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, '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.

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

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 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 Ulysses 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.

DIR GE

IN CYMBELINE.

SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELLE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

To fair. Fidelle's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring

Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing Spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,

But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

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 dispos'd, no farther toil demand,.

But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.

So spread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole.

And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim

A fond alliance with the Poet's name.

DIR GE

IN CYMBELINE.

SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELLE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

To fair. Fidelle's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring

Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing Spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,

But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.