O'er all the man conflicting passions rise,
Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes.

Thus, generous Critic, as thy Bard inspires,
The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping sires;
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, owu thy forming hand.

So spread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole unkvown, Even Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone. Their own Ulysses scarce haď wander'd more, By winds and waters cast on every shore: When rais'd by fate, some former Hanmer joined Each beauteous image of the boundless mind; And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim A fond alliance with the Poet's name.

DIRGE-IN CYMBELYNE.

SUNG BY GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE,

SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

TO fair Fidele'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.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew ; The female fays shall haunt the green,

And dress thy grave with pearly dew!

The red-breast oft at evening hours

Shall kindly lend his little aid, With hoary moss and gather'd flowers

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds and beating rain

In tempests shake the sylvan cell, Or ’ınidst the chace on every plain,

The tender thought on thee sliall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall 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.

ODE ON THE DEATH OF THOMSON,

THE SCENE OF THE FOLLOWING STANZAS IS SUPPOSED TO

LIE ON THE THAMES, NEAR RICHMOND.
IN yonder grave a Druid lies

Where slowly winds the stealing wave!
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise

To deck its Poet's sylvan grave!

In yon deep bed of whisp'ring reeds

His airy harp* shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,

May love thro’ life the soothing shade.

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 drest,
And oft suspend the dashing oar

To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And oft as Ease and Health retire

To breezy lawn, or forest deep

The Harp of Æolus, of which see a description in the CASTLE OF

INDOLENCE.

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 shed

That mourn beneath the gliding sail!

Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye

Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimm'ring near? 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, 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, 0! vales, and wild woods, shall He say,

In yonder grave Your Druid lies !

AN ODE, ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS
OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND.

Considered as the Subject of Poetry.
SUBSCRIBED TO MR. JOHN HOME.

HOME, thou return’st from Thames, whose Naiads long Have seen thee lingering with a fond delay Mid those soft friends, whose hearts some future day Shall melt perhaps to hear thy tragic song. Go, not uninindful of that cordial Youth, Whom, long endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant's side, Together let us wish him lasting truth, And joy untainted with his destin'd bride. Go, nor regardless, while these numbers borst My short-liv'd bliss, forget my social name: But think, far off, how, on the southern coast, I met thy friendship with an equal flame! * A gentleman of the name of Barrow, who introduced Home to Collins,

F