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.

0, more than all 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. O might some verse with happiest skill persuade Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid ! What wondrous draught 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 fiiend! Still as they press, he calls on all around, Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wowd.

But who t is he whose brows exalted bear
A wrath impatient and a fiercer air?
Awake to all that injur'd worth can feel,
On luis own Rome he turns th' avenging steel;

* See the Tragedy of Julius Cæsar. + Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's Dialogue on the Odyssey,

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,
Hung 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:
D'er all the man conflicting passions rise ;
Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes

Thus, generous Critic, as thy Bard inspires,
The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping fires;
Each from his scenes their stores alternate bring;
Blend the fair tint, 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, the harmonious whole usein

known,
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 Hammer 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,

241)

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE.
SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS

OVER FIDELE, 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.

His

Thatt

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 redbreast 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 thy 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; Belov'd, till life can charm no more,

And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. THOMSON. The Scene of the following Stanzas is supposed to

lie on the Thames, near Richmond.

TN yonder grave a Druid lies,
1 Where slowly winds the stealing wave!
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise,

To deck its poet's sylvap grave!

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds

His airy harp * shall now be laid ;
That he whose heart in sorrow bleeds
May love through life the soothing shade.

Then maids and youths shall linger here;

And, while its sounds at distance swell, Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.

Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore,

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest;: And oft suspend the dashing oar,

To bid his gentle spirit rest!

And, oft as ease and health retire

To breezy lawn, or forest deep, ale friend shall view yon whiteningt spire,

And 'mid the varied landscape weep.

But thou who own'st that earthly bed,

Ah! what will every dirge avail! Or tears which Love and Pity shed,

That mouru beneath the gliding sail!

Yet lives there one whose heedless eye

Shall scorn tlıy pale shirine glimmering near !
With him, sweet Bard, may Fancy die;
And Joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tido

No sedge-crown'd Sisters now attend, Now waft me from the green hill's side Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!

The harp of Æolus, of which see a description in the Castle of Indolence.

Richmond Church, in which Thomson was buried. And see, the fairy valleys fade;

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,
Meek Nature's Child, again adieu!

The genial * meads, assign'd to bless

Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom; There hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress,

With simple hands, thy rural tomb.

Long, long, thy stone and pointed clay

Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes : O! vales, and wild woods, shall he say,

In yonder grave your Druid lies!

VERSES

WRITTEN ON A PAPER WHICH CONTAINED

A PIECE OF BRIDE-CAKE.

VE curious hands, that hid from vulgar eyes,

By search profane shall find this hallow'd cake, With virtues awe forbear the sacred prize,

Nor dare a theft, for love and pity's sake!

This precious relic, form'd by magic power,

Beneath the shepherd's haunted pillow laid, Was meant by love to charm the silent hour,

The secret present of a matchless maid.

The Cyprian queen, at Hymen's fond request,

Each nice ingredient chose with happiest art;

* Mr. Thomson resided in the neighbourhood of Richmond some time before his death.