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With pleas'd attention 'midst his scenes we find What wondrous draughts might rise from 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:
Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand
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,

And classic judgment gain'd to sweet Racine
The temperate strength of Maro's chaster line.
But wilder far the British laurel spread,
And wreaths less artful crown our poet's head.
Yet he alone to every scene could give
Ph' 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's trumpets spread their loud a-
larms,

And laureli'd Conquest waits her hero's arms.
Here gentler Edward claims a pitying sigh,
Scarce born to honours and so soon to die!
Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring
No beam of comfort to the guilty king:
The time shall come whenGlo'ster's heart shall
'bleed,

In life's last hours, with horror of the deed:
When dreary visions shalt 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 vallies smile. And spring diffusive decks th' enchanted isle.

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 subdued the modest lights decay,
Steal into shades, and mildly melt away.
-And see, where § Anthony in tears appro
Guards the pale relics of the chief he lov'd:
O'er the cold corse the warrior seems to bas
Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murder
friend!

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§

feci,

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 yerse with happiest skill persuade
Expressive picture to adopt thine aid,

Still as ney press, he calls on all around, Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound.

But who is he whose brows exalted bar A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air? Awake to all that injur'd worth can feel, On his own Rome he turns th' avenging stee Yet shall not war's insatiate fury fall (So heaven ordains it) on the estim'd wall. See the fond mother, 'midst the plaintive tram, Hang on his knees, and prostrate on the pl Touch'd on the soul, in vain he strives to The son's affection in the Roman's prie. O'er all the man conflicting passione, Rage grasps the sword, while pity melts t

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160. Dirge in Cymbeline, sung by Guides and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed to dead. COLLIS

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• The characters are thus distinguished by Mr. Dryden. About the time of Shakspeare, the poet Hardy was in great repute in France. He wrote, cording to Fontenelle, six hundred plays. The French poets after him applied themselves in generi to the correct improvement of the stage, which was almost totally disregarded by, those of our own country, Jonson excepted.

I The favourite author of the Elder Corneille.

See the tragedy of Julius Cesar.

No

Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's Dialogue on the Odyssey,

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 favs shall haunt the green, Aad dress thy grave with pearly dew. The red-breast oft at evening hour Shall kindly lend his little aid, With hoary moss, and gather'd flow'rs, To deck the ground where thou art laid. When howling winds, and beating rain, In tempests shake thy sylvan cell; Dr 'midst the chace on every plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell; Each lonely scene shall thee restore, For thee the tear be duly shed; lelov'd, till life can charm no more; And mourn'd, ull Pity's self be dead.

$161. Ode on the Death of Mr. Thomson. COLLINS. he Scene of the following Stannas is supposed to lie on the Thames, near Richmond. Nyonder grave a Druid lies, Where slowly. winds the stealing wave: he year's best sweets shall duteous rise To deck its Poet's sylvan grave. 1 von deep bed of whispering reeds His airy harp shall now be laid, hat he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds, May love through life the soothing shade. ben maids and youths shall linger here, And, while its sounds at distance swell, tall sadly seem in Pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. emembrance oft shall haunt the shore When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, nd oft suspend the dashing oar To bid his gentle spirit rest! nd oft as Ease and Health retire To breezy lawn, or forest deep, he friend shall view yon whitening + spire, And 'mid the varied landscape weep; at thou, who own'st that earthy bed, Ah! what will every dirge avail? r tears, which Love and Pity shed, That mourn beneath the gliding sail ! et lives there one whose heedless eye Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering 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,

near?

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! Their hinds and shepherd girls shall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb. Long, loug, 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!"

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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, [tear; With flattering dreams to dry his nightly And cheerful Hope, so oft invok'd in vain, With fairy songs shall soothe his pensive ear If, bound by vows to friendship's gentle side, And fond of soul, thou hop'st an equal grace, If youth or maid thy joys and griefs divide, O much entreated leave this fatal place. Sweet Peace, who long hath shunn'd my plain

tive day,

Consents at length to bring me short delight; Thy careless steps may scare her doves away, And Grief with raven note usurp the night.

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

+ Mf. Thomson was buried in Richmond church.

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

§ 163.

BURNS.

$163. To e Mouse, on turning her up in her Alas! its no thy neebor sweet
Nest with the Plough, November, 1785. The bonie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!
Wi' spreckl'd breast,
When upwards springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east:

WEE, sleek it, cowrin, tim'rous beastic,

O, what a pannic's in thy breastic!

Thou need na start awa 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.

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,
But house or hald,

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

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

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, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear.

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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;
But thou, beneath the random bield
O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field,
Unseen, alane.

There in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;

But now the share up tears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flowret of the rural shade
By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guiltless trust,

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough occan luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering Worth is giv’n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv
By human pride or cunning driv'n
To Mis'ry's brink,

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

Ev'n 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!

