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Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear,
O 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 fupport me, and thy morals heal. There every thought the poet's warmth may raise, There native musick dwells in all the lays. O might some verse with happiest skill persuade Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid ! What wondrous draughts might rise from every
What other Raphaels charm a distant age!
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 fee, where Antony,' in tears approv’d, Guards the pale relicks 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 friend! Still as they press, he calls on all around, Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound.
9 See the tragedy of Julius Cæfar.
But who is he, whose brows exalted bear
Methinks I see with Fancy's magick eye,
Christopher Smart's Prologue to Othello, 1751.
What are the lays of artful Addison,
2 Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's dialogue on the Odyssey,
To a close cavern: (still the shepherds shew
by the Rev. Joseph Warton.
From the Rev. Thomas Warton's Address to the
Queen on her Marriage. Here, boldly mark'd with every living hue, Nature's unbounded portrait Shakspeare drew : But chief, the dreadful group of human woes The daring artist's tragick pencil chose; Explor’d the pangs that rend the royal breast, Those wounds that lurk beneath the tissued veft.
Monody, written near Stratford-upon-Avon. Avon, thy rural views, thy pastures wild, The willows that o'erhang thy twilight edge, Their boughs entangling with the embattled fedge; Thy brink with watery foliage quaintly fring'd, Thy surface with reflected verdure ting'd; Sooth me with many a pensive pleasure mild. But while I muse, that here the Bard Divine Whose sacred dust yon high-arch'd isles inclose, Where the tall windows rise in stately rows, Above th' embowering shade, Here first, at Fancy's fairy-circled shrine, Of daisies pied his infant offering made;
Here playful yet, in stripling years unripe,
By the same.
Far from the sun and summer gale,
Gray's Ode on the Progress of Poesy.
3 An ingenious person, who sent Mr. Gray his remarks anonymously on this and the following Ode foon after they were published, gives this ftanza and the following a very juft and wellexpressed eulogy: “ A poet is perhaps never more conciliating than
Next Shakspeare sat, irregularly great,
Lloyd's Progress of Envy, 1751.
Oh, where's the bard, who at one view
Lloyd's Shakespeare, a Poem.
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 sonorous the boundless soarings of Milton's imagination.” The critick has here well noted the beauty of contrast 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 perfections of Shakspeare's genius; and when he describes his power of exciting terror (a species of the sublime) he ceases to be diffuse, and becomes, as he ought to be, concise and energetical. MASON.