Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AN EPISTLE: ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HAMNER (2), by WILLIAM COLLINS (1721-1759)



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AN EPISTLE: ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS HAMNER (2), by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: No second growth the western isle could bear
Last Line: A fond alliance with the poet's name.
Subject(s): Dramatists; Plays & Playwrights ; Poetry & Poets; Shakespeare, William (1564-1616); Dramatists


On his edition of Shakespeare's Works

No second Growth the Western Isle could bear,
At once exhausted with too rich a Year.
Too nicely Johnson knew the critic's Part;
Nature in him was almost lost in Art.
Of softer Mold the gentle fletcher came,
The next in Order, as the next in Name.
With pleas'd Attention 'midst his scenes we find
Each glowing Thought, that warms the Female Mind;
Each melting sigh, and ev'ry tender Tear,
The Lover's Wishes and the Virgin's Fear.
His ev'ry strain the Smiles and Graces own;
But stronger Shakespear felt for Man alone:
Drawn by his Pen, our ruder Passions stand
Th' unrival'd Picture of his early Hand.

With gradual Steps, and slow, exacter France
Saw Art's fair Empire o'er her Shores advance:
By length of Toil, a bright Perfection knew,
Correctly bold, and just in all she drew.
Till late Corneille, with Lucan's Spirit fir'd,
Breath'd the free Strain, as Rome and He inspir'd:
And classic Judgment gain'd to sweet Racine
The temp'rate Strength of Maro's chaster Line.

But wilder far the British Laurel spread,
And Wreaths less artful crown our Poet's Head.
Yet He alone to ev'ry Scene could give
Th' Historian's Truth, and bid the Manners live.
Wak'd at his Call I view, with glad Surprize,
Majestic Forms of mighty Monarchs rise.
There Henry's Trumpets spread their loud Alarms,
And laurel'd Conquest waits her Hero's Arms.
Here gentler Edward claims a pitying Sigh,
Scarce born to Honours, and so soon to die!
Yet shall thy Throne, unhappy Infant, bring
No Beam of Comfort to the guilty King?
The Time shall come, when Glo'ster's Heart shall bleed
In Life's last Hours, with Horror of the Deed:
When dreary Visions shall at last present
Thy vengeful Image, in the midnight Tent:
Thy Hand unseen the secret Death shall bear,
Blunt the weak Sword, and break th' oppressive Spear.

Where'er we turn, by Fancy charm'd, we find
Some sweet Illusion of the cheated Mind.
Oft, wild of Wing, she calls the Soul to rove
With humbler Nature, in the rural Grove;
Where Swains contented own the quiet Scene,
And twilight Fairies tread the circled Green:
Drest by her Hand, the Woods and Vallies smile,
And Spring diffusive decks th' enchanted Isle.

O more than all in pow'rful Genius blest,
Come, take thine empire o'er the willing Breast!
Whate'er the Wounds this youthful Heart shall feel,
Thy Songs support me, and thy Morals heal!
There ev'ry Thought the Poet's Warmth may raise,
There native Music dwells in all the Lays.
O might some Verse with happiest Skill persuade
Expressive Picture to adopt thine Aid!
What wond'rous Draughts might rise from ev'ry Page!
What other Raphaels Charm a distant Age!

Methinks ev'n now I view some free Design,
Where breathing Nature lives in ev'ry Line:
Chast and subdu'd the modest Lights decay,
Steal into Shade, and mildly melt away.
---- And see, where Anthony in Tears approv'd,
Guards the pale Relicks of the Chief he lov'd:
O'er the cold Corse the Warrior seems to bend,
Deep sunk in Grief, and mourns his murther'd Friend!
Still as they press, he calls on all around,
Lifts the torn Robe, and points the bleeding Wound.

But who is he, whose Brows exalted bear
A Wrath impatient, and a fiercer Air?
Awake to all that injr'd Worth can feel,
On his own Rome he turns th'avenging Steel.
Yet shall not War's insatiate Fury fall,
(So Heav'n ordains it) on the destin'd 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:
O'er all the Man conflicting Passions rise,
Rage grasps the Wword, while Pity melts the Eyes.

Thus, gen'rous Critic, as thy Bard inspires,
The Sister Arts shall nurse their drooping Fires;
Each from his Scenes her Stores alternate bring,
Blend the fair Tints, or wake the vocal String:
Those Sibyl-Leaves, the Sport of ev'ry Wind,
(For Poets ever were a careless Kind)
By thee dispos'd, no farther Toil demand,
But, just to Nature, own thy forming Hand.

So spread o'er Greece, th' harmonious Whole unknown,
Ev'n Homer's Numbers charm'd by Parts alone.
Their own Ulysses scarce had wander'd more,
By Winds and Water cast on ev'ry Shore:
When, rais'd by Fate, some former Hanmer join'd
Each beauteous Image of the boundless Mind:
And bad, like Thee, his Athens ever claim,
A fond Alliance with the Poet's Name.





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