VII.

The scene then chang'd, with bold erect look Our martial king the fight with reverence struck: For not content to express his outward part Her hand call'd out the image of his heart: His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear, His high-defining thoughts were figur'd there, As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear. Our phoenix queen was portrayed too so bright, Beauty alone could beauty take so right: Her dress, her shape, her matchless grace, Were all observ'd, as well as heav'nly face. With such a peerless majesty she stands, As in that day she took the crown from sacred hands; Before a train of heroines was seen, In beauty foremost, as in rank, the queen. Thus nothing to her genius was denied, But like a ball of fire the further thrown, Still with a greater blaze she shone, And her bright soul broke out on ev'ry side. What next the had design'd, Heav'n only knows: To such immoderate growth her conquest rose, That fate alone its progress could oppose.

VIII.

Now all those charms, that blooming grace, The well-proportion'd shape, and beauteous face, Shall never more be seen by mortal eyes; In earth the much lamented virgin lies. Nor wit nor piety could fate prevent; Nor was the cruel Destiny content To smite all the murder at a blow, To sweep at once her life and beauty too; But like a harden'd felon, took a pride To work more mischievously flow And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd. O double sacrilege on things divine, To rob the relic, and deface the shrine! But thus Orinda died: Heav'n, by the same disease, did both translate; As equal were their souls, so equal was their fate.

IX.

Meantime her warlike brother on the seas His waving streamers to the winds displays, And vows for his return, with vain devotion, pays. Ah generous youth! that with forbear, The winds too soon will waft thee here! Slack all thy sails, and fear to come, Alas, thou know'st not, thou art wreck'd at home! No more shalt thou behold thy sