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But who is he, whose brows exalted bear

A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air?
Awake to all that injur'd worth can feel,
On his own Rome he turns th' avenging steel.
Yet fhall not War's infatiate fury fall,

(So heav'n ordains it) on the deftin❜d wall.
See the fond mother 'midst the plaintive train
Hung on his knees, and proftrate on the plain!
Touch'd to the foul, in vain he strives to hide
The fon's affection, in the Roman's pride :
O'er all the man conflicting paffions rife,
Rage grafps the fword, while Pity melts the

eyes.

Thus, gen'rous Critic, as thy, Bard infpires,
The fifter Arts fhall nurse their drooping fires;
Each from his scenes her ftores alternate bring,
Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal ftring:
Thofe Sibyl-leaves, the sport of every wind,
(For poets ever were a careless kind)

By thee difpos'd, no farther toil demand,

But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.

So fpread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole unknown, Ev'n Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone.

1 Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's dialogue on the Odyssey.

Their own Ulyffes scarce had wander'd more,
By winds and water caft on every shore:

When rais'd by Fate, fome 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.

A SONG

FROM

SHAKESPEAR's CYMBELINE.

Sung by GUIDERUS and AR VIRAGUS Over FIDELE, fuppofed to be dead.

By the Same.

I.

O fair Fidele's graffy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds fhall bring

Each op'ning fweet, of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing Spring.

II. No

II.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear

To vex with fhrieks this quiet grove:
But fhepherd lads affemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.
III.

No wither'd witch fhall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew ;
The female fays fhall haunt the green,
And drefs thy grave with pearly dew!
IV.

The red-breaft oft at ev'ning hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid:

With hoary mofs, and gather'd flow'rs,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

V.

When howling winds, and beating rain,

In tempests shake the fylyan cell,

Or 'midst the chace on every plain,

The tender thought on thee fhall dwell.

VI.

Each lonely scene fhall thee restore,

For thee the tear be duly fhed:

Belov'd, 'till life could charm no more,
And mourn'd, 'till Pity's felf be dead.

VOL. IV.

F

ELE

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Say, thou dear poffeffor of my breast, Where now's my boasted liberty and rest! Where the gay moments which I once have known, O where that heart I fondly thought my own! From place to place I folitary roam,

Abroad uneafy, nor content at home.

I fcorn the beauties common eyes adore,

The more I view them, feel thy worth the more;
Unmov'd I hear them speak, or fee them fair,

And only think on thee who art not there.

I

In

In vain would books their formal fuccour lend,
Nor wit, nor wisdom can relieve their friend;
Wit can't deceive the pain I now endure,

And wisdom fhews the ill without the cure.
When from thy fight I waste the tedious day,
A thousand schemes I form, and things to fay;
But when thy presence gives the time I seek,
My heart's fo full, I wifh, but cannot speak.

And could I fpeak with eloquence and ease,
'Till now not ftudious of the art to please,
Could I, at woman who fo oft exclaim,
Expose (nor blush) thy triumph and my shame,
Abjure those maxims I fo lately priz❜d,
And court that fex I foolishly despis'd,

Own thou haft foften'd my obdurate mind,
And thou reveng'd the wrongs of womankind:
Loft were my words, and fruitless all my pain,
In vain to tell thee all I write in vain ;

My humble fighs shall only reach thy ears,
And all my eloquence shall be my tears.

And now (for more I never must pretend)
Hear me not as thy lover, but thy friend;
Thousands will fain thy little heart ensnare,
For without danger none like thee are fair;

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