Hzre gentler Edward claims a pitying sigh,
Scirce 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, when Glo'ster's heart shall bleed
In life's last hours, with horror of the deed :
When dreary visions shall at last present
Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent:
Thy hand unseen the seeret death shall bear,
Blunt the weak sword, and break th' oppressive spear.

Where'er we turn, by fancy charm’d, we find
Sone 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 valleys 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!
There every thought the poet's warmth may raise,
There native music dwells in all the lays.

Tempus erit Turpo, magno cùm optaverit emptum
Intactum Pallanta, &c.

O 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 loy'd : O'er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend, Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murder'd friend! Still as they press, he calls on all around, Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound.

But † who is he, whose brows axalted 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, ʼmidst 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.

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, 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 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

Soft inaids and village hinds shall bring

grassy tomb

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 '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 ; 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