The poet dream'd, or tun'd his song, At which the Dryads would appear, And sylvan boys would run to hear, Dim are your glories, sunk your name, And all has perish'd but the fame That never shall thro' time decay While nations rise and melt away. The deeds of mighty chiefs, who broke The tyrant's chain, and spurn'd his yoke, And then by beauty's arms subdued Were led in willing servitude. Dear are the records, that unfold The pleasures and the cares of old, NOTES. NOTE A. (to the Preface.) DOCTOR JOHNSON threw together the substance of his Latin Epitaph on Goldsmith into the more compressed form of a Greek Epigram. These lines and his translation of a noble passage in the Medea of Euripides, which has been frequently and in vain attempted, are not sufficiently known. They are not printed with his works, although the latter is as successful as any thing that he has left us. They are inserted from a persuasion that they will be new to many persons, and agreeable to all. Τον ταφον ἐισοραας τον Ολιβάριοιο" Κονιην Αφροσι μη σεμνην Ξεινε πόδεσσι πάλει. Οισι μεμηλε φυσις, μετρων χαρις, έργα παλαίων Thou se'st the tomb of Oliver: retire, Unholy feet, nor o'er his ashes tread. Ye whom the deeds of old, verse, nature, fire, |