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Or where the beetle winds

Tir'd of his rude tyrannic sway, His small but fullen horn,

Our youth thall fix fome festive day,

His fullen thrines to burn : As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,

But thou, who hear'ít the turning spheres, Againit the pilgrim born in heedless hum:

What sounds may charm thy partial ears, Now teach me, maid compos'd,

And gain thy blest return ! To breathe some foften'd train,

O Peace, thy injur'd robes up-bind! Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening Orife, and leave not one behind vale,

Of all thy bcamy train : May not unseemly with its stillness fuit,

The British lio!), Goddess sweet, As, muling now, I hail

Lies stretch'd on earth to kiss thy feet, Thy genial lov'd return !

And own thy holier reign. For when thy folding-ftar arising Mows

Let others court thy transient smile, His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

But come to grace thy western ise, The fragrant hours, and elves

By warlike Honour led! Who slept in buds the day,

And, while around her ports rejoice,

While all her fons adore thy choice, And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with With him for ever wed!

sedge, And Teds the freshening dew, and lovelier still,

The pensive pleasures tweet

Prepare thy shadowy oar.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,

THE MANNERS. AN ODE. Or find some ruin 'midst its dreary dells,

AREWELL, for clearer ken design'd; Whose walls more aweful nod

The dim-discover'd tracts of mind : By thy religious gleams.

Truths which, from action's paths retir'd,

My filent search in vain requir’d!
Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, No more my fail that deep explores,
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,

No more I search those magic shores,
That from the mountain's side,

What regions part the world of soul, Views wilds, and swelling floods,

Or whence thy streams, Opinion, roll :

If e'er I round such fairy field,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,

Some power impart the spear and shield,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all At which the wizard passions fly,
Thy dewy fingers draw

By which the giant follies die !
The gradual dulky veil.

Farewell the porch, whose roof is seen,

Arch'd with th' enlivening olive's green ; While Spring Mall pour his mowers, as oft he Where Science, prank'd in tissued vest, wont,

By Reason, Pride, and Fancy drest, And bathe thy breathing treffes, meekest Eve! Comes like a bride, so trim array'd, While Summer loves to sport

To wed with Doubt in Plato's shade! Beneath thy lingering light :

Youth of the quick uncheated fight,

Thy.walks, Observance, more invite ! While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, O thou, who lov'st that ampler range, Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air, Where life's wide prospects round thee change, Affrights thy Thrinking train,

And, with her mingled sons ally'd, And rudely rends thy robes :

Throw'st the prattling page alide:

To me in converse sweet impart,
So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,

To read in man the native heart,
Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, To learn, where Science sure is found,
Thy gentlest influence own,

From Nature as she lives around:
And love thy favourite name !

And gazing oft her mirror true,
By turns each thifting image view!
Till meddling Art's officious lore
Reverse the lessons taught before,
Alluring from a safer rule,
To dream in her enchanted school;
Thou, Heaven, whate'er of great we boast,
Haft bleft this social science most.

Retiring hence to thoughtful cell,
Swift from his grasp thy golden hair,

As Fancy breathes her potent spell,
And fought’it thy native skies :

Not vain she finds the charmful talk, When war, by vultures drawn from far,


pageant quaint, in motley malk, To Britain bent his iron car,

Behold, before her musing eyes, And bade his storms arise !

The countless Manners round her rise ;


While, cver varying as they pass,

First Fear his hand, its skill to tryx 'To fome Contempt applies her glass :

Amid the chords bewilder'd laid, With these the white-rob'd maid combine,

And back recoild, he knew not why,
And those the laughing satyrs join!

Ev'n at the found himself had made.
But who is he whom row she views,
In robe of wild contending hues ?

Next Anger rush'd, his eyes on fire,
Thou by the passions nurs’d; I greet

In lightnings owu'd his secret itings, The comic lock that binds thy feet!

In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
O Humour, thou whose name is known

And swept with hurried hand the strings
To Britain's favour'd ille alone :
Me too amidst thy band admit,

With woeful measures wan Despair-
There where the young-ey'd healthful Wit,

Low sullen founds his grief beguild, (WI:ofe jewels in his crisped hair

A solemn, strange, and mingled air, Are flac'd each other's beams to share,

'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'cwas wild. Whom ro delights from thee divide) In laughter loos’d attends thy lide!

