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But this poor farce has neither truth nor art Though evil fame (but that was long before)
And diamonds blazing on the buckled zone; And oh how needless when the woe's sincere! Rows of rare pearls by curious workmen set,
Slow to the vault they come with heavy tread, And bracelets fair, in box of glossy jet:
But see, the master-mourner makes his way Like its cold inistress, shunn'd the eye of man. To end his office for the coffin'd clay,
Her neat small room, adorn'd with maiden Pleas'd that our rustic men and minds behold
taste, His plate like silver, and his studs like gold; A clipt French puppy, first of fav’rites, grac'd; As they approach to spell the age, the name, A parrot next, but dead and stuff’d with art And all the titles of th' illustrious damne:- (For Poll, when living, lost his lady's heart, This as (my duty done) some scholar read, And then his life! for he was heard to speak A village father look'd disdain, and said- Such frightful words as ting'd his lady's cheek); Away, my friends! why take such pains to Unhappy bird! who had no power to prove, know
Save by such speech, his gratitude and love; What some brave marble soon in church shall A grey old cat his whiskers lick'd beside, show?
A type of sadness in the house of pride: Where not alone her gracious name shall stand, The polish'd surface of an India chest, But how she liv'd the blessing of the land; A glassy globe in frame of ivory prest, How much we all deplor'd the noble dead, Where swam two finny creatures, one of gold, What groans we utter'd, and what tears we shed; of silver one, both beauteous to behold: Tears true as those which in the sleepy eyes All these were form’d the guiding taste to suit, Of weeping cherubs on the stone shall rise ; The beasts well-manner'd,
and the fishes mute. Tears true as those, which, ere she found her A widow'd aunt was there, compelld by need grave,
The nymph to flatter, and her tribe to feed; The noble lady to our sorrows gave." Who, veiling well her scorn, endur'd the clog
Mute as the fish, and fawning as the dog. $ 162. Funeral of un ancient Maiden. CRABBE. As years increas'd, these treasures, her delight Down by the church-way walk, and where Arose in value in their owner's sight: the brook
A miser knows that, view it as he will, Winds round thechancellikea shepherd's crook, A guinea kept, is but a guinea still; In that small house, with those great pales before, And so he puts it to its proper use, Where jasmine trails on either side the door, That something more this guinea may produce: Where those dark shrubs that now grow wild at But silks and rings in the possessor's eyes will,
The oftener seen, the more in value rise, Were clipt in form, and tantaliz'd with skill; And thus are wisely hoarded to bestow Where cockles blanch'd, and pebbles neatly On pride that governs, pleasure that will grow: spread,
But what availd their
worth, if worth had they, Form'd Shining borders for the larkspur bed; In the sad summer of her slow decay? There liv'd a lady wise, austere, and nice, Then we beheld her turn an anxious look Who showed her virtue by her scorn of vice: From trunks and chests, and fix it on her book, In the dear fashions of her youth, she dress'd, A rich-bound book of prayer the captain gave A pea-green joseph was her fav’rite vest, (Some princess had it, or was said to have), Erect she stood, she walk'd with stately mien, And then once more on all her stores look round, Tight was her length of stays, and she was tall and draw a sigh so piteous and profound, and lean.
That told, “ Alas! how hard from thee to part, There long she liv'd in maiden state immur'd And for new hopes and habits form the heart: From looks of love, and treacherous man se- What shall I do (she cried), my peace of mind cur’d;
To gain in dying, and to die resign'd?"
Here we returned. These baubles cast aside, Nor his firın feet could one persuading sect, Nor give thy God a rival in thy pride ; By the strong glare of their new-light, direct; Thy closet shut, and ope thy kitchen door, On hope in mine own sober light I gaze, There own thy failings-here invite the poor ; But should be blind and lose it in your blaze. A friend of mammon let thy bounty make, In times severe, when many a sturdy swain For widows' prayers thy vanities forsake, Felt it his pride, his comfort, to complain; And let the hungry of thy pride partake; Isaac their wants would soothe, his own would Then shall thy inward eye with joy survey
hide, The angel Mercy tempering Death's delay.” And feel in that his comfort and his pride. Alas! 'twas hard ; the treasures still had At length he found, when seventy years were charms,
run, Hope still its flattery, sickness its alarms; His strength departed, and his labor done; Still was the same unsettled cloudy view, When, save his honest fame, he kept no more, And the same plaintivecry “What shall I do?" But lost his wife, and saw his children poor : Nor change appear'd : for when her race was 'Twas then a spark of—(say not discontent), run,
Struck on his mind, and thus he gave it vent: Doubtful we all exclaim'd, “What has been “ Kind are your laws, 'tis not to be deny'd, done?"
That in yon house for ruin'd age provide; A part she liv'd, and still she lies alone; And they are just; when young we give you all, Yon earthly heap awaits the fatt'ring stone, And then for comforts in our weakness call; On which invention shall be long employ'd Why then this proud reluctance to be fed, To show the various worth of Catharine Lloyd. To join your poor, and eat the parish bread?
