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But this poor farce has neither truth nor art
To please the fancy, or to touch the heart;
Unlike the darkness of the sky, that pours
On the dry ground its fertilizing showers;
Unlike to that which strikes the soul with dread,
When thunders roar, and forky fires are shed:
Dark but not awful, dismal but yet mean,
With anxious bustle moves the cumbrous scene;
Presents no objects, tender or profound,
But spreads its cold unmeaning gloom around.
When woes are feign'd, how ill such forms

appear,

And oh! how needless when the woe's sincere!
Slow to the vault they come with heavy tread,
Bending beneath the lady and her lead';
A case of elm surrounds that ponderous chest,
Close on that case the crimson velvet's press'd;
Ungen'rous this, that to the worm denies
With niggard caution his appointed prize;
For now, e'er yet he works his tedious way
Thro' cloth, and wood, and metal, to his prey,
That prey dissolving shall a mass remain [dain.
That fancy loathes, and worms themselves dis-
But see, the master-mourner makes his way
To end his office for the coffin'd clay,

Pleas'd that our rustic men and minds behold
His plate like silver, and his studs like gold;
As they approach to spell the age, the name,
And all the titles of th' illustrious dame:-
This as (my duty done) some scholar read,
A village father look'd disdain, and said-
Away, my friends! why take such pains to
know

What some brave marble soon in church shall show?

Where not alone her gracious name shall stand,
But how she liv'd the blessing of the land;
How much we all deplor'd the noble dead,
What groans we utter'd, and what tears we shed;
Tears true as those which in the sleepy eyes
Of weeping cherubs on the stone shall rise;
Tears true as those, which, ere she found her
grave,

The noble lady to our sorrows gave."

$162. Funeral of an ancient Maiden. CRABBE. Down by the church-way walk, and where the brook

Winds round the chancel like a shepherd's crook, In that small house, with those great pales before, Where jasmine trails on either side the door, Where those dark shrubs that now grow wild at will,

Were clipt in form, and tantaliz'd with skill; Where cockles blanch'd, and pebbles neatly spread,

Form'd shining borders for the larkspur bed; There liv'd a lady wise, austere, and nice, Who showed her virtue by her scorn of vice: In the dear fashions of her youth, she dress'd, A pea-green joseph was her fav'rite vest,

Erect she stood, she walk'd with stately mien, Tight was her length of stays, and she was tall and lean.

There long she liv'd in maiden state immur'd From looks of love, and treacherous man secur'd;

Though evil fame (but that was long before)
Had blown her dubious blast at Catharine's door.
A captain Huther, rich from India came,
And though a cousin call'd, it touch'd her fame;
Her annual stipend rose from his behest,
And all the long-priz'd treasures she possess'd :
If aught like joy a while appear'd to stay
In that stern face, and chase those frowns away,
'Twas when her treasures she dispos'd for view,
And heard the praises to their splendor due;
Silks beyond price, so rich they'd stand alone,
And diamonds blazing on the buckled zone;
Rows of rare pearls by curious workmen set,
And bracelets fair, in box of glossy jet:
Bright polish'd amber, precious from its size
Or forms, the fairest fancy could devise;
Her drawers of cedar, shut with secret springs,
Conceal'd the watch of gold and rubied rings;
Letters, long proofs of love, and verses fine,
Round the pink'd rims of Crispin valentine.
Her china closet, cause of daily care,
For woman's wonder held her pencil'd ware;
That pictur'd wealth of China and Japan,
Like its cold mistress, shunn'd the eye of man.
Her neat small room, adorn'd with maiden

taste,

A clipt French puppy, first of fav'rites, grac'd;
A parrot next, but dead and stuff'd with art
(For Poll, when living, lost his lady's heart,
And then his life! for he was heard to speak
Such frightful words as ting'd his lady's check);
Unhappy bird! who had no power to prove,
Save by such speech, his gratitude and love;
A grey old cat his whiskers lick'd beside,
A type of sadness in the house of pride:
The polish'd surface of an India chest,
A glassy globe in frame of ivory prest,
Where swam two finny creatures, one of gold,
Of silver one, both beauteous to behold:
All these were form'd the guiding taste to suit,
The beasts well-manner'd, and the fishes mute.
A widow'd aunt was there, compeli'd by need
The nymph to flatter, and her tribe to feed;
Who, veiling well her scorn, endur'd the clog
Mute as the fish, and fawning as the dog.

As years increas'd, these treasures, her delight
Arose in value in their owner's sight:
A miser knows that, view it as he will,
A guinea kept, is but a guinea still;
And so he puts it to its proper use,
That something more this guinea may produce:
But silks and rings in the possessor's eyes
The oftener seen, the more in value rise,
And thus are wisely hoarded to bestow
On pride that governs, pleasure that will grow :
But what avail'd their worth, if worth had they,
In the sad summer of her slow decay?

