Maro's chaster line.
But wider far the British laurel spread,
And wreaths less artful crown our poet's head.
Yet he alone to every scene could give
Th' historian's truth, and bid the manners live.
Wak'd at his call, I view with glad surprise
Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise.
There Henry'strumpets spread their loud alarms,
And laurell'd conquest waits her hero's arms.
Here gentler Edward claims a pitying sigh,
Scarce born to honors, 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 :
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 per-
suade

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.

† Julius II. the immediate predecessor of Leo X.

The characters are thus distinguished by Mr. Dryden. About the time of Shakspeare, 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 favorite author of the elder Corneille.

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But who is het 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,
Hang 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 tints, or wake the vocal string:
Those Sibyl-leaves, the sport of every 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, th' 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.

$165. Dirge in Cymbeline, sung by Guiderius and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed to be

dead.

COLLINS.

To fair Fidele's tomb
grassy
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 red-breast oft at evening hours'

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flow'rs,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

See the tragedy of Julius Cæsar.
See Mr. Spence's Dialogue on the Odyssey.

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;
Belov'd, till life can charm no more;
For thee the tear be duly shed;
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.

§ 166.
The Scene of the following Stanzas is supposed
to lie on the Thames, near Richmond.

Ode on the Death of Mr. Thomson.
COLLINS.

IN 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 you 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 !
Yet lives there one whose heedless eye
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near?
With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,

And Joy desert the blooming year!
But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side,
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!
And see, the fairy valleys fade;

Dun night has veil'd the solemn view;
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek nature's child, again adieu!

The genial meads assign'd to bless
Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom!
There hinds and shepherd girls shall dress
With simple hands thy rural tomb.
↑ Coriolanus.

The Harp of olus, of which see a description in the Castle of Indolence.

Mr. Thomson was buried in Richmond church.

Mr. Thomson resided in the neighbourhood of Richmond some time before his death.

Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes: O vales and wild woods, shall he say, In yonder grave your Druid lies!

§ 167. Verses written on a Paper which contained a Piece of Bride Cake. COLLINS.

YE curious hands, that, hid from vulgar eyes, By search profane shall find this hallow'd cake,

With virtue's awe forbear the sacred prize,

Nor dare a theft, for love and pity's sake! This precious relic, form'd by magic pow'r, Beneath the shepherd's haunted pillow laid, Was meant by love to charm the silent hour, The secret present of a matchless maid. The Cyprian queen, at Hymen's fond request, Each nice ingredient chose with happiest art; Fears, sighs, and wishes of th' enamour'd breast, And pains that please, are mix'd in every part. With rosy hand the spicy fruit she brought, From Paphian hills, and fair Cytherea's isle; And temper'd sweet with these the melting thought,

The kiss ambrosial, and the yielding smile; Ambiguous looks, that scorn and yet relent; Denials mild, and firm unalter'd truth; Reluctant pride, and amorous faint consent,

And meeting ardours, and exulting youth. Sleep, wayward god, hath sworn, while these remain,

With flattering dreams to dry his nightly

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$168. To a Mouse, on turning her up in her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785. BURNS.

WEE, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie !
Thou need na start away sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!

I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring patile!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal.

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve: What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A diamen-icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request;

I'll get a blessing wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin !
Its silly wa's the wins are strewing:
An' naething, now, to big a new ane
O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's wind ensuing,
Baith snell and keen!

Thou saw the field laid bare and waste,
An' weary winter coming fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till, crash! the cruel coulter past,
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o'leaves an' stibble!
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
Baith house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
The best-laid schemes of mice an' men
In proving foresight may be vain :
Gang aft a-gley,

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain
For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But, och! I backward cast my c'e
On prospects drear!
An' forward, though I canna see,
I guess an' fear.

$169. To a Mountain Daisy, on turning one down with the Plough, in April, 1786. BURNS.

Thou's met me in an evil hour;
WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem :
To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
Thou bonie gem!

Alas! its no thy neebor sweet,
The bonie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!
Wi' spreckl'd breast,
When upwards springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter biting north
Upon thy early humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods an' wa's maun shield;

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Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heaven, He ruin'd sink!

E'en thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine-no distant date:

Stern ruin's plough-share drives elate

Full on thy bloom;

Till, crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, Shall be thy doom!

Mistake me not: no figures I exclude,
And but forbid intemperance, not food.
Who would with care some happy fiction frame,
So mimics truth, it looks the very same;
Not rais'd to force, or feign'd in Nature's scorn,
But meant to grace, illustrate, and adorn.
Important truths still let your fables hold,
And moral mysteries with art unfold:
Ladies and beaux to please is all the task;
But the sharp critic will instruction ask.
As veils transparent cover, but not hide,
Such metaphors appear, when right applied;
When thro' the phrase we plainly see the sense,
Truth with such obvious meanings will dispense.
The reader what is reason's due believes,
Nor can we call that false which not deceives:
Hyperboles, so daring and so bold,
Disdaining bounds, are yet by rules controll'd;
Above the clouds, but yet within our sight,
They mount with Truth, and make a tow'ring
flight;

Presenting things impossible to view,
They wander through incredible to true.
Falsehoods thus mix'd like metals are refin'd;
And Truth, like silver, leaves the dross behind.
Thus Poetry has ample space to soar,
Nor needs forbidden regions to explore;
Such vaunts as his, who can with patience read,
Who thus describes his hero when he's dead-
In heat of action slain, yet scorns to fall,
But still maintains the war, and fights at-
All ?"

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The noisy culverin, o'ercharg'd, lets fly,
And bursts, unaiming, in the rended sky;
Such frantic flights are like a madman's dream,
And nature suffers in the wild extreme.
The captive cannibal, opprest with chains,
Yet braves his foes, reviles, provokes, disdains;

$170. An Essay upon unnatural Flights in Of nature fierce, untameable, and proud, Poetry.