But yet I linger, loath with him to feed, $ 163. Funeral of Isaac Ashford, a virtuous Who gains his plenty by the sons of need; Peasant.
CRABBE. He who by contract all your paupers took Noble he was, condemning all things mean, And gauges stomachs with an anxious look: His truth unquestion'd, and his soul serene; On some old master I could well depend; Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid ; See him with joy, and thank him as a friend; At no man's question Isaac look'd dismay'd : But ill on him who doles the day's supply, Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace, And counts our chances who at night may die. Truth, simple truth, was written in his face; Yet help me Heaven! and let me not complain Yet while the serious thought his soul approv'd, Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain." Cheerful he seem'd, and gentleness he lor'd : Such were his thoughts, and so resign d he To bliss domestic he his heart resign'd,
grew, And with the firmest had the fondest mind. Daily he plac'd the work-house in his view; Were others joyful, he look'd smiling on, But came not there, for sudden was his fate, And gave allowance when he needed none; He dropp’d, expiring at his cottage gate. Good he refus'd with future ill to buy,
I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, Nor knew a joy that caus'd reflection's sigh; And view his seat, and sigh for Isauc there : A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast I see no more those white locks thinly spread No envy stung, no jealousy distress'd ; Round the bald polish of that honord head; Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind No more that awful glance on playful wight To miss one favor which their neighbours find. Compell’d to kneel, and tremble at the sight, Yet far was he from stoic pride remov'd, To fold his fingers all in dread the while, He felt humanely, and he warmly lov'd. Till Mister Ashford softend to a smile; I mark'd his action when his infánt died, No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, And his old neighbour for offence was tried; Nor the pure faith, to give it force, are there : The still tears stealing down that furrow'd cheek But he is blest, and I lament no more Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak. A wise good man, contented to be poor. If pride were his, 'twas not their vulgar pride who, in their base contempt, the great deride; $ 164. An Epistle addressed to Sir Thomas Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed,
Hanmer, on his Edition of Shakspeare's If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed;
Collins. Nor pride in rustic skill, although he knew, None his superior, and his equals few : While, born to bring the Muse's happier But if that spirit in his soul had place,
days, It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace; A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays; A pride in honest fame, by virtue gain'd, while nursid by you, she sees her myrtles In sturdy boys to virtuous labors train'd;
bloom, Pride in thepowerthatguards his country'scoast, Green and unwither'd, o'er his honor'd tomb, And all that English men enjoy and boast; Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell Pride in a life that slander's tongue defyd; What secret transports in her bosom swell; In fact, a noble passion, misnan'd pride. With conscious awe she hears the critic's fame,
He had no party's rage, no sect'ry's whim, And blushing, hides her wreath at Shakspeare's Christian and country was all with him :
name. True to his church he came, no Sunday shower Hard was the lot those injord strains endur'd, Kept him at home in that important hour; Unown'd by science, and by years obscurd.
Fair Fancy wept; and echoing sighs confess'd | Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand
Each rising art by just gradation moves, Till late Corneille, with Lucan's || spirit fir'd, Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves : Breath'd the free strain, as Rome and he inThe Muse alone unequal dealt her rage,
spir'd; And grac'd with noblest pomp her earliest stage. And classic judgement gain'd to sweet Racinc Preservd through time, the speaking scenes The temperate strength of Maro's chaster line. impart
But wider far the British laurel spread, Each changeful wish of Phædra's tortur'd heart: And wreaths less artful crown our poet's head. Or paint the curse that mark'd the Theban's Yet he alone to every scene could give reign;
Th' historian's truth, and bid the manners live. A bed incestuous, and a father slain :
Wak'd at his call, I view with glad surprise
To Rome remov'd, with wit secure to please, And laureli'd conquest waits her hero's arms.
bleed, Droop'd their fair leaves, nor knew th' un- In life's last hours, with horror of the deed : friendly soil.
When dreary visions shall at last present As arts expird, resistless Dulness rose; Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent; Goths, priests, or Vandals—all were learning's Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear, foes,
Blunt the weak sword, and break th' oppressive Till #Julius first recall'd each exild maid,
But heaven, still various in its works, decreed smile,
breast ! And e'en a Shakspeare to her fame be born! Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart shall
Yet ah! so bright her morning's opening ray, feel, In vain our Britain hop'd an equal day! Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal ! No second growth the western isle could bear, There every thought the poet's warmth may At once exhausted with too rich a year.
raise, Too nicely Jonson knew the critic's part; There native music dwells in all the lays. Nature in him was almost lost in art. O, might some verse with happiest skill perOf softer mould the gentle Fletcher came,
suade The next in order, as the next in name : Expressive picture to adopt thine aid, With pleas'd attention 'midst his scenes we find what wondrous draughts might rise from every Each glowing thought that warms the female mind;
What other Raphaels charm a distant age! Each melting sigh, and every tender tear, Methinks een now I view some free design, The lover's wishes, and the virgin's fear. Where breathing nature lives in every line: His I every strain the Smiles and Graces own : Chaste and subdu'd the modest lights decay, But stronger Shakspeare felt for man alone: Steal into shades, and mildly melt away.
