Till Julius first recall'd each exiled maid,
And Cosmo own'd them in th' Etrurian shade:
Then deeply skill'd in Love's engaging theme,
The soft Provençal pass'd to Arno's stream:
With graceful ease the wanton lyre he strung,
Sweet flow'd the lays--but love was all he sung.
The
gay description could not fail to move;
For, led by Nature, all are friends to love.
But Heaven, still various in its works, decreed
The perfect boast of time should last succeed.
The beauteous union must appear at length,
Of Tuscan fancy, and Athenian strength :
One greater Muse Eliza's reign adorn,
And e'en a Shakspeare to her fame be born!
Yet, ah! so bright her morning's opening ray,
In vain our Britain hoped an equal day!
No second growth the western isle could bear,
At once exhausted with too rich a year.
Too nicely Jonson knew the critic's part;
Nature in him was almost lost in art.
Of softer mould the gentle Fletcher came,
The next in order, as the next in name.
With pleas'd attention 'midst his scenes we find
Each glowing thought that warms the female mind;
Each melting sigh, and every tender tear,
The lover's wishes, and the virgin's fear.
Hist 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 :
Julius II. the immediate predecessor of Leo X.
+ Their characters are thus distinguished by Mr. Dryden. About the time of Shakspeare, the poet Hardy was in great repute in France. He wrote, according to Fontenelle, six hundred plays.
By length of toil a bright perfection knew,
Correctly bold, and just in all she drew;
Till late Corneille, with Lucan's spirit fired,
Breathed the free strain, as Rome and he inspired:
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
Th' historian's truth, and bid the manners live.
Waked at his call, I view with glad surprise
Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise.
There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms,
And laurell'd Conquest waits her hero's arms.
Here gentle 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, 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 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 valleys smile,
And spring diffusive decks th' enchanted isle.
The French poets after him applied themselves in general to the cor rect improvement of the stage, which was almost totally disregarded by those of our own country, Jonson excepted.
The favourite author of the elder Corneille. + Tempus erit Turuo, magno cùra optaverit emptum Intactum Pallanta, &c.
O more than ali 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.
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 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 ⚫Antony, in tears approved, Guards the pale relics of the chief he loved : 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 tis he, whose brows exalted bear
A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air?
Awake to all that injured 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,
Hang 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 Fity melts the eyes.
Thus, generous Critic, as thy bard inspires,
The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping fires;
See the tragedy of Julius Cæsar.
+ Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's dialogue on the Odyssey.
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 disposed, no farther toil demand,
But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.
So spread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole un-
known,
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.
DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.
Sung by Guiderus and Arviragus over Fidels, 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 midst the chase, on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell:
Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Beloved, till life can charm no more;
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.
THE DEATH OF MR. 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 through life the soothing shade.
The harp of Eolus, of which see a description in
the Castle of Indolence.
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