Wak'd at his Call I view, with glad Surprize,
Majestic Forms of mighty Monarchs rise.
There Henry's Trumpets spread their loud Alarms,
And laurel'd Conquest waits her Hero's Arms.
Here gentler Edward claims a pitying Sigh,
Scarce born to Honours, and so soon to die!
Yet shall thy Throne, unhappy Infant, bring
No Beam of Comfort to the guilty King?
Time shall come, when Glo'ster's Heart shall bleed
In Life's last Hours, with Horror of the Deed:
When dreary Visions shall at last present
Thy vengeful Image, in the midnight Tent:
Thy Hand unseen the secret Death shall bear,
Blunt the weak Sword, and break th' oppressive Spear.
Where'er we turn, by Fancy charm'd, we find
Some sweet Illusion of the cheated Mind.
Oft, wild of Wing, she calls the Soul to rove
With humbler Nature, in the rural Grove;
Where Swains contented own the quiet Scene,
And twilight Fairies tread the circled Green :
Drest by her Hand, the Woods and Vallies smile,
And Spring diffusive decks th' enchanted Isle.
O blest in all that Genius gives to charm,
Whose Morals mend us, and whose Passions warm!
Oft let my Youth attend thy various Page,
Where rich Invention rules th' unbounded Stage.
There ev'ry Scene the Poet's Warmth may raise,
And melting Music find the softest Lays.
O might the Muse with equal Ease persuade,
Expressive Picture, to adopt thine Aid!
Some pow'rful Raphael shou'd again appear,
And Arts consenting fix their Empire here.
*Tempus erit Turno, magno cum optaverit emptum Intactum Pallanta, &'c.
Methinks ev'n now I view some fair Design, Where breathing Nature lives in ev'ry Line: Chaste, and subdu'd, the modest Colours lie, In fair Proportion to th' approving EyeAnd see, where * Antony lamenting stands In fixt Distress, and spreads his pleading Hands! O'er the pale Corse the Warrior seems to bend, Deep sunk in Grief, and mourns his murther'd 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 Rage impatient, and a fiercer Air?
Ev'n now, his Thoughts with eager Vengeance doom
The last sad Ruin of ungrateful Rome.
Till, slow-advancing o'er the tented Plain,
In sable Weeds, appear the Kindred-train:
The frantic Mother leads their wild Despair,
Beats her swoln Breast, and rends her silver Hair.
And see he yields! ... the Tears unbidden start,
And conscious Nature claims th' unwilling Heart!
O'er all the Man conflicting Passions rise,
Rage grasps the Sword, while Pity melts the Eyes.
Thus, gen'rous Critic, as thy Bard inspires,
The Sister Arts shall nurse their drooping Fires;
Each from his Scenes her Stores alternate bring,
Spread the fair Tints, or wake the vocal String:
Those Sibyl-Leaves, the Sport of ev'ry Wind,
(For Poets ever were a careless Kind)
By thee dispos'd, no farther Toil demand,
But, just to Nature, own thy forming Hand.
* See the tragedy of Julius Caesar.
+ Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's Dialogues on the Odyssey.
So spread o'er Greece, th' harmonious Whole unknown,
Ev'n Homer's Numbers charm'd by Parts alone.
Their own Ulysses scarce had wander'd more,
By Winds and Waters cast on ev'ry Shore:
When, rais'd by Fate, some former Hanmer join'd
Each beauteous image of the tuneful mind;
And bad, like Thee, his Athens, ever claim,
A fond Alliance, with the Poet's Name.
VIII. To a Lady on the Death of Colonel Ross in the Action of Fontenoy.
XI. The MANNERS.
XII. The PASSIONS, an Ode for Music.
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