• The dipus of Sophocles. + Julius II. the immediate predecessor of Leo X. 1 The 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. The French poets after him applied themselves in general to the correct improvement of the stage, which was almost totally disregarded by those of our own country, Jonson excepted.
| The favorite author of the elder Corneille.
-And see, where Antony*, in tears approv’d, | When howling winds, and beating rain,
Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed; Lists the worn robe, and points the bleeding Belov'd, till life can charm no more ; wound.
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead. But who is het 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.
$ 166. Ode on the Death of Mr. Thomson. Yet shall not war's insatiate fury fall
Collins. (So Heaven ordains it) on the destin'd wall. See the fond mother, 'midst the plaintive train, The Scene of the following Stanzas is supposed Hang on his knees, and prostrate on the plain!
to lie on the Thames, near Richmond. Touch'd to the soul, in vain he strives to hide The son's affection in the Roman's pride:
In yonder grave a Druid lies,
To deck its Poet's sylvan grave.
His airy harps shall now be laid;
Then maids and youths shall linger here, By thee dispos’d, no farther toil demand,
And, while its sounds at distance swell, But, just to nature, own thy forming hand. Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear So spread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole
To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell. unknown, E'en Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone; Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore Their own Ulysses scarce had wander'd more,
When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, By winds and waters, cast on every shore : And oft suspend the dashing oar When rais'd by fate, some former Hanmer To bid his gentle spirit rest! join'd
And oft as Ease and Health retire Each beauteous image of the boundless mind; To breezy lawn, or forest deep, And bade, like thee, his Athens cyer claim The friend shall view yon whitening || spire, A fond alliance with the Poet's name.
And’mid the varied landscape weep:
But thou, who own'st that earthly bed, $ 165. Dirge in Cymbeline, sung ly Guiderius
Ah! what will every dirge avail! and Arviragus over Fidele, supposed to be Or tears, which Love and Pity shed, dead.
That mourn beneath the gliding sail ! To fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Yet lives there one whose heedless eye Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near? Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
With bim, sweet bard, may Fancy die, And rifle all the breathing Spring.
And Joy desert the blooming year! No wailing ghost shall dare appear
But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend, But shepherd lads assemble here,
Now waft me from the green hill's side, And melting virgins own their love.
Whose cold turf bides the buried friend! No wither'd witch shall here be seen, And see, the fairy valleys fade; No goblins lead their nightly crew;
Dun night has veild the solemn view; The female fays shall haunt the green,
Yet once again, dear parted shade, And dress thy grave with pearly dew.
Meek nature's child, again adieu ! The red-breast oft at evening hours
The genial meads assign'd to bless Shall kindly lend his little aid,
Thy lifeq, shall mourn thy early doom! With hoary moss, and gather'd fow'rs, There hinds and shepherd girls shall dress To deck the ground where thou art laid. With simple hands thy rural tomb. See the tragedy of Julius Cæsar.
+ Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's Dialogue on the Odyssey.
The Harp of olus, of which see a description in the Castle of Indolence. # Mr. Thomson was buried in Richmond church. | Mr. Thomson resided in the neighbourhood of Richmond some time before his death.
Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve: Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes:
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! O vales and wild woods, shall he say,
A diamen-icker in a thrave In yonder grave your Druid lies!
'S a sma' request; I'll get a blessing wi' the lave,
An' never miss't ! § 167. Verses written on a Paper which con
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! tained a piece of Bride Cake.
Its silly wa's the wins are strewing:
An' nåething, now, to big a new ane Ye curious hands, that, hid from vulgar eyes,
O' foggage green! By search profane shall find this hallow'd An' bleak December's wind ensuing, cake,
Baith snell and keen ! With virtue's awe forbear the sacred prize,
Thou saw the field laid bare and waste, Nor dare a theft, for love and pity's sake!
weary winter coming fast, This precious relic, form'd by magic pow'r, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Beneath the shepherd's haunted pillow laid,
Thou thought to dwell,
Out thro' thy cell.
Each nice ingredient chose with happiest art; Has cost thee monie a weary nibble !
Baith house or hald,
An cranreuch cauld !
In proving foresight may be vain :
Gang aft a-gley,
For promis d joy!
Still thou art blest, compard wi' me! Sleep, wayward god, hath sworn, while these The present only toucheth thee : remain,
But, och! I backward cast my e'e With flattering dreams to dry his nightly
On prospects drear! tear ;
An' forward, though I canna see,
I guess an fear.
And fond of soul, thou hop’st an equal grace,
BURNS. Sweet Peace, who long hath shunn'd ny plain
WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thy slender stem :
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, § 168. To a Mouse, on turning her up in her
Thou bonie gem! Nest with the Plough, November, 1785. Alas! its no thy neebor sweet,
Burxs. The bonie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
Wi' spreckl'd breast, o, what a panic's in thy breastie !
When upwards springing, blythe, to greet Thou need na start away sae hasty,
The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter biting north
Upon thy early humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent-carth
Thy tender form.
High sheltering woods an' wa's inaun shield ;