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Could once so well my answering bosom pierce;
Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colour bold, The native legends of thy land rehearse ; To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy powerful verse.
In scenes like these, which, daring to depart
From sober truth, are still to nature true, And call forth fresh delight to fancy's view, Th' heroic Muse employ'd her Tasso's art!
How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke, Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour'd !
When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, And the wild blast upheav'd the vanish'd sword !
How have I sat, when pip'd the pensive wind, To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung!
Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind Believ'd the magic wonders which he sung!
Hence, at each sound, imagination glows ! Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here!
Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows ! Melting it flows, pure, murmuring, strong and clear, And fills th' impassion'd heart, and wins th' har
All hail, ye scenes that o'er
Are by smooth Annan' fill’d, or past'ral Tay', Or Don's romantic springs, at distance hail ! The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread Your lowly glens *, o'erhang with spreading broom; 193 Three rivers in Scotland.
Or o'er your stretching heaths, by fancy led;
Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom! Then will I dress once more the faded bower,
Where Jonson' sat in Drummond's classic shade; Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flower, And mourn, on Yarrow's banks, where Willy's
laid ! Meantime, ye powers that on the plains which bore
The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains, attend! Where'er Home dwells, on hill, or lowly moor,
To him I lose, your kind protection lend, And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my
absent friend !
BORN 1671.-DIED 1757.
THE BLIND BOY.
O SAY! what is that thing call'd light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy ?
O tell your poor blind boy!
1 Ben Jonson paid a visit on foot, in 1619, to the Scotch poet Drummond, at his seat of Hawthornden, within four miles of Edinburgh.
• Barrow, it seems, was at the Edinburgh university, which is in the county of Lothian.
You talk of wond'rous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
Or make it day or night.
Whene'er I sleep or play;
With me 'twere always day.
With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
A loss I ne'er can know.
Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy ;
Although a poor blind boy.
BORN 1712.--DIED 1757.
EDWARD MOORE was the son of a dissenting clergyman at Abingdon, in Berkshire, and was bred to the business of a linen-draper, which he pursued, however, both in London and Ireland, with so little success, that he embraced the literary life (according to his own account) more from necessity than inclination. His fables (in 1744) first brought him into notice. The Honourable Mr. Pelham was one of his earliest friends; and his trial of Selim gained him the friendship of Lord Lyttleton. Of three works which he produced for the stage, his two comedies, the Foundling and Gil Blas, were unsuccessful; but he was fully indemnified by the profits and reputation of the Gamester. Moore himself acknowledges that he owed to Garrick many popular passages of his drama; and Davies, the biographer of Garrick, ascribes to the great actor the whole scene between Lewson and Stukely, in the fourth act; but Davies's authority is not oracular. About the year 1751 Lord Lyttleton, in concert with Dodsley, projected the paper of the World, of which it was agreed that Moore should enjoy the profits, whether the numbers were written by himself or by volunteer contributors. Lyttleton's interest soon enlisted many accomplished coadjutors, such as Cambridge, Jennyns, Lord Chesterfield, and H.Walpole. Moore himself wrote sixtyone of the papers. In the last number of the World the conclusion is made to depend on a fictitious incident which had occasioned the death of the author. When the papers were collected into volumes, Moore, who superintended the publication, realized this jocular fiction by his own death, whilst the last number was in the
Vir bonus est quis? Hoń. Take wing, my Muse! from shore to shore Fly, and that happy place explore
Where Virtue deigns to dwell;
If yet she treads on British ground,
In city, court, or cell?
Not there, where wine and frantic mirth
In Pleasure's thoughtless train:
For human bliss or pain.
Her social heart alike disowns
In shades sequester'd doze;
In senseless, vile repose.
With these she shuns the factious tribe,
And at corruption lour;
On anarchy to pow'r!
Ye wits, who boast from ancient times
Is it with you she rests?