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it, O how alter'd was its sprightlier tone! hen Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder slung,
While, nurs'd by you, she sees her myrtles bloom,
Green and unwither'd, o'er his honour'd tomb:
let buskins gemm'd with morning dew,
w an aspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, What secret transports in her bosom swell; The hunter's call to Faun and Drvad known; With conscious awe she hears the critic's fame, The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-And blushing hides her wreath at Shakspeare's
Hard was the lot those injur'd strains endur'd,
Each rising art by just gradation moves,
atyrs and sylvan boys, were seen
t came Joy's ecstatic trial. with viny crown adyancing, irst to the lively pipe his hand address'd, soon he saw the brisk-awakening vio!, hose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the [strain, They would have thought, who heard the They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, Amidst the festal sounding shades, ome unwearied minstrel dancing, 'hile, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, ve fram'd with Mirtha gay fantastic round: Jose were her tresses seen, her zone un-A bed incestuous, and a father slain. nd he, amidst his frolic play, [bound, f he would the charming air repay, k thousand odours from his dewy wings. usic, sphere-descended maid, id of pleasure, wisdom's aid! , Goddess, why to us denied, t thou thy ancient lyre aside? that lov'd Athenian bow'r learn'd an all-commanding pow'r; mimic soul, O nymph endear'd! well recall what then it heard. re is thy native simple heart, te to virtue, faney, art ? , as in that elder time, n, energetic, chaste, sublime! wonders in that godlike age, hy recording sister's pageaid, and I believe the tale, humblest reed could more prevail, more of strength, diviner rage, all which charins this laggard age, all at once together found ia's mingled world of soundd our vain endeavours cease, e the just designs of Greece, rn in all thy simple state, irm the tales her sons relate!
triot's hand protects a poet's lays;
• The Oedipus of Sophocles,
With kind concern our pitying eyes o'erflow,
To Rome remov'd, with wit secure to please,
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,
But heaven, still various in its works, decreed
1. An Epistle, addressed to Sir Thomas No second growth the western isle could bear, anmer, on his Edition of Shakspeare's At once exhausted with too rich a year. COLLINS. Too nicely Jonson knew the critic's part; HILE, born to bring the Muse's happier Nature in him was almost lost in art. Of softer mold the gentle Fletcher came, The next in order, as the next in name: Julius II. the immediate predecessor of Leo X.
With pleas'd attention 'midst his scenes we find What wondrous draughts might rise from Each glowing thought that warms the female
Each melting sigh, and every tender tear,
With t gradual steps, and slow, exacter France
And classic judgment gain'd to sweet Racine
What other Raphaels charm a distant age!
Methinks e'en now I view some free desiza, 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 bad, Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murderü friend!
Still as they press, he calls on all around,
But who is he whose brows exalted bar
And laureli'd Conquest waits her hero's arms.
In life's last hours, with horror of the deed:
Where'er we turn, by fancy charm'd, we find
O, more than all in powerful genius blest,
Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal!
There native music dwells in all the lays.
Thus, generous Critic, as thy bird in on
Ev'n Homer's numbers' charm'd by f
Each beauteous image of the boundless mo
160. Dirge in Cymbeline, sung by Guidera and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed to COLLIS
fair Fidele's grassy tomb
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 gener to the correct improvement of the stage, which was almost totally disregarded by, those of our ow country, Jonson excepted.
I The favourite author of the Elder Corneille.
See the tragedy of Julius Casar.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
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, And 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; Or 'midst the chace on every plain, The tender thought on thee shall dwell; Zach 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. The Scene of the following Staneas 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. 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. hen maids and youths shall linger here, And, while its sounds at distance swell, all 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, The friend shall view yon whitening + spire, And 'mid the varied landscape weep; ut 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 ith him, sweet bard, may Fancy die, And Joy desert the blooming year! at 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! Their hinds and shepherd girls shall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb. 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!"
$162. Verses written on a Paper which contained a Piece of Bride Cake. COLLINS.
YE curious hands, that, hid from vulgar eyes, By search prophane shall find this hallow'd 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
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. To e Mouse, on turning her up in her Alas! its no thy neebor sweet
WEE, sleek it, cowrin, tim'rous beastic,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Which makes thee startle
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessing wis the lave,
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
An' bleak December's wind, ensuing,
Thou saw the field laid bare and waste,
That wee bit heap o'leaves an' stibble
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear.
Cauld blew the bitter biting-north
Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,
There in thy scanty mantle clad,
But now the share up tears thy bed,
Such is the fate of artless maid,
And guiltless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid
Such is the fate of simple bard,
Of prudent lore,
Such fate to suffering Worth is giv'n,
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heaven,
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,
e written picture we applaud or blame fat as the just proportions are the same. 30, driven with ungovernable fire,
void of art, beyond these bounds aspire, antic forms and monstrous births alone duce, which Nature shock'd disdains
true reflection I would see my face, y brings the fool a magnifying glass? at poetry in fiction takes delight, nd mounting in bold figures out of sight, [Alight: eaves Truth behind in her audacious ables and metaphors, that always lie, nd rash hyperboles that soar so high, nd ev'ry ornament of verse, must die." ake me not: no figures I exclude, but forbid intemperance, not food. would with care some happy fiction frame, imics truth, it looks the very same; rais'd to force, or feign'd in Nature's scorn, meant to grace, illustrate, and adorn. ortant truths still let your fables hold, moral mysteries with art unfold: es and beaus to please, is all the task; the sharp critic will instruction ask. eils transparent cover, but not hide, 1 metaphors appear, when right applied; thro' the phrase we plainly see the sense, h with such obvious meanings will dispense.
I would condemn, but that, in spite of sense,
Our characters we lessen when we'd raise;
To clear our darkness, and to guide our flight;
reader what in reason's due believes, can we call that false which not deceives: rboles, so daring and so bold, ining bounds, are yet by rules controul'd; e the clouds, but yet within our sight, * mount with Truth, and make a tow'ring nting things impossible to view, [flight: wander through incredible to true. hoods thus mix'd like metals are refin'd; Truth, like silver, leaves the dross behind. Poetry has ample space to soar, aeeds forbidden regions to explore; vaunts as his, who can with patience. read,
Abandon'd Truth seeks shelter in the grove;
thus describes his hero when he's dead-§ heat of action slain, yet scorns to fall, it still maintains the war, and fights atAll?"
noisy culverin, o'ercharg'd, lets fly, bursts, unaiming, in the rended sky; frantic flights are like a madman's dream, nature suffers in the wild extreme. captive cannibal, opprest with chains, aves his foes, reviles, provokes, disdains; ature fierce, untameable, and proud, ids defiance to the gaping crowd; spent at last, and speechless, as he lies, hery glances mocks their rage, and dies. is the utmost stretch that nature can, all bevond is fulsome, false, and vain. Roman wit, who impiously divides ero and his gods to different sides,
166. To Mr. Spence, prefixed to the Essay on Pope's Odyssey.
IS done-restor'd 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 thec.
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
To snarl in want, and grumble o'er their preys
Zoilus, so called by the ancients.