LANDSDOWNE.

As when some image of a charming face, In living paint, an artist tries to trace, He carefully consults each beauteous line, Adjusting to his object his design; We praise the piece, and give the painter fame, But as the bright resemblance speaks the dame: Poets are limneis of another kind, To copy out ideas in the mind;

Words are the paint by which their thoughts are shown,

And Nature is their object to be drawn:
The written picture we applaud or blame
But as the just proportions are the same.
Who, driven with ungovernable fire,
Or void of art, beyond these bounds aspire,
Gigantic forms and monstrous births alone
Produce, which Nature shock'd disdains

own.

By true reflection I would see my face;
Why brings the fool a magnifying glass?
"But poetry in fiction takes delight,
And mounting in bold figures out of sight,
Leaves truth behind in her audacious flight:
Fables and metaphors that always lie,
And rash hyperboles that soar so high,
And every ornament of verse must die."

to

He bids defiance to the gaping crowd;
And spent at last, and speechless, as he lies,
With fiery glances mocks their rage, and dies.
This is the utmost stretch that nature can,
And all beyond is fulsome, false and vain.
The Roman wit, who impiously divides
His hero and his gods to different sides,
I would condemn, but that in spite of sense,
The admiring world still stands in his defence:
The gods permitting traitors to succeed,
Become not parties in an impious deed;
And by the tyrant's murder, we may find
That Cato and the gods were of a mind.
Thus forcing truth with such preposterous
praise,

Our characters we lessen when we'd raise:
Like castles built by magic art in air,
That vanish at approach, such thoughts appear;
But, rais'd on truth by some judicious hand,
As on a rock they shall for ages stand.
Our king return'd, and banish'd peace restor❜d,
The Muse ran mad to see her exil'd lord;
On the crack'd stage the Bedlam heroes roar'd,
And scarce could speak one reasonable word:
Dryden himself, to please a frantic age,
Was forc'd to let his judgement stoop to rage:
To a wild audience he conform'd his voice,
Complied to custom, but not err'd thro' choice.

Deem then the people's, not the writer's sin,
Almansor's rage, and rants of Maximin;
That fury spent in each elaborate piece,
He vies for fame with ancient Rome and Greece.
Roscommon first, then Mulgrave rose, like
light,

To clear our darkness, and to guide our flight:
With steady judgement, and in lofty sounds,
They gave us patterns, and they set us bounds.
The Stagyrite and Horace laid aside:
Inform'd by them, we need no foreign guide.
Who seek from poetry a lasting name,
May from their lessons learn the road to fame;
But let the bold adventurer be sure
That every line the test of truth endure;
On this foundation may the fabric rise,
Firm and unshaken, till it touch the skies.
From pulpits banish'd, from the court, from
love,

Abandon'd Truth seeks shelter in the grove:
Cherish, ye Muses, the forsaken fair,
And take into your train this beauteous wan-

derer.

A strict integrity, devoid of art;

The sweetest manners, and sincerest heart;
A soul, where depth of sense and fancy meet;
A judgement brighten'd by the beams of wit-
Were ever yours: be what you were before,
Be still yourself; the world can ask no more.

$172. The Inquiry. Written in the lust Century.

AMONGST the myrtles as I walk'd, Love and my sighs thus intertalk'd: "Tell me," said I, in deep distress, "Where may I find my shepherdess?" "Thou fool," said Love, "know'st thou not this?

In every thing that's good, she is ;
In yonder tulip go and seek,
There thou mayst find her lip, her cheek ;
In yon enamell'd pansy by,

There thou shalt have her curious eye;
In bloom of peach, in rosy bud,
There wave the streamers of her blood;

§ 171. To Mr. Spence, prefixed to the Essay In brightest lilies that there stand,

on Pope's Odyssey.

PITT.

"Tis done-restor'd by thy immortal pen, The critic's noble name revives again: Once more that great, that injur'd name we see Shine forth alike in Addison and thec.

Like curs, our critics haunt the poet's feast, And feed on scraps refus'd by every guest; From the old Thracian dog they learn'd the

way

To snarl in want, and grumble o'er their prey: As though they grudg'd themselves the joys they feel,

Vex'd to be charm'd, and pleas'd against their will.

Such their inverted taste, that we expect
For faults their thanks, for beauties their neglect.
So the fell snake rejects the fragrant flow'rs,
And every poison of the field devours.

Like bold Longinus of immortal fame,

You read your poet with a poet's flame;

With his, your gen'rous raptures still aspire; The critic kindles when the bard's on fire.

The emblems of her whiter hand;
In yonder rising hill there smell
Such sweets as in her bosom dwell:
"Tis true," said he. And thereupon
I went to pluck them one by one,
To make of parts an union;
But on a sudden all was gone.
Fond man, resemblances of thee;
With that I stopp'd. Said Love, "These be,
E'en in the twinkling of an eye;
And as these flow'rs thy joy shall die,
And all thy hopes of her shall wither,
Like these short sweets that knit together."

$173. The Diverting History of John Gilpin, showing how he went farther than he intended, and came safe home again. COWPER.

JOHN GILPIN was a citizen Of credit and renown,

But when some lame, some limping line de- A train-band captain eke was he

mands

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Of famous London town.

John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,
These twice ten tedious years, yet we
Though wedded we have been
No holiday have seen.

To-morrow is our wedding-day,
And we will then repair
Unto the Bell at Edmonton,

All in a chaise and pair,

My sister and my sister's child,
Myself and children three,
Will fill the chaise, so you must ride
On horseback after we.

* Zoilus, so called by the ancients.

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