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' inchanted 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!

H

There every thought the poet's warmth may raise,

There native music dwells in all the lays.

Oh, might some verse with happiest skill persuade

Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid!

What wondrous draughts might rise from every page!

What other Raphaels charm a distant age!

Methinks even 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 approv'd,

Guards the pale relics of the chief he lov'd:

O'er the old corse the warrior seems to bend,

Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murder'd friend!

* See the Tragedy of Julius Cæsar.

BO

Still as they press he calls on all around,

Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound.

**

But who is he, 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,
Hung 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.

* Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's dialogue on the Odyssey.

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,

Even 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..

DIR GE

IN CYMBELINE.

SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELLE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

To fair Fidelle's grassy tomb

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.