But thou, O Hope, with eyes so fair, By old Miletus, * who fo long

What was thy delighted measure ? Has ceas'd his love-inwoven song,

Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure, By all you taught the Tuscan maids,

And bade the lovely scenes at diftavce hạil ! In chang'd Italia's modern ihades :

Still would her touch the strain prolong, By him t, whose knight's distinguish'd name

And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, Refind a nation's iuit of fame;

She call'd on Echo ftill through all the song ; Whose tales ev'n now, with echoes sweet,

And where her iweetest theme the chose, Castilia's Moorid hills repeat :

A loft relponsive voice was heard at every close, Cr him I, wliom Seine's blue nymplas deplore, And Hope enchanted smil'd, and wav'd her golden In watch it weeds on Gallia's fore,

hair. Who drez' the sad Sicilian maid,

And longer had the sung-but, with a frown, Ey virtues in her fire betray'd :

Revenge impatient role, O Nature boon, from whom proceed

He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down, Each forcetul tlought, each prompted deed;

And, with a withering look, If but from thee I hope to feel,

The war-denouncing trumpet trok, On all my heart imprint thy feal!

And blew a blait so loud and dread, Let tom: retreating Cynic find

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. Those oft-turn’d fcrolls I leave behind,

And ever and anon he beat The Sports and I this hour agree

The doubling drum with furious heat; To rove thy ļcene-full world with thee!

And though somerimnes, each dreary paule between,

Dejected Pity at his lide

Her woul-lubduing voice applied,
Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mier,
While each strain'd ball of fight seem'd bursting from

his head THE PASSION S.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought were fix'd,

Sad proof of thy distressful state,

Of differing themes the veering fong was mix'd,

And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on
HEN Music, heavenly maid, was young,

While yet in early Greece ihe fung, With eyes up-raised, as one inspir'd,
The Passions aft, to hear her ihell,

Pale Melancholy fat retir'd,
Throng'd around her magic cell,

And from her wild fequetter'd seat, Exuiting, trembling, raging, fainting,

In notes hy distance made more fweet, Poleft beyond the Musc's painting ;

Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul; By turns they felt the glowing mind

And dathing soft from rocks around, Disturb’d, delighted, rais'd, refin'd.

Bubbling runnels joind the found; Tiil once, 'tis faid, when all were fir'd,

Through glades and glowns the mingled measure Fillid with fury, rapt, inspir’d,

Role, From the supporting myrtles round

Or o'er some baunted streams with fond delay, They snatch'd her instruments of sound,

Round a holy calm diffusing, And as they oft had heard apart

Love of peace, and lonely musing, Sweet leifons of her forceful art,

In hollow murinurs died away. Each, for madnets rul'd the hour,

But, 0, how alter*d was its fprightlier tone! Would prove his own expresive power.

When Chearfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,

Her tow acrots her thoulder fung, * Alluding to the Miletian Tales, some of the

Her buskins gemm’d with morning dew, earliest romances.

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, † Cervantes.

The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known; | Monsieur Le Sage, author of the incomparable

The oak-crown'd filters, and their charte-ey'd adventures of Gil Blas de Santillane, who died in I'aris in the year 1745.




Satyrs and fylvan boys were feen,

Fair Fancy wept ; and echoing fighs confefs d
Peeping from forth their alleys green ;

A fixt despair in every tupeful breast.
Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,

Not with more grief th' afficted (wains appear,
And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear. When wintery winds detonin the plenteous year ;
Lalt came Joy's ecstatic trial,

When lingering froits the ruin'd seats invade
He, with viny crown advancing,

Where Peace retorted, and the Graces play'd.
First to the lively pipe his hand addrest,

Each rifing art by just gradation moves,
But foon he Law the brilk-awakening viol,

To:l builds on toil, and age on age improves :
Whole (weet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. The Mule alone unequa! dealt her rage,
They would have thought, who heard tlaç And grac'd with noblest pomp her ezrliett stage,

Preserv'd through çime, the speaking fçenes impart
They faw in Tempe's vale her native maids, Each changetul with ot Phædra's tortur'd healt:
Amidst the feftal sounding ihades,

Or paint the curse that mark'd thię * Theban's
To fome unwearied minstrel dancing,

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, A bed incefluous, and a father nain.
Love tram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round, With kind concern our pitying eyes o'erflow,
Luofe were her tresses seep, her zone unbound, Trace the lad tale, and own another's woe.
And he, amidst his frolic play,

To Romne remov'd, with wit fecure to please,
As if he would the charming air repay,.

The comic liters keep their native case,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings, With jealous fear declining Greece beheld
O Music, sphere-defçended maid,

Her own Menander's art almost excell'd!
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid,

But every Mute eifay'd to raise in vain
Wlay, Goddess, why to us denied ?

Some lahou 'd rival of her tragic ftrain ;
Lay'st thou thy ancient lyre alide ?

Ilyfus' laurels, though transferr'd with toil,
As in that lovid Atheniau bower,

Diop'd their fair leaves, nor knew th’ unfriendly
You learn'd an all-commanding power,

Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd,

As arts expir'd, relistless Duljefs rofe ;
Can well recal what then it heard.

