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Methinks even now I view some free design,
Where breathing nature lives in every line:
Chaste and subdued the modest lights decay,
Steal into shades, and mildly melt away.
And see where Anthony, in tears approved,
Guards the pale relics of the chief he loved:
O'er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend,
Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murdered 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 air?
Awake to all that injured worth can feel,
On his own Rome he turns the avenging steel;
Yet shall not war's insatiate fury fall
(So Heaven ordains it) on the destined wall.
See the fond mother, 'midst the plaintive train,
Hung on his knees, and prostrate on the plain!
Touched to the soul, in vain he strives to hide
The son's affection in the Roman's pride:
O'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 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 disposed, no further toil demand,
But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.

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,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

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 withered 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 gathered flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempests shake the 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;
Beloved till life can charm no more,

And mourned till Pity's self be dead.

VERSES

WRITTEN ON A PAPER WHICH CONTAINED A PIECE OF BRIDE-CAKE,
GIVEN TO THE AUTHOR BY A LADY.

Ye curious hands, that, hid from vulgar eyes,
By search profane shall find this hallowed cake,

With Virtue's awe forbear the sacred prize,
Nor dare a theft, for Love and Pity's sake!

This precious relic, formed by magic power,
Beneath her 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;

Fears, sighs, and wishes of the enamored breast,
And pains that please, are mixed in every part.

With rosy hand the spicy fruit she brought,
From Paphian hills and fair Cythera's isle;

And tempered sweet with these the melting thought,
The kiss ambrosial, and the yielding smile.

Ambiguous looks, that scorn and yet relent,
Denials mild, and firm unaltered truth;

Reluctant pride, and amorous faint consent,
And meeting ardors, and exulting youth.

Sleep, wayward god! hath sworn, while these remain,
With flattering dreams to dry his nightly tear,

And cheerful Hope, so oft invoked in vain,
With fairy songs shall soothe his pensive ear.

If, bound by vows to Friendship's gentle side,
And fond of soul, thou hopest an equal grace,

If youth or maid thy joys and griefs divide,
0, much entreated, leave this fatal place!

Sweet Peace, who long hath shunned my plaintive day,
Consents at length to bring me short delight,

Thy careless steps may scare her doves away,
And Grief with raven note usurp the night.

TO MISS AURELIA C R,

ON HER WEEPING AT HER SISTER'S WEDDING.

Cease, fair Aurelia, cease to mourn,
Lament not Hannah's happy state;

You may be happy in your turn,
And seize the treasure you regret.

With Love united Hymen stands,
And softly whispers to your charms,

"Meet but your lover in my bands,
You'll find your sister in his arms."

SONNET.

When Phoebe formed a wanton smile,

My soul! it reached not here:
Strange, that thy peace, thou trembler, flies

Before a rising tear!
From 'midst the drops my love is born

That o'er those eyelids rove:
Thus issued from a teeming wave

The fabled queen of love.

SONG.

THE SENTIMENTS BORROWED FROM SHAKSPEARE.

Young Damon of the vale is dead,

Ye lowly hamlets, moan;
A dewy turf lies o'er his head,

And at his feet a stone.

His shroud, which Death's cold damps destroy,
Of snow-white threads was made:

All mourned to see so sweet a boy
In earth forever laid.

Pale pansies o'er his corpse were placer1,
Which, plucked before their time,

Bestrewed the boy, like him to waste
And wither in their prime.

But will he ne'er return, whose tongue

Could tune the rural lay?
Ah, no ! his bell of peace is rung,

His lips are cold as clay.

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