Each melting figh, and ev'ry tender tear,
The lover's wishes and the virgin's fear.
His ev'ry strain the Smiles and Graces own;
But ftronger Shakespear felt for Man alone:
Drawn by his pen, our ruder paffions stand
Th' unrival'd picture of his early hand.

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 juft in all she drew.

Till late Corneille, with § Lucan's fpirit fir'd,
Breath'd the free ftrain, as Rome and He infpir'd:
And claffic judgment gain'd to sweet Racine
The temp rate ftrength 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 ev'ry 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 rife.

+ Their characters are thus diftinguished by Mr. Dryden. About the time of Shakespear, the poet Hardy was in great repute in France. He wrote, according to Fontenelle, fix hundred plays. The French poets after him applied themfelves in general to the correct improvement of the flage, which was almoft totally difregarded by thofe of our own country, Johnfon excepted.

§ The favourite author of the elder Corneille.

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 shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring
No beam of comfort to the guilty king:

*

The time fhall come, when Glo'fter's heart shall bleed

In life's laft hours, with horror of the deed:

When dreary vifions fhall at laft present

Thy vengeful image in the 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, fhe 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:
Drefs'd by her hand, the Woods and Vallies fmile,
And Spring diffufive decks th' inchanted ifle.

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 fhall feel,
Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal!

* Tempus erit Turno, magno cum obtaverit emptum

There

Intactum pallanta, &c.

There ev'ry thought the poet's warmth may raise,
There native mufick 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 from ev'ry page!
What other Raphaels charm a diftant age!
Methinks ev'n now I view some free design,
Where breathing Nature lives in ev'ry line :
Chast and subdu'd the modest lights decay,
Steal into fhades, and mildly melt away.

-And fee, where * Anthony in tears approv'd,
Guards the pale relicks of the chief he lov'd:
O'er the cold corse 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 shall not War's infatiate fury fall,

(So heav'n ordains it) on the deftin'd wall.
See the fond mother 'midst the plaintive train

Hung on his knees, and proftrate on the plain!

E 3

* See the tragedy of Julius Cæfar.

Touch'd

+ Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's dialogue on the Odyssey.

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 rife,

Rage grafps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes.
Thus, gen'rous Critick, as thy Bard inspires,
The fifter Arts fhall nurse their drooping fires;
Each from his fcenes her ftores alternate bring,
Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal ftring:
Thofe Sibyl-leaves, the sport of ev'ry wind,
(For poets ever were a careless kind)

By thee difpos'd, no farther toil demand,
But, juft 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 ev'ry fhore:

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.

A SONG

A SONG

FROM

SHAKESPEAR'S CYMBELYNE.

Sung by GUIDERUS and ARVIRAGUS over FIDELE, fuppofed to be dead.

By the Same.

I.

O fair Fidele's graffy tomb

Soft maids, and

Soft maids, and village hinds fhall

Each op'ning fweet, of earlieft bloom,

And rifle all the breathing Spring.
II.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear

To vex with fhrieks this quiet grove :

But fhepherd lads affemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

E 4

bring

III. No