With gradual steps and slow, exacter France
Saw Art's fair empire o'er her shores advance:
By length of toil a bright perfection knew,
Correctly bold, and just in all she drew :
Till late Corneille, with Lucan's' spirit fired,
Breathed the free strain, as Rome and he inspired:
And classic judgment gain'd to sweet Racine
The temperate strength of Maro's chaster line.

But wilder far the British laurel spread, And wreaths less artful crown our Poet's head. Yet he alone to every scene could give The' historian's truth, and bid the manners live. Waked at his call I view, with glad surprise, Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise. There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms; And laurel'd Conquest waits her hero's arms. Here gentle 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: [bleed, The time shall come when Glo'ster's heart shall In life's last hours, with horror of the deed; When dreary visions shall at last present Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent:

8

6 About the time of Shakspeare, the poet Hardy was in great repute in France. He wrote, according to Fontenelle, six hundred plays. The French poets after him applied themselves in general to the correct improvement of the stage, which was almost totally disregarded by those of our own country, Jonson excepted.

7 The favourite author of the elder Corneille.

8 Turno tempus erit, magno cum optaverit emptum Intactum Pallanta, &c.

Virg.

Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear : Blunt the weak sword, and break the' 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 : Dress'd by her hand, the woods and valleys smile; And Spring diffusive decks the' enchanted isle.

O! more than all in powerful genius bless'd, Come, take thine empire o'er the willing breast! Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel, Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal! There every thought the Poet's warmth may raise; There native music dwells in all thy lays.

O might some verse with happiest skill persuade Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid! [page! What wondrous draughts might rise from every What other Raphaels charm a distant age!

Methinks e'en 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 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 Cæsar.

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!
Touch'd 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 farther toil demand, But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.

So spread o'er Greece, the' harmonious whole unknown,

E'en Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone.
Their own Ulysses scarce had wander'd more,
By winds and waters cast on every shore:
When, raised by Fate, some 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.

10 Coriolanus.

241

ODE

ON THE POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND:

CONSIDERED AS THE SUBJECT OF POETRY.

Inscribed to Mr. John Home.

HOME! thou return'st from Thames, whose naiads Have seen thee lingering with a fond delay, [long Mid those soft friends, whose hearts, some future Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song. [day, Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth'

Whom, long endear'd, thou leavest by Lavant's Together let us wish him lasting truth,

[side; And joy untainted, with his destined bride. Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast My short-lived bliss, forget my social name; But think, far off, how, on the southern coast, I met thy friendship with an equal flame! Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, where every vale Shall prompt the Poet, and his song demand: To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail;

Thou need'st but take thy pencil to thy hand, And paint what all believe, who own thy genial land.

There, must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill;

'Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet; Where still, 'tis said, the fairy people meet, Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill. There, each trim lass, that skims the milky store, To the swart tribes their creamy bowls allots; By night they sip it round the cottage door, While airy minstrels warble jocund notes.

1 A gentleman of the name of Barrow, who introduced Home to Collins.

There, every herd, by sad experience, knows How, wing'd with Fate, their elf-shot arrows fly, When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes,

Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie.
Such airy beings awe the' untutor'd swain:
Nor thou, though learn'd, his homelier thoughts
neglect ;

Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sustain;
These are the themes of simple, sure effect,
That add new conquests to her boundless reign,
And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding
strain.

E'en yet preserved, how often may'st thou hear, Where to the pole the Boreal mountains run, Taught by the father, to his listening son, Strange lays, whose power had charm'da Spenser's At every pause, before thy mind possess'd, [ear. Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, With uncouth lyres, in many-colour'd vest,

Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown'd: Whether thou bidd'st the well-taught hind repeat The choral dirge, that mourns some chieftain brave,

When every shrieking maid her bosom beat,
And strew'd with choicest herbs his scented

grave!

Or whether, sitting in the shepherd's shiel2,
Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's alarms;
When at the bugle's call, with fire and steel,

The sturdy clans pour'd forth their brawny

swarms,

[arms. And hostile brothers met, to prove each other's

2 A summer hut, built in the high part of the mountains, to tend their flocks in the warm season, when the pasture is fine.