Yet when the fpirit's tumult was allay'd,
She mourn'd, perhaps, the sentiment betray'd;
But mourn'd too late, nor longer could deny,
And on her own confeffion charge the lye.
Thus they, whom neither the prevailing love
Of goodness here, or mercy from above,
Or fear of future pains, or human laws
Could render advocates in virtue's cause,
Caught by the fcene have unawares refign'd
Their wonted difpofition of the mind :
By flow degrees prevails the pleafing tale,
As circling glaffes on our fenfes steal;

Till throughly by the Mufes' banquet warm'd,
The paffions toffing, all the foul alarm'd,

They turn mere zealots flush'd with glorious rage,
Rife in their feats, and fcarce forbear the stage,
Affiftance to wrong'd innocence to bring,
Or turn the poignard on fome tyrant king.
How can they cool to villains? how fubfide
To dregs of vice, from such a godlike pride?
To fpoiling orphans how to-day return,
Who wept last night to see Monimia mourn ?
In this gay school of virtue, whom so fit
To govern, and control the world of wit,

As Talbot, Lanfdowne's friend, has Britain known?
Him polifh'd Italy has call'd her own;

He in the lap of elegance was bred,

And trac'd the Mufes to their fountain head:
But much we hope, he will enjoy at home

What's nearer ancient than the modern Rome.

Nor

Nor fear I mention of the court of France,
When I the British genius would advance :
There too has Shrewsbury improv'd his taste;
Yet still we dare invite him to our feast;
For Corneille's fake I fhall my thoughts suppress
Of Oroonoko, and prefume him lefs :

What though we wrong him? Isabella's woe
Waters those bays that shall for ever grow.
Our foes confefs, nor we the praise refuse,
The Drama glories in the British Muse.
The French are delicate, and nicely lead
Of close intrigue the labyrinthian thread;
Our genius more affects the grand, than fine,
Our ftrength can make the great plain action shine :
They raise a great curiofity indeed,

From his dark maze to fee the hero freed;
We rouze th' affections, and that hero fhow
Gafping beneath fome formidable blow:

They figh; we weep: the Gallic doubt and care
We heighten into terror and despair;

Strike home, the ftrongeft paffions boldly touch,
Nor fear our audience should be pleas'd too much,
What's great in nature we can greatly draw,
Nor thank for beauties the dramatic law.
The fate of Cæfar is a tale too plain
The fickle Gallic tafte to entertain;

Their art would have perplex'd, and interwove
The golden arras with gay flowers of love:
We know Heaven made him a far greater man
Than any Cæfar, in a human plan,

And fuch we draw him, nor are too refin'd,
To ftand affected with what Heaven defign'd.
To claim attention, and the heart invade,

Shakespeare but wrote the play th' Almighty made.
Our neighbour's stage-art too bare-fac'd betrays,
'Tis great Corneille at every scene we praise ;
On Nature's furer aid Britannia calls,

None think of Shakespeare till the curtain falls;
Then with a figh returns our audience home,
From Venice, Egypt, Perfia, Greece, or Rome.
France yields not to the glory of our lines,
But manly conduct of our strong designs;
That oft they think more justly we must own,
Not ancient Greece a truer fenfe has fhown:
Greece thought but juftly, they think justly too;
We sometimes err by ftriving more to do.
So well are Racine's meaneft perfons taught,
But change a fentiment, you make a fault;
Nor dare we charge them with the want of flame:
When we boast more, we own ourselves to blame.
And yet in Shakespeare something still I find,
That makes me lefs efteem all human-kind;
He made one nature, and another found,
Both in his page with master-strokes abound:
His witches, fairies, and inchanted isle,
Bid us no longer at our nurfes fmile;
Of loft hiftorians we almost complain,
Nor think it the creation of his brain.

VOL. III.

N

Who

Who lives, when his Othello's in a trance?
With his great Talbot * too, he conquer'd France.
Long we may hope brave Talbot's blood will run
In great descendants, Shakespeare has but one;
And him, my lord, permit me not to name,
But in kind filence fpare his rival's shame:-
Yet I in vain that Author would fupprefs,
What can't be greater, cannot be made less :
Each reader will defeat my fruitless aim,

And to himself great Agamemnon name.

Should Shakespeare rife unblefs'd with Talbot's finile, Ev'n Shakespeare's felf would curfe this barren ifle : But if that reigning ftar propitious shine, And kindly mix his gentle rays with thine; Ev'n I, by far the meanest of your age,

Shall not repent my paffion for the stage.

Thus did the Will-almighty difallow,

No human force could pluck the golden bough,
Which left the tree with ease at Jove's command,
And fpar'd the labour of the weakest hand.

Aufpicious fate! that gives me leave to write
To you, the Mufes glory and delight;

Who know to read, nor false encomiums raise,
And mortify an Author with your praise :
Praife wounds a noble mind, when 'tis not due,
But cenfure's felf will please, my lord, from you;
Faults are our pride and gain, when you defcend
To point them out, and teach us how to mend.

What

* An ancestor of the duke of Shrewsbury, who conquered France, drawn by Shakespeare.

YOUNG.

What though the great man set his coffers wide,
That cannot gratify the Poet's pride;
Whofe inspiration, if 'tis truly good,
Is best rewarded, when beft understood.
The Mufes write for glory, not for gold,
'Tis far beneath their nature to be fold:
The greatest gain is fcorn'd, but as it ferves
To speak a sense of what the Muse deserves ;
The Mufe, which from her Lanfdowne fears no wrong,
Beft judge, as well as fubject, of her fong.

Should this great theme allure me farther ftill,
And I prefume to ufe your patience ill,

The world would plead my cause, and none but you
Will take difguft at what I now pursue :

Since what is mean my Muse can't raife, I 'll chufe A theme that 's able to exalt my Mufe.

For who, not void of thought, can Granville name, Without a spark of his immortal flame? Whether we feek the patriot, or the friend, Let Bolingbroke, let Anna recommend; Whether we chufe to love or to admire, You melt the tender, and th' ambitious fire. Such native graces without thought abound, And such familiar glories spread around, As more incline the ftander-by to raise His value for himself, than you to praise. Thus you befriend the most heroic way, Blefs all, on none an obligation lay;

So turn'd by Nature's hand for all that 's well, 'Tis fcarce a virtue when you most excel.