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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.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The red-breast oft' at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,

With hoary moss and gather'd flow'rs
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

the distinguished excellencies of such pieces as bewail departed friendship or beauty, he was an almost unequalled master. He knew perfectly to exhibit such circumstances, peculiar to the objects, as awaken the influances of pity; and while, from his own great sensibility, he felt what he wrote, he naturally addressed himself to the feelings of others.

To read such lines as the following, all beautiful and tender as they are, without corresponding emotions of pity, is surely impossible :

The tender thought on thee shall dwell :
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Belov'd till life can charm no more,
And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead,

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,
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,

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, 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.

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE,*

Sung by Guiderius and Arviragus over Fidele, Supposed to be dead.

TO fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring

* Mr. Collins had skill to complain of that mournful melody and those tender images which are

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.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The red-breast oft' at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,

With hoary moss and gather'd flow'rs
To deck the ground where thou art laid.

the distinguished excellencies of such pieces as bewail departed friendship or beauty, he was an almost unequalled master. He knew perfectly to exhibit such circumstances, peculiar to the objects, as awaken the influances of pity; and while, from his own great sensibility, he felt what he wrote, he naturally addressed himself to the feelings of others.

To read such lines as the following, all beautiful and tender as they are, without corresponding emotions of pity, is surely impossible :

The tender thought on thee shall dwell :
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Belov'd till life can charm no more,

And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.

When howling winds and beating rain
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell,
Or 'midst the chase, on every plain
The tender thought on thee shall dwell:

Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;

Belov'd till life can charm no more,
And mourn'd till Pity's self be dead.

VERSES

Written on a paper which contained a piece of
Bride-cake.

YE curious hands that, hid from vulgar eyes, By search profane shall find this hallow'd cake, With virtue's awe forbear the sacred prize, Nor dare a theft for love and pity's sake!

This precious relic, form'd by magic pow'r,
Beneath the shepherd's haunted pillow laid,
Was meant by Love to charm the silent hour,
The secret present of a matchless maid.

The Cyprian queen at Hymen's fond request
Each nice ingredient chose with happiest art;
Fears, sighs, and wishes of th' enamour'd breast,
And pains that please, are mix'd in every part.

With rosy hand the spicy fruit she brought
From Paphian hills and fair Cythera's isle,

And temper'd sweet with these the melting thought,
The kiss ambrosial, and the yielding smile.

Ambiguous looks, that scorn and yet relent,
Denials mild, and firm unalter'd truth,
Reluctant pride, and am'rous faint consent,
And meeting ardours, and exulting youth.

Sleep, wayward God! hath sworn while these remain
With flatt'ring dreams to dry his nightly tear,
And cheerful Hope, so oft invok’d in vain,
With Fairy songs shall sooth his pensive ear.

If, bound by vows to Friendship's gentle side,
And, fond of soul, thou hop'st an equal grace ;
If youth or maid thy joys and griefs divide,
O, much intreated, leave this fatal place!

Sweet Peace, who long hath shun'd my plaintive day
Consents at length to bring me short delight;
Thy careless steps may scare her doves away,
And Grief with raven note usurp the night.

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