Such Force, fair Virtue does impart,

By Thee prefented to our View ;

It moves and melts each ftubborn Heart,
Her Brightnefs cannot quite fubdue.

While dreft in Angels pureft Light,
Her fmiling Image does appear
Pleafing, as Beauty to the Sight,
Or Mufick to the ravifh'd Ear.

Wou'd the once more her Skies forfake,
What other Features cou'd fhe chufe?
What fairer Form the Goddess take

To bless Mankind, than from thy Mufe?

Tranfported then with fond Surprize,
The lovely Guest we shou'd adore;
And wonder how our partial Eyes
Refus'd to own fuch Grace before!

'Till viewing thofe deceiving Charms,
Each Breaft fubdue, we all agree,
That Power which thus our Soul disarms,
Was not her own, but lent by Thee,

Greatness no more, with all her Train,
The Virtuous Mind fhall now begile;

By Thee inftructed to disdain,
When Glory calls, the Syren's Smile.

C 3

No more Renown and fpecious Fame,
Shall ftrive Ambition's Rage to hide
Nor Honour be a treach'rous Name,
To fhade the Tyrant's guilty Pride.

The Brave and Generous Breaft to awe,
The Honeft Upright Heart to gain;
The Coward's Hand his Sword fhall draw,
The Courtier's Smiles be try'd in vain.

Against that Dread thy Scenes unfold,
To arm our Breasts in vain we try;
Soon as the Tragick Tale is told,
We Melt, We Languish, and Wẻ Dye.

The Soul a while her Ground maintains,
Each Death refolving to deride;:
But when the Captive tells her Pains,
That Softness owns, the Atrovs to hide.

To view her Rage direct the Dart,
Wakes in our Breast a kind Surprize;
Speaking the Frailty of our Heart,
By the foft Streams that fill our Eyes.

*See Monf. Bruyere's Characters or Manners of the Age, publifhd from the French by Mr. Rowe.

Eager

Eager our Souls to bring Relief,

Swift from their opening Bofom flow, To footh the mourning Parents Grief, Or guard the Infant from the Blow..

So lively has each Nymph complain'd,
When Fate thy Mufe defpairing drew
That tho' we know her Sorrows feign'd,..
Yet still we weep, and think 'em true.

A while we argue to perfwade

Our melting Eyes to hide their Woe, Till to their View the lovely Maid

Reveals her Wounds, and bids 'em flow.

Thy artful Voice, with equal Eafe,
Each diffrent Paffion can employ;
Now give us Pain, but to increase,
And from our Grief improve our Joy..

Who in

your foft deceiving Strains

With thofe kind Conquerors agree; Who threaten first the dreadful Chains, Then fet the trembling Captive free.

What Raptures does thy Verfe infufe,
When Beauty does the Theme inspire !
What Heat tranfports thy foaring Mufe!
If Scenes of War thy Bofom Fire!

While for bright Fame, or gay Delight,
Each Hero you alike prepare,
Lead the fierce Warrior to the Fight,
Or the young Lover to the Fair.

Nature aftonish'd at thy Art

Cafts on thy Mufe a jealous Eye; Her Joys unable to impart,

Or longer pleafe when thou art by.

The Artift thus, his Skill to grace,
Some beauteous breathing Form defign'd,
Forfakes the Virgin's Cheek, to trace
Features more bright in his own Mind.

Each glowing Charm the Canvass fires,
Does with Delight the Nymph furprize,

Who owes that Beauty fhe admires,
More to his Pencil than her Eyes.

What, tho' our Lawrels fairer rife,
And from thy Afhes date their Bloom,

We pay too dearly for the Prize,

We

Thus fadly purchas'd by thy Doom.

Pity, ye Gods, that doubtful Dart

Which your myfterious Anger threw, Shou'd give at once both Joy and Smart, Augment our Fame and Sorrow too.

Juft

Juft fo the Skies, feverely bright,

Their vengeful Light'nings oft employ, And gild that Oak with fairer Light," They mean next Moment to destroy.

How mournful is the only Choice,
Your Heavens afford our Breaft to eafe,
Or to lament thy Dying Voice,

Or never hope our own fhou'd please.

Thus to the Heirs of bright Renown,
The Purple you a while deny,

Who, e'er they boaft the Regal Crown,

Muft view their King and Parent Dye..

Strange, that the Glories which we claim
From thy fad. Bate, no Pleasures give,
The fair Encreafe of all our Fame,
The only Caufe for which we grieve.

See SHAKESPEAR's Awful Reverend Shade
Rifing, his Fav'rite to adore!

And binds thy Brows with Lawrel, made
By Fame, to fhade his own before.

To thy Indulgence pleas'd to owe
The Terrors that his Muse imparts,

Shakespear's Works, revis'd and corre&ed by Mr. Rowe.

C 5

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