But who[61] is he, whose brows exalted bear A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air? Awake to all that injured worth can feel, On his own Rome he turns the avenging steel; Yet shall not war's insatiate fury fall 125 (So heaven ordains it) on the destined wall. See the fond mother, 'midst the plaintive train, Hung on his knees, and prostrate on the plain! Touch'd to the soul, in vain he strives to hide The son's affection, in the Roman's pride: 130 O'er all the man conflicting passions rise; Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes. Thus generous Critic, as thy Bard inspires, The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping fires; Each from his scenes her stores alternate bring, 135 Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal string: Those sibyl leaves, the sport of every wind, (For poets ever were a careless kind,) By thee disposed, no farther toil demand, But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand. 140 So spread o'er Greece, the harmonious whole unknown, E'en Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone. Their own Ulysses scarce had wander'd more, By winds and waters cast on every shore: When, raised by fate, some former Hanmer join'd 145 Each beauteous image of the boundless mind; And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim A fond alliance with the Poet's name. Oxford, Dec. 3, 1743. VARIATIONS. Ver. 1. While, own'd by you, with smiles the Muse surveys The expected triumph of her sweetest lays: While, stretch'd at ease, she boasts your guardian aid, Secure, and happy in her sylvan shade: Excuse her fears, who scarce a verse bestows, In just remembrance of the debt she owes; With conscious, &c. 9. Long slighted Fancy with a mother's care Wept o'er his works, and felt the last despair: Torn from her head, she saw the roses fall, By all deserted, though admired by all: near And "Oh!" she cried, "shall Science still resign 11 Whate'er is Nature's, and whate'er is mine? to Shall Taste and Art but show a cold regard, 22. And scornful Pride reject the unletter'd bard? Ye myrtled nymphs, who own my gentle reign, Tune the sweet lyre, and grace my airy train, If, where ye rove, your searching eyes have known One perfect mind, which judgment calls its own; There every breast its fondest hopes must bend, And every Muse with tears await her friend." 'Twas then fair Isis from her stream arose, In kind compassion of her sister's woes. 'Twas then she promised to the mourning maid The immortal honours which thy hands have paid: "My best loved son," she said, "shall yet restore Thy ruin'd sweets, and Fancy weep no more." Each rising art by slow gradation moves; Toil builds, &c.