DIR GE

IN CYMBELINE.

SUNG BY GUIDERUS

T

AND ARVIRAGUS OVER

FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

O fair Fidele's graffy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds fhall bring

Each opening fweet, of earliest bloom,

And rifle all the breathing Spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with fhrieks this quiet grove,

But fhepherd lads affemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch fhall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew; The female fays fhall haunt the green,

And dress thy grave with pearly dew;

So fpread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole

unknown,

Even Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone.
Their own Ulyffes fcarce had wander'd more,
By winds and waters caft on every shore:
When rais'd by fate, fome 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.

DIR GE

IN CYMBELINE.

SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER

FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

O fair Fidele's graffy tomb

To fa

Soft maids and village hinds fhall bring

Each opening fweet, of earlieft bloom,

And rifle all the breathing Spring.

No wailing ghoft shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,
But fhepherd lads affemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

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

The red-breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary mofs, and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempefts shake the fylvan cell;
Or 'midft the chace on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely fcene fhall thee reftore,
For thee the tear be duly fhed;

Belov'd, till life can charm no more;

And mourn'd, till Pity's felf be dead.

O D E

ON THE

DEATH OF MR. THOMSON.

THE SCENE OF THE FOLLOWING STANZAS IS SUPPOSED TO LIE ON THE THAMES

NEAR RICHMOND.

I.

N yonder grave a Druid lies

IN

Where flowly winds the stealing wave! The year's beft fweets fhall duteous rise, To deck its Poet's fylvan grave!

II.

In yon deep bed of whisp'ring reeds
His airy harp shall now be laid,

That he, whose heart in forrow bleeds,
May love thro' life the foothing fhade.

*The harp of OLUS, of which fee a description in the CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.