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But this poor farce has neither truth nor art | Though evil fame (but that was long before)
And diamonds blazing on the buckled zone; And oh! how needless when the woe's sincere! | Rows of rare pearls by curious workmen set,
Slow to the vault they come with heavy tread, And bracelets fair, in box of glossy jet : Bending beneath the lady and her lead; Bright polish'd amber, precious from its size A case of elm surrounds that ponderous chest, Or forms, the fairest fancy could devise ; Close on that case the crimson velvet's press'd; | Her drawers of cedar, shut with secret springs, Ungep'rous this, that to the worm denies Conceal'd the watch of gold and rubied rings; With niggard caution his appointed prize; Letters, long proofs of love, and verses fine, For now, e'er yet he works his tedious way Round the pink'd rims of Crispin valentine. Thro cloth, and wood, and metal, to his prey, Her china closet, cause of daily care, That prey dissolving shall a mass remain [Jain. For woman's wonder held her pencil'd ware; That fancy loathes, and worms themselves dis- That pictur'd wealth of China and Japan,
But see, the master-mourner makes his way | Like its cold mistress, shunnid the eye of man. To end his office for the coffin'd clay,
Her neat small room, adorn'd with maiden Pleas'd that our rustic men and minds behold
taste, His plate like silver, and his studs like gold; A clipt French puppy, first of fav'rites, grac'd; As they approach to spell the age, the name, A parrot next, but dead and stuff'd with art And all the titles of th' illustrious dame: (For Poll, when living, lost his lady's heart, This as (my duty done) some scholar read, And then his life! for he was heard to speak A village father look'd disdain, and said Such frightful words as ting d his lady's cheek); * Away, my friends! why take such pains to Unhappy bird! who had no power to prove,
Save by such speech, his gratitude and love; What some brave marble soon in church shall | A grey old cat his whiskers lick'd beside, show?
A type of sadness in the house of pride: Where not alone her gracious name shall stand, The polish'd surface of an India chest, But how she lis'd the blessing of the land; A glassy globe in frame of ivory prest, How much we all deplor'd the noble dead, Where swam two finny creatures, one of gold, What groans we utter'd, and what tears we shed; Of silver one, both beauteous to behold: Tears true as those which in the sleepy eyes All these were form'd the guiding taste to suit, Of weeping cherubs on the stone shall rise; The beasts well-manner'd, and the fshes mute. Tears true as those, which, ere she found her -A widow'd aunt was there, compellid by need grave,
The nymph to flatter, and her tribe to feed; The noble lady to our sorrows gave.”
Who, veiling well her scorn, endur'd the clog
Mute as the fish, and fawning as the dog. 9162. Funeral of an ancient Maiden. CRABBE. As years increas'd, these treasures, her delight Down by the church-way walk, and where Arose in value in their owner's sight: the brook
A miser knows that, view it as he will, Winds round thechancel like a shepherd's crook, A guinea kept, is but a guinea still; Inthat small house, with those great pales before, And so he puts it to its proper use, Where jasmine trails on either side the door, That something more this guinea may produce: Where those dark shrubs that now grow wild at But silks and rings in the possessor's eyes will,
The oftener seen, the more in value rise, Were clipt in form, and tantaliz'd with skill; | And thus are wisely hoarded to bestow Where cockles blanch'd, and pebbles neatly On pride that governs, pleasure that will grow : spread,
But what avail'd their worth, if worth had they, Form'd shining borders for the larkspur bed ; | In the sad summer of her slow decay? There livd a lady wise, austere, and nice, Then we beheld her turn an anxious look Who showed her virtue by her scorn of vice: From trunks and chests, and fix it on her book, In the dear fashions of her youth, she dress'd, A rich-bound book of prayer the captain gave A pea-green joseph was her fav'rite vest, (Some princess had it, or was said to have), Erect she stood, she walk'd with stately mien, And then once more on all her stores look round, Tight was her length of stays, and she was tall And draw a sigh so piteous and profound, and lean.
That told, “ Alas! how hard from thee to part, There long she liv'd in maiden state immur'd | And for new hopes and habits form the heart: From looks of love, and treacherous man se- What shall I do (she cried), my peace of mind cur'd;
| To gain in dying, and to die resign d ?"