Goths, Priests, or Vandals,--all were learning's
Where is thy native limple heart,

Devote to virtue, fancy, art?

Till + juhus first recall'd each exil'd maid,
Arise, as in that elder time,

And Cofinu own'd them in th' Etrurian trade :
Warın, energetic, clialte, Lublime !

Then, deeply fkill'd in love's engaging theme,
Thy wonders, in that god-like age,

The lost Provencal país'd to Arno's ftream :
Fill thy recording litter's page--

With gracetui ease the wanton lyre he strung,
"Tis faid, and I believe the tale,

Sweet Now'd the lays bat love was all he fyng.
Tliy humblest reed could more prevail,

The gay description could not fail to move;
Had more of Atrength, diviner rage,

For, led by nature, all are friends to love.
Than all which charms this laggard age,

But heaven, still various in its works, decreed
Ev'n all at once together found

The perfect boast of time should last succeed.
Cecilia's mingled world of sound

The beauteouş union must appear at lenşth,
O, bid our vain endeavours ceale,

Of Tuscan jancy, and Athenian Arength :
Receive the juft designs of Greece,

One greater Mule Eliza's reign adorn,
Return in all thy simple state !

And ev’n a Shakespear to her fame be born!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

Yet, ah! so bright her morning's opening ray,
In vain our Britain hop'd an equal day!
No second growth the western ise could bear,
At once exhausted with too rich a year.
Too nicel; Jonfon knew the critic's part;

Nature in hiin was almost lost in Art.

Of softer mould the gentle Fletcher came,

The next in order, as the next in name. Addressed to Sir Thomas Hanmer, on his Edition With pleas'd attention 'midst his scenes, we find of Shakespeare's Works.

Each glowing thought, that warms the female
HILE, bora to bring the Muse's happier Each melting agii, and every tender tear,

A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays i

The lover's wishes, and the virgin's fear.
While, nurs’d by you, the sees her myrtles bloom, His I every Atrain the Smiles and Graces own ;
Green and unwither'd o'er his honour'd tomb :

But stronger Shakespeare felt for man alone :
Excuse her doubts, if yet the fears to tell

Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand
What secret tranfports in her bosom fwell :

Th' unrival'd picture of his early hand.
With conscious awe (he hears the critic's fame,
And bluihing hides her wreath at Shakelpeare's / * The Oerlipus of Sophocles.

† Julius H. the immediate predeceffor of Leo X, Hard was the lot those injur'd strains endur'd, I Their characters are thus diftinguished by Mr. Unown'd by science, and by years obscur’d: Dryden.



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* With gradual steps, and flow, exacter France But * who is he, whose brows exalted bear Saw Art's fair empire o'er her shores advance : A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air ? By length of toil a bright perfection knew,

Awake to all that injur'd worth can feel,
Correctly told, and just in all the drew.

On his own Rome he turns th' avenging steel.
Till late Corneille, with + Lucan's spirit fir'd Yet Mall not war's insatiate fury fall,
Breath'd the free strain, as Rome and he inspir'd: (So heaven ordains it) on the destin'd wall.
And classic judgment gain’d to sweet Racine See the fond mother, ’midst the plaintive train,
The temperate strength of Maro's chalter line.

Hung on his knees, and proftrate on the plain!
But wilder far the British laurel spread,

Touch'd to the soul, in vain he strives to hide And wreaths less artful crown our poet's head. The son's affection, in the Roman's pride : Yet he alone to every scene could give

O’er all the man conflicting passions rise, Th' historian's truth, and bid the manners live. Rage grasps the sword, while pity melts the eyes. Wak'd at his call I view, with glad surprize,

Thus, generous Critic, as thy bard inspires, Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rife.

The Sister Arts Thall nurse their drooping fires : There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms, Each from his scenes her stores alternate bring, And laurel'd Conquest waits her hero's arms.

Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal string : Her gentler Edward claims a pitying sighi,

Those Sibyl-leaves, the sport of every wind, Scarce born to honours, and so foon to die !

