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Methinks even now I view some free design,
But who is he, whose brows exalted bear
Thus, generous Critic, as thy Bard inspires,
So spread o'er Greece, the harmonious whole unknown, Even Homer's numbers charmed by parts alone.
Their own Ulysses scarce had wandered more, By winds and waters cast on every shore: When, raised by Fate, some former Hanmer joined Each beauteous image of the boundless mind; And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim A fond alliance with the Poet's name. Oxford, Dec. 3, 1743.
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,
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
But shepherd lads assemble here,
No withered witch shall here be seen;
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
And dress thy grave with pearly dew!
The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Each lonely scene shall thee restore;
For thee the tear be duly shed;
And mourned till Pity's self be dead.
WRITTEN ON A PAPER WHICH CONTAINED A PIECE OF BRIDE-CAKE,
Ye curious hands, that, hid from vulgar eyes,
With Virtue's awe forbear the sacred prize,
This precious relic, formed by magic power,
Was meant by Love to charm the silent hour,
The Cyprian queen, at Hymen's fond request,
Fears, sighs, and wishes of the enamored breast,
With rosy hand the spicy fruit she brought,
And tempered sweet with these the melting thought,
Ambiguous looks, that scorn and yet relent,
Reluctant pride, and amorous faint consent,
Sleep, wayward god! hath sworn, while these remain,
And cheerful Hope, so oft invoked in vain,
If, bound by vows to Friendship's gentle side,
If youth or maid thy joys and griefs divide,
Sweet Peace, who long hath shunned my plaintive day,
Thy careless steps may scare her doves away,
TO MISS AURELIA C R,
ON HER WEEPING AT HER SISTER'S WEDDING.
Cease, fair Aurelia, cease to mourn,
You may be happy in your turn,
With Love united Hymen stands,
"Meet but your lover in my bands,
When Phoebe formed a wanton smile,
My soul! it reached not here:
Before a rising tear!
That o'er those eyelids rove:
The fabled queen of love.
THE SENTIMENTS BORROWED FROM SHAKSPEARE.
Young Damon of the vale is dead,
Ye lowly hamlets, moan;
And at his feet a stone.
His shroud, which Death's cold damps destroy,
All mourned to see so sweet a boy
Pale pansies o'er his corpse were placer1,
Bestrewed the boy, like him to waste
But will he ne'er return, whose tongue
Could tune the rural lay?
His lips are cold as clay.