T'hen deeply skill'd in Love's engaging theme,
The soft Provincial 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 heav'n, 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 hop'd 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,
And 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.
His every strain the Smiles and Graces own*,
But stronger Shakspeare felt for man alone :
* Their characters are thus distinguished by Mr. Dryden.
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;
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 strain, as Rome and he inspir'd;
And classic judgment gain'd to sweet Racine
The temp❜rate 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.
Wak'd at his call, I view, with glad surprise,
Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise.
There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms,
And laurel'd Conquest waits her hero's arms!
* 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 favourite author of the elder Corneille.
Here gentler 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 vallies smile,
And Spring diffusive decks th' enchanted isle.
O, more than all in powerful genius blest,
Come take thine empire o’er a 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.
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 e'en now I view some free design, Where breathing Nature lives in every line; Chaste and subdu'd 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 lov'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 exalted bear
A wrath impatient, and a fiercer airt?
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 '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 :
* See the tragedy of Julius Cæsar.
+ Coriolanus. See Mr. Spencer's Dialogue on the Odyssey.
O'er all the man conflicting passions rise,
Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes!
Thus, gen'rous critic! as thy bard inspires
The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping fires;
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,
E'en 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 Guiderius and Arviragus over Fidele, Supposed to be dead.
TO fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
*Mr. Collins had skill to complain of that mournful melody and those tender images which are
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