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People the busy mead,
Like fpectres swarming to the wisard's hall;
And flowly pace, and point with trembling hand
The wounds ill-cover'd by the purple pall.
Before me Pity seems to stand,
A weeping mourner, smote with anguish sore,
To see Misfortune rend in frantick mood
His robe, with regal woes embroider'd o'er.
Pale Terror leads the visionary band,
And sternly fhakes his fceptre, dropping blood.
By the same.
Far from the fun and summer gale,
In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,
To him the mighty mother did unveil
Her awful face : The dauntless child
Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smil'd.
This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year: 1
Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy!
This can unlock the gates of joy ;
Of horror that, and thrilling fears,
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetick tears.3
Gray's Ode on the Progress of Poesy.
3 An ingenious person, who sent Mr. Gray his remarks anony mously on this and the following Ode soon after they were published, gives this stanza and the following a very juft and wellexpressed eulogy: “ A poet is perhaps never more conciliating than when he praises favourite predecessors in his art. Milton is not more the pride than Shakspeare the love of their country : It is therefore equally judicious to diffuse a tenderness and a grace through the praise of Shakspeare, 'as to extol in a strain more elevated and fonorous the boundless soarings of Milton's imagination." The critick has here well noted the beauty of contraft which results from the two descriptions ; yet it is further to be observed, to the honour of our poet's judgement, that the tenderness and grace in the former, does not prevent it from strongly characterising the three capital perfeaions of Shakspeare's genius; and
Next Shakspeare fat, irregularly great,
And in his hand a magick rod did hold,
Which visionary beings did creatë,
And turn the foulest dross to purest gold:
Whatever fpirits rove in earth or fir,
Or bad, or good, obey his dread command;
To his behests these willingly repair,
Those. aw'd by terrors of his magick wand,
The which not all their powers united might withstand.'
Lloy’ds Progress of Envy, 1751.
Oh, where's the bard, who at one view
Could look the whole creation through,
Who travers'd all the human heart,
Without recourse to Grecian art ?
He scorn'd the rules of imitation,
Of altering, pilfering and translation,
Nor painted horror, grief, or rage,
From models of a former age ;
The bright original he took,
And tore the leaf from nature's book.
'Tis Shakspeare. -
Lloyd's Shakespeare, a Poem.
In the first feat, in robe of various dies
A noble wildness flashing from his eyes,
Sat Shakfpeare. - In one hand a wand he bore,
For mighty wonders fam'd in days of yore ;
The other held a globe, which to his will.
Obedient turn'd, and own'd a master's skill:
Things of the noblest kind his genius drew,
And look'd through nature at a single view :
A loose he gave to his unbounded soul,
And taught new lands to rise, new seas to roll ;
Callid into being scenes unknown before,
And, passing nature's bounds, was something more.