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 injur'd worth can feel,
On his own Rome he turns th’avenging steel:
Yet shall not war’s insatiate fury fall
(So heaven ordains it) on the destin'd wall.
See the fond mother, ʼmidst the plaintive train,
Hung on his knees, and proftrate 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 critick, 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 Sybil leaves, the sport of every wind,
(For poets ever were a careless kind)
By thee dispos’d, no farther toil demand,
But, just to nature, own thy forming hand.
So spread o’er Greece, th’ harmonious whole unknown,
Even Homer's numbers charm’d by parts alone.
Their own Ulyses scarce had wander’d more,
By winds and waters cast on every shore:
When rais’d 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.