Here we returned— These baubles cast aside, Nor his firip feet could one persuading sect,
hide, The angel Mercy tempering Death's delay.” And feel in that his comfort and his pride. Alas! 'twas hard ; the treasures still had At length he found, when seventy years were charms,
run, Hope still its Hattery, sickness its alarms; His strength departed, and his labor done; Still was the same unsettled cloudy view, | When, save his honest fame, he kept no more, And the same plaintive cry “What shall I do?" | | But lost his wife, and saw his children poor : Nor change appear'd : for when her race was 'Twas then a spark of(say not discontent), run,
Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent: Doubtful we all exclaim'd, “What has been “ Kind are your laws, 'tis not to be deny'd, done?"
| That in yon house for ruin'd age provide; A part she liv'd, and still she lies alone; And they are just; when young we give you all, Yon earthly heap awaits the flatt'ring stone, And then for comforts in our weakness call; On which invention shall be long employ'd Why then this proud reluctance to be fed, To show the various worth of Catharine Lloyd. To join your poor, and eat the parish bread ?
| But yet I linger, loath with bim to feed, $ 163. Funeral of Isaac Ashford, a virtuous | Who gains his plenty by the sons of need; Peasant.
CRABBE. He who by contract all your paupers took Noble he was, condemning all things mean, And gauges stomachs with an anxious look: His truth unquestion'd, and his soul serene; On some old master I could well depend; Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid ; | See him with joy, and thank him as a friend ; At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd : | But ill on him who doles the day's supply, Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace, And counts our chances who at night may die. Truth, simple truth, was written in his face; Yet help me Heaven! and let me not complain Yet while the serious thought his soul approv'd, Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain." Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he lor'd: Such were his thoughts, and so resign'd he To bliss domestic he his heart resigu'd, And with the firmest had the fondest mind. Daily he plac'd the work-house in his view; Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on, But came not there, for sudden was his fate, And gave allowance when he needed none; He dropp'd, expiring at his cottage gate. Good he refus'd with future ill to buy,
I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, Nor knew a joy that caus'd reflection's sigh; | And view his seat, and sigh for Isauc there : A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast I see no more those white locks thinly spread No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd;
Round the bald polish of that honor'd head; Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind No more that awful glance on playful wight To miss one favor which their neighbours find. Compellid to kneel, and tremble at the sight, Yet far was he from stoic pride remov’d, To fold his fingers all in dread the while, He felt humanely, and he warmly lov'd. Till Mister Ashford soften'd to a smile; I mark'd his action when his infant died, Nomore that meek and suppliant look in prayer, And his old neighbour for offence was tried; Nor the pure faith, to give it force, are there: The still tears stealing down that furrow'd cheek But he is blest, and I lament no more Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak. A wise good man, contented to be poor. If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride Who, in their base contempt, the great deride; 16 164. An Epistle addressed to Sir Thomas Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed, Hanmer, on his Edition of Shakspeare's If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed;
COLLINS. Nor pride in rustic skill, although he knew, None his superior, and his equals few :
While, born to bring the Muse's happier But if that spirit in his soul had place,
days, It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace; | A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays; A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd, While nurs'd by you, she sees her myrtles In sturdy boys to virtuous labors train'd;
bloom, Pride in thepowerthat guards his country's coast, Green and unwither'd, o'er his honor'd tomb ; And all that English inen enjoy and boast; Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell Pride in a life that slander's tongue defyd; What secret transports in her bosom swell; In fact, a noble passion, misnam'd pride. | With conscious awe she hears the critic's fame,
He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim, And blushing, hides her wreath at Shakspeare's Christian and country was all with him :
name. True to his church he came, no Sunday shower Hard was the lot those injur'd strains endurid, Kept him at home in that important hour; Unown'd by science, and by years obscurd.
Fair Fancy wept; and echoing sighs confess'd | Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand A fix'd despair in every tuneful breast.
Th' unrivallid picture of his early hand. Not with more grief th' afflicted swains appear, With gradual steps, and slow, exacter France When wintry winds deform the plenteous year; Saw Art's fair empire o'er her shores advance; When lingering frosts the ruin d seats invade, By length of toil a bright perfection knew, Where Peace resorted, and the Graces play'd. Correctly bold and just in all she drew.