(For poets ever were a careless kind) Yet Thali thy throne, unhappy infant, bring By thee dispos’d, no farther toil demand, No beam of comfort to the guilty king:

But, just to nature, own thy forming hand. The time shall come when Glo'ster's heart shall

So spread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole unbleed

known, In lifc's last hours, with horror of the deed :

Ev'n Homer's numbers charm'd' by parts alone. When dreary visions mall at last present

Their own Ulysses scarce had wander'd more, The vengeful image in the midnight tent:

By winds and waters cast on every More :
Thy band urseen the secret death Thall bear, When rais'd by fate, some former Hanmer join'd,
Elunt the weak sword, and break th' oppressive Each beauteous image of the boundless mind;

And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim
Wheree'er we turn, by fancy charm’d, we find A fond alliance with the Poet's name.
Some sweet illusions of the cheated mind.
Ott, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove
With humbles paiure, in the rural grove ;
Where fwains contented own the quiet scene,
And twilight fairies tread the circled green :
Dress'd by her hand, the woods and vallies smile,

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE, And Spring diffusive decks th’inchanted inle. 0, more than all in powerful genius blest,

Sung by Guider us and Arviragus over Fidele, Come, take thine empire o'er the willing breast!

lupposed to be dead. Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart fall feel, Thy fongs support me, and thy morals heal!

O fair Fidele's graffy tomb There every thought the poet's warmth may raise,

Soft maids and village binds shall bring Their native music dwells in all the lays.

Each opening iweet, of earliest bloom, 0, might some verfe with happiest fkill persuade

And rifle all the breathing Spring.
Expreslive Picture to adopt thine aid !
What wondrous draughts might rise from every

No wa.ling ghost shall dare appear

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove, What other Raphael charm a distant age !

But shepherd lads allemble here,
Methinks ev'n now I view fome free design,

And melting virgins own their love.
Where breathing Nature lives in every line :
Chaste and subdued the modest lights decay,

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
Steal into shades, and mildly melt away.

No goblins lead their nightiy crew ; And see, where I Anthony, in tears approv'd,

The female fays shall haunt the green, Guards the pale relics of the chief he lov'd:

And dress thy grave with pearly dew; O'er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend,

The red-breast oft at evening hours
Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murder'd friend!

Shall kindly lend his little aid,
Still as they press, he calls on all around,
Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound.

With hoary mors, and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid, * Alout the time of Shakespeare, the poet Hardy When howling winds, and heating rain, was in great repute in France. He wrote, accord

In tempelts shake thy sylvan cell ; ing to Fontenelle, six hundred plays. The French

Or 'midst the chace on every plain, poets after him applied themselves in general to the

The tender thought on thee Thall dwell. correct improvement of the stage, which was almost totally disregarded by those of our own country, * Coriolanus. Sce Mr. Spence's dialogue on the Jouston excepred.

Odyfley. + The favourite author of the elder Corneille.

I Sve thic tragedy of Julius Cæsar.



Each lonely scene Mall 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.

The genial meads * affign'd to bless

Thy life, hall mourn thy early doom! Their hinds and thepherd girls Thall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb.

XI. Long, lonz, thy stone, and pointed clay

Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes, 0! vales, and wild woods, Thall he say,

In yonder grave your Druid lies !

0 D E ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON. The Scene of the following Stanzas is supposed to

lie on the Thames, near Richmond.

V E R S E S Written on a Paper, which contain'd a Piece of



1. N yonder grave a Druid lies

Where Nowly 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 lie, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the foothing Made.

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 dret,
And oft suspend the dashing oar
To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And oft as Ease and Health retire

To breezy lawn, or foreft 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 Med
That mourn beneath the gliding fail !

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye

Shall scorn thy pale thrine glimmering near ?
With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,
And joj 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 !

IX. And see, the fairy vallies fade,

Dun night has veil'd the solemn view! Yet once again, dear parted Made,

Meek nature's child, again adieu !

E curious hands, that, hid from vulgar eyes,
By search

profane tha find this hallow'd cake, With virtue's awe forbear the sacred prize,

Nor dare a theft for love and pity's fake! This precious relick, form’d by magic power,

Beneath the Mepherd's haunted pillow laid,
Was meant by love to charm the filent hour,

The secret present of a matchless maid.
The Cyprian queen, at Hymen's fond request,

Each nice ingredient chose with happiest art; Fears, fighs, and wishes of th' enamour'd breast,

And pains that please are mixt in every part. With rosy hand the spicy fruit she brought,

From Paphian hills, and fair Cytherea's ise ; And temper'd sweet with these the melting thought,

The kiss ambrosial, and the yielding Imile. 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 re.

main, With Aattering dreams to dry his nightly tear, And chearful hope, so oft invok'd in vain,

With fairy songs mall footh his pensive ear. If, bound by vows to friendėhip's gentle side,

And fond of soul, thou hop'it an equal grace, If youth or maid thy joys and griefs divide,

O, much intreated leave this fatal place. Sweet Peace, who long hath shunn'd my plaintive

day, Consents at length to bring me mort delight, Thy carelef steps may scare her doves away,

And Grief with raven note usurp the night.

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

The harp of Æolus, of which see a description in the Castle of Indolence.

Mr. Thomson wasburied in Richmond church.

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