§ 165. An Essay upon unnatural Flights Poetry. LANDSDOWNE

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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,
[flight:

"

to

"Leaves Truth behind in her audacious,
Fables and metaphors, that always lie,
"And rash hyperboles that soar so high,
"And ev'ry ornament of verse, must die."
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.
mportant truths still let your fables hold,
And moral mysteries with art unfold:
adies and beaus to please, is all the task;
But the sharp critic will instruction ask.
As veils transparent cover, but not hide,
uch metaphors appear, when right applied;
When thro' the phrase we plainly see the sense,
ruth with such obvious meanings will dis-

pense.

The reader what in reason's due believes,
for can we call that false which not deceives:
Typerboles, so daring and so bold,

daining bouncis, are yet by rules controul'd; bove the clouds, but yet within our sight, they mount with Truth, and make a tow'ring resenting things impossible to view, [flight: hey wander through incredible to true.

alsehoods thus mix'd like metals are refin'd;
and Truth, like silver, leaves the dross behind.
hus Poetry has ample space to soar,
for needs forbidden regions to explore;
uch vaunts as his, who can with patience,
read,

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 ou 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 fore'd to let his judgment 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,
Hevies 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 judgment, 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 nanie,
May from their lessons learn the road to fame;
But let the bold adventurer be sure
That ev'ry 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, [derer.
And take into your train this beauteous way-

166.

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-Tis

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The noisy culverin, o'ercharg'd, lets fly,
And bursts, unaiming, in the rended sky;
uch frantic flights are like a madman's dream,
And nature suffers in the wild extreme.
The captive cannibal, opprest with chains,
Let braves his foes, reviles, provokes, disdains;
Of nature fierce, untameable, and proud,
de bids defiance to the gaping crowd;
And spent at last, and speechless, as he lies,
With hery 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
Hohero and his gods to different sides,

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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 thee.

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

way

To snarl in want, and grumble o'er their preys
As though they grudg'd themselves the joys
they feel,
[wift.

Vex'd to be charm'd, and pleas'd against their
Such their inverted taste, that we expect [lect.
For faults their thanks, for beauties their neg-
So the fell snake rejects the fragrant flow'rs,
And ev'ry poison of the field devours.

• Zoilus, so called by the ancients.

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.

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

But when some lame, some limping line de-To-morrow is our wedding-day,

mands

The friendly succour of your healing hands;
The feather of your pen drops balm around,
And plays and tickles, while it cures the wound.
While Pope's immortal labourwe survey,
We stand all dazzled with excess of day;
Blind with the glorious blaze to vulgar sight
'Twas one bright mass of undistinguish'd light;
But, like the tow'ring eagle, you alone
Discern'd the spots and splendors of the sun.
To point our faults, yet never to offend;
To play the critic, yet preserve the friend:
A life well spent, that never lost a day;
An easy spirit, innocently gay,

A strict integrity, devoid of art;

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

$167. The Enquiry. Written in the last Century. AMONGST the myrtles as I walk'd,

Love and my sighs thus intertalk'd: • Tell me, said Í, 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 may'st find her lip, her cheek; In yon enamell'd pansy by,

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"There thou shalt have her curious eye;
"In bloom of peach, in rosy bud,
"There wave the streamers of her blood;
"In brightest lilies that there stand,
"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.

With that I stopp'd. Said Love, "These be,
"Fond man, resemblances of thee;
"And as these flow'rs thy joy shall die,

E'en in the twinkling of an eye; "And all thy hopes of her shall wither, "Like these short sweets that knit together."

$168. The Diverting History of John Gilpin;
shewing how he went farther than he intended,
and came safe home again.
COWPER.
OHN GILPIN was a citizen
af credit and renown,

train-band captain eke was he
Of famous London town.

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.

He soon replied, I do admire

Of woman kind but one;
And you are she, my dearest dear,
Therefore it shall be done.

I am a linen-draper bold,

As all the world doth know, And my good friend the callender Will lend his horse to go. Quoth Mistress Gilpin, that's well said; And, for that wine is dear, We will be furnish'd with our own, Which is both bright and clear. John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; That, though on pleasure she was bent, O'erjoy'd was he to find She had a frugal mind.

The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allow'd

To drive up to the door, lest all

Should say that she was proud. So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, Six precious souls, and all agog Where they did all get in,

To dash through thick and thin. Smack went the whip, round went the whe Were never folks so glad; The stones did rattle underneath

As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse's side

Seiz'd fast the flowing mane;
And up he got in haste to ride,
But soon came down again:
For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he,
His journey to begin,
When turning round his head, he saw

Three customers come in.

So down he came; for loss of time,
Although it griev'd him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,

Would trouble him much more. 'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind; When Betty screaming came down stairs, "The wine is left behind !" Good lack! quoth he-yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise,

In which I bear my trusty sword
When I do exercise.

Nou

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