Each rising art by just gradation moves, Till late Corneille, with Lucani's || spirit fir'd, Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves: Breath'd the free strain, as Rome and he inThe Muse alone unequal dealt her rage,
spir'd; And grac'd with noblest pomp her earliest stage. And classic judgement gain'd to sweet Racing Preserv'd through time, the speaking scenes The temperate strength of Maro's chaster line. im part
But wider far the British laurel spread, Each changeful wish of Phædra's tortur'd heart: And wreaths less artful crown our poet's head. Or paint the curse that mark'd the Theban's Yet he alone to every scene could give reign * ;
Th' historian's truth, and bid the manners live. A bed incestuous, and a father slain :
Wak'd at his call, I view with glad surprise With kind concern our pitying eyes o'erflow, Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise. Trace the sad tale, and own another's woe. There Henry'strumpets spread their loud alarms,
To Rome remov'd, with wit secure to please, / And laureli'd conquest waits her hero's arins. The comic sisters keep their native ease. Here gentler Edward claims a pitying sigh, With jealous fear declining Greece beheld Scarce born to honors, and so soon to diel Her own Menander's art almost excell'd! Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring But every Muse essay'd to raise in vain. No beam of comfort to the guilty king: Some labor'd rival of her tragic strain; The time shall come when Glo'ster's heart shall Ilissus' laurels, though transferr'd with toil,
bleed, Droop'd their fair leaves, nor knew th' un- In life's last hours, with horror of the deed : friendly soil.
When dreary visions shall at last present As arts expir'd, resistless Dulness rose; Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent; Goths, priests, or Vandals-all were learning's | Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear, ' foes,
Blunt the weak sword, and break th' oppressive Till + Julius first recall'd each exil'd maid,
spear. And Cosmo own'd them in th' Etrurian shade. | Where'er we turn, by fancy charm'd, we find Then, deeply skill'd in love's engaging theme, Some sweet illusion of the cheated mind. The soft Provençal pass'd to Arno's stream: Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove With graceful ease the wanton lyre he strung, With humbler nature, in the rural grove; Sweet How'd the lays--but love was all he sung. Where swains contented own the quiet scene, The gay description could not fail to move; | And twilight fairies tread the circled green: For, led by nature, all are friends to love. Dress'd by her hand, the woods and valleys But heaven, still various in its works, decreed
smile, The perfect boast of time should last succeed. And spring diffusive decks th' enchanted isle. The beauteous union must appear at length 0, inore than all in powerful genius blest, Of Tuscan fancy and Athenian strength; Come, take thine empire o'er the willing One greater Muse Eliza's reign adorn,
breast ! And e'en a Shakspeare to her fame be born! Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart shall
Yet ah! so bright her morning's opening ray, feel, In vain our Britain hop'd an equal day! | Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal! No second growth the western isle could bear, There every thought the poet's warmth may At once exhausted with too rich a year.
raise, Too nicely Jonson knew the critic's part; | There native music dwells in all the lays. Nature in him was almost lost in art.
O, might some verse with happiest skill perOf sofier mould the gentle Fletcher came,
suade The next in order, as the next in name : Expressive picture to adopt thine aid, With pleas'd attention 'midst his scenes we find | What wondrous draughts might rise from every Each glowing thought that warms the female page! : mind;
| What other Raphaels charm a distant age ! Each melting sigh, and erery tender tear, Methinks e en now I view some free design, The lover's wishes, and the virgin's fear. Where breathing nature lives in every line: His every strain the Smiles and Graces own: Chaste and subdu'd the modest lights decay, Bat stronger Shakspeare felt for man alone: Steal into shades, and inildly melt away.
• The dipus of Sophocles. + Julius II. the immediate predecessor of Leo X. 1 The characters are thus distinguished by Mr. Dryden.
About the time of Shakspeare, the poet Hardy was in great repute in France. He wrote, aecording 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.
And see, where Antony*, in tears approv'd, When howling winds, and beating rain, Guards the pale relics of the chief he lov'd: ' In tempests shake thy sylvan cell; O'er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend, Or 'midst the chase on every plain, Decp sunk in grief, and mourns his murder'd! The tender thought on thee shall dwell : friend !
Each lonely scene shall thee restore; Still as they press, he calls on all around,
For thee the tear be duly shed; Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding | Belov'd, till life can charm no more: wound.
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead. 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. | 6 166. Ode on the Death of Mr. Thomson. Yet shall not war's insatiate fury fall
Collins. (So Heaven ordains it) on the destin'd wall. See the fond mother, 'midst the plaintive train, The Scene of the following Stanzas is supposed Hang on his knees, and prostrate on the plain!
to lie on the Thames, near Richmond. Touch'd to the soul, in vain he strives to hide The son's affection in the Roman's pride:
In yonder grave a Druid lies, O'er all the man confiicting passions rise,
Where slowly winds the stealing wave: Rage grasps the sword, while pity melts the The year's best sweets shall duteous rise
To deck its Poet's sylvan grave.
