But chief the sweetest passion best you sing, And in the waters Phocae feel the fire; And burns though circled round with all his waves. A sudden flash of lightning turns my eye To thunder rumbling in the Summer sky! Beneath thy hand the flaming sheet is spread O'er heaven's wide face, and wraps it round with red ; With the broad blaze the kindling lines grow bright, And all the glowing page is fill'd with light; Through the rough verse the thunder hoarsly roars, And on red wings the nimble lightning soars: Here thy Amelia starts, and, chill'd with fears, At every flash her eye-lids swim in tears; What heart but beats for so divine a form, Pale as a lily sinking in the storm! What maid so cold to take a lover's part, But pities Celadon with all her heart! How precious gems enrich each sparkling line, Add sun to sun, and from thy fancy shine! Here rocks of diamond blaze in broken ray, And sanguine rubies shed a blushing day; Blue shining sapphires a gay heaven unfold, And topaz lightens like transparent gold; Of evening tinct pale amethists are seen, And emeralds paint their languid beams with green : While the clear opal courts the rural sight; And rains a shower of many-color'd light : Your sky-dipp'd pencil adds the proper glow, Stains each bright stone, and lets their lustre flow, Tempers the colors shifting from each beam, And bids them flash in one continued stream. So have I seen the florid rainbow rise, Where may those numbers find thee now retir❜d? What lawn or grove is by the Muse admir'd? Dost thou in Stowe's delightful gardens stray, Or in the glooms of Doddington delay: There sweet embower'd some favorite author read, Mindful of Forbes, and of thy own Argyle? Whose Roman freedom has Roscommon's voice. EPISTLE VIII. THE STAGE. то JOSEPH ADDISON, ESQ. FROM MR. WEBSTER, OF CHRIST-CHURCH, OXFord. SINCE all the din of war begins to cease, Where Mars still rages in the Poet's lines, Nor wave in echoes frightful to the shore; If by an unfeign'd wound some hero dies, Love shoots the guilty darts from their too murderous eyes. Epist. VIII. EPISTLES CRITICAL, &c. 87 Nigh where, as when on Naseby's fatal plains, A convent once (if we may credit Fame, At length the world broke-in, and now the Player Attracts the Beau, the Critic, and the Fair; Ev'n in the place which once the Monk possess'd (Strange shift of scenes!) fat Dominic's the jest. Sweet is the florish when the curtain draws, Sweet is the crowded theatre's applause ; Sweet are the strains when billing Lovers parle, But rough the cat-call and the Critic's snarl. Rough was the language, unadorn'd the stage, And mean his hero's dress in Shakspere's age: No scepter'd Kings in royal robes were seen, Scarce could her guard defend their tinsel'd Queen, |