Then we beheld her turn an anxious look From trunks and chests, and fix it on her book, A rich-bound book of prayer the captain gave (Some princess had it, or was said to have), And then once more on all her stores look round, And draw a sigh so piteous and profound, That told, "Alas! how hard from thee to part, And for new hopes and habits form the heart: What shall I do (she cried), my peace of mind To gain in dying, and to die resign'd?"

Here we returned"These baubles cast aside,
Nor give thy God a rival in thy pride;
Thy closet shut, and ope thy kitchen door,
There own thy failings-here invite the poor;
A friend of mammon let thy bounty make,
For widows' prayers thy vanities forsake,
And let the hungry of thy pride partake;
Then shall thy inward eye with joy survey
The angel Mercy tempering Death's delay."
Alas! 'twas hard; the treasures still had
charms,

Hope still its flattery, sickness its alarms;
Still was the same unsettled cloudy view,
And the same plaintive cry "What shall I do?"
Nor change appear'd: for when her race was

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Peasant.

§ 163. Funeral of Isaac Ashford, a virtuous
CRABBE.
NOBLE he was, condemning all things mean,
His truth unquestion'd, and his soul serene;
Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid;
At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd:
Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace,
Truth, simple truth, was written in his face;
Yet while the serious thought his soul approv'd,
Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he lov'd:
To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd,

And with the firmest had the fondest mind.
Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on,
And gave allowance when he needed none;
Good he refus'd with future ill to buy,
Nor knew a joy that caus'd reflection's sigh;
A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast
No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd;
Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind
To miss one favor which their neighbours find.
Yet far was he from stoic pride remov'd,
He felt humanely, and he warmly lov'd.
I mark'd his action when his infant died,
And his old neighbour for offence was tried;
The still tears stealing down that furrow'd cheek
Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak.
If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride
Who, in their base contempt, the great deride;
Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed,
If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed;
Nor pride in rustic skill, although he knew,
None his superior, and his equals few :
But if that spirit in his soul had place,
It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace;
A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd,
In sturdy boys to virtuous labors train'd;
Pride in thepowerthat guards his country's coast,
And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast;
Pride in a life that slander's tongue defy'd;
In fact, a noble passion, misnam'd pride.

He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim, Christian and country was all with him: True to his church he came, no Sunday shower Kept him at home in that important hour;

Nor his firm feet could one persuading sect,
By the strong glare of their new-light, direct;
On hope in mine own sober light I gaze,
But should be blind and lose it in your blaze.

In times severe, when many a sturdy swain Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain; Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would hide,

And feel in that his comfort and his pride.

At length he found, when seventy years were

run,

His strength departed, and his labor done;
When, save his honest fame, he kept no more,
But lost his wife, and saw his children poor:
'Twas then a spark of (say not discontent),
Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent:
"Kind are your laws, 'tis not to be deny'd,
That in yon house for ruin'd age provide;
And they are just; when young we give you all,
And then for comforts in our weakness call;
Why then this proud reluctance to be fed,
To join your poor, and eat the parish bread?
But yet I linger, loath with him to feed,
Who gains his plenty by the sons of need;
He who by contract all your paupers took
And gauges stomachs with an anxious look:
On some old master I could well depend;
See him with joy, and thank him as a friend;
But ill on him who doles the day's supply,
And counts our chances who at night may die.
Yet help me Heaven! and let me not complain
Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain.”

Such were his thoughts, and so resign'd he

grew,

Daily he plac'd the work-house in his view;
But came not there, for sudden was his fate,
He dropp'd, expiring at his cottage gate.

I feel his absence in the hours of prayer,
And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there:
I see no more those white locks thinly spread
Round the bald polish of that honor'd head;
No more that awful glance on playful wight
Compell'd to kneel, and tremble at the sight,
To fold his fingers all in dread the while,
Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile;
No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer,
Nor the pure faith, to give it force, are there:
But he is blest, and I lament no more
A wise good man, contented to be poor.

§ 164. An Epistle addressed to Sir Thomas Hanmer, on his Edition of Shakspeare's Works. COLLINS.

WHILE, born to bring the Muse's happier days,

A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays; While nurs'd by you, she sees her myrtles bloom,

Green and unwither'd, o'er his honor'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 Shakspeare's

name.

Hard was the lot those injur'd strains endur'd, Unown'd by science, and by years obscur'd.

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
impart

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 How'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.

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To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

COLLINS.

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.

1 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;

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

§ 166. Ode on the Death of Mr. Thomson. COLLINS.

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

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 harpS 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! 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 Aolus, of which see a description in the Castle of Indolence.

H 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.

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!

YE curious hands, that, hid from vulgar eyes, By search profane shall find this hallow'd An' bleak December's wind ensuing, 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 pattle!

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.

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 e'e
On prospects drear!
An' forward, though I canna see,
I guess an' fear.

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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 cast.

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-carth
Thy tender form.

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

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