In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
Úis airy harp shall now be laid;
| That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds, Those Sibyl-leaves, the sport of every wind, 1 May love through life the soothing shade. (For poets ever were a careless kind)
| Then maids and youths shall linger here, By thee dispos’d, no farther toil demand, And, while its sounds at distance swell, But, just to nature, own thy forming hand.
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear So spread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.
unknown, E'en Homer's numbers charm’d by parts alone; Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore Their own Ulysses scarce had wander'd more! When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, By winds and waters, cast on every shore : | And oft suspend the dashing oar When rais'd by fate, some former Hanmer To bid his gentle spirit rest! join'd
And oft as Ease and Health retire Each beauteous image of the boundless mind;
To breezy lawn, or forest deep, And bade, like thee, his Athens cyer claim The friend shall view yon whitening | spire, A fond alliance with the Poet's name.
And ʼmid the varied landscape weep:
But thou, who own'st that earthly bed, $ 165. Dirge in Cymbeline, sung ly Guiderius
Ah! what will every dirge avail! and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed to be | Or tears, which Love and Pity shed, dead.
That mourn beneath the gliding sail ! To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Yet lives there one whose heedless eye Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near? Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
With bim, sweet bard, may Fancy die, And rifle all the breathing Spring.
And Joy desert the blooming year! No wailing ghost shall dare appear
But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend, But shepherd lads assemble here,
Now waft me from the green hill's side, And melting virgins own their love.
Whose cold turf bides the buried friend! No wither'd witch shall here be seen, And see, the fairy valleys fade; No goblins lead their nightly crew;
Dun night has veil'dihe solemn view; The female fays shall haunt the green,
Yet once again, dear parted shade, And dress thy grave with pearly dew. Meek nature's child, again adieu ! The red-breast oft at evening hours
The genial meads assign'd to bless Shall kindly lend his little aid,
Thy lifeq, shall mourn thy early doom! With hoary moss, and gather'd flow'rs, There binds and shepherd girls shall dress
To deck the ground where thou art laid. With simple hands thy rural tomb.
* See the tragedy of Julius Cæsar.
+ Coriolanus. 1 See Mr. Spence's Dialogue on the Odyssey Š The Harp of Lolus, of which see a description in the Castle of Indolence. # Mr. Thomson was buried in Richmond church. Ä Mr. Thomson resided in the neighbourhood of Richmond some time before his death.
Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve:
Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes : What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! O vales and wild woods, shall he say,
A diamen-icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
An' never miss't ! 6 167. Verses written on a Paper which con
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! tained a piece of Bride Cake.
Its silly wa's the wins are strewing:
An' naething, now, to big a new ane Ye curious hands, that, bid from vulgar eyes,
O foggage green! By search profane shall find this hallow'd An' bleak December's wind ensuing, cake,
Baith snell and keen! With virtue's awe forbear the sacred prize,
| Thou saw the field laid bare and waste, Nor dare a theft, for love and pity's sake!
An' weary winter coming fast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Out thro' thy cell.
Each nice ingredient chose with happiest art; | Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Baith house or hald, With rosy hand the spicy fruit she brought, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, From Paphian hills, and fair Cytherea's isle ;
An cranreuch cauld! And temper'd sweet with these the melting
ng But, Mousie, thou art po thy lane, thought, The kiss ambrosial, and the yielding smile; | The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
smile. In proving foresight may be vain : Ambiguous looks, that scorn and yet relent;
Gang aft a-gley,
For promis d joy!
| Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! Sleep, wayward god, hath sworn, while these | The present only toucheth thee: remain,
But, och! I backward cast my e'e With flattering dreams to dry his nightly
On prospects drear! • tear;
| An' forward, though I canna see, Ind cheerful Hope, so oft invok'd in vain,
I guess an' fear.
And fond of soul, thou hop'st an equal grace,
O much entreated, leave this fatal place. down with the Plough, in April, 1786. Sweet Peace, who long hath shunn'd my plain
tive day, Consents at length to bring me short delight;
+ delight. / Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
| Thou's met me in an evil hour; Thy careless steps may scare her doves away, Ảnd Grief with raven note usurp the night. to
+ | For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem :
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, $168. To a Mouse, on turning her up in her
Thou bonie gem! Vest with the Plough, November, 1785. Alas! its no thy neebor sweet,
The bonie lark, companion meet !
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! Wie, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
Wi' spreckl'd breast, 0, what a panic's in thy breastie !
When upwards springing, blythe, to greet Thou need na start away sae hasty,
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the biter 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.
| High sheltering woods an' wa's maun shield;