With graceful ease the wanton lyre he strung,
Sweet flow'd the lays-but love was all he fung.
The gay description could not fail to move;
For, led by nature, all are friends to love.
But heav'n, still various in its works, decreed
The perfect boaft of time fhould last fucceed.
The beauteous union must appear at length,
Of Tuscan fancy, and Athenian strength:
One greater Mufe Eliza's reign adorn,
And ev❜n a Shakspeare to her fame be born!
Yet ah fo bright her morning's opening ray,
In vain our Britain hop'd an equal day!
No fecond growth the western ifle could bear,
At once exhausted with too rich a year.
Too nicely Jonfon knew the critic's part;
Nature in him was almoft loft in art.
Of fofter mold 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 figh, and every tender tear,
The lover's wishes and the virgin's fear.
His P every Strain the Smiles and Graces own;
But ftronger Shakspeare felt for Man alone :
Drawn by his pen, our ruder paffions ftand
Th' unrival'd picture of his early hand.
P Their characters are thus diftinguished by Dryden.
With gradual steps, and flow, exacter France
Saw Art's fair empire o'er her fhores advance :
By length of toil a bright perfection knew,
Correctly bold, and just in all she drew.
'Till late Corneille, with Lucan's spirit fir'd,
Breath'd the free ftrain, as Rome and He infpir'd:
And claffic judgement gain'd to sweet Racine
The temp❜rate strength of Maro's chafter line.
But wilder far the British laurel spread,
And wreaths lefs artful crown our poet's head.
Yet he alone to every scene could give
Th' hiftorian's truth, and bid the manners live.
Wak'd at his call I view, with glad furprize,
Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise.
There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms,
And laurel'd conqueft waits her hero's arms.
Here gentler Edward claims a pitying figh,
Scarce born to honours, and fo foon to die!
Yet fhall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring |
No beam of comfort to the guilty king:
q About the time of Shakspeare, the poet Hardy was in great repute in France. He wrote, according to Fontenelle, fix hundred plays. The French poets after him applied themselves in general to the correct improvement of the ftage, which was almoft totally difregarded by thofe of our own country, Jonfon excepted.
The favourite author of the elder Corneille.
The time fhall come, when Glo'fter's heart shall bleed
In life's last hours, with horror of the deed:
When dreary vifions shall at last present
Thy vengeful image in thy midnight tent,
Thy hand unfeen the secret death shall bear,
Blunt the weak fword, and break th' oppreffive spear.
Where'er we turn, by Fancy charm'd, we find
Some sweet illufion of the cheated mind.
Oft, wild of wing, she calls the foul to rove
With humbler nature, in the rural grove ;
Where fwains contented own the quiet fcene,
And twilight fairies tread the circled green :
Dress'd by her hand the Woods and Vallies smile,
And Spring diffufive decks th' inchanted isle.
O more than all in pow'rful genius bleft,
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 raife,
There native mufic dwells in all the lays.
O might some verse with happiest skill perfuade
Expreffive Picture to adopt thine aid!
What wond'rous draughts might rife froin every page!
What other Raphaels charm a distant age
• Tempus erit Turno, magno cum optaverit emptum Intactum Pallanta, &c.
Methinks ev'n now I view fome free defign,
Where breathing Nature lives in every line:
Chafte and fubdu'd the modeft lights decay,
Steal into fhades, and mildly melt away.
-And fee, where Antony in tears approv❜d,
Guards the pale relics of the chief he lov'd:
O'er the cold corfe the warrior feems to bend :
Deep funk in grief, and mourns his murder'd friend!
Still as they prefs, 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 fhall not War's infatiate fury fall
(So heav'n ordains it) on the deftin❜d wall.
See the fond mother 'midit the plaintive train
Hung on his knees, and proftrate on the plain!
Touch'd to the foul, in vain he strives to hide
The fon's affection, in the Roman's pride;
O'er all the man conflicting paffions rise,
Rage grafps the fword, while Pity melts the eyes.
Thus, gen'rous Critic, as thy Bard infpires,
The fifter Arts fhall nurse their drooping fires;
* See the Tragedy of Julius Cæfar.
Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's dialogue on the Odyffey.
Each from his fcenes her stores alternate bring,
Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal string;
Those Sybil-leaves, the sport of every wind,
(For poets ever were a careless kind)
By thee difpos'd, no farther toil demand,
But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.
So fpread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole unknown,
Ev'n Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone.
Their own Ulyffes fcarce had wander'd more,
By winds and water caft on every shore :
When rais'd by Fate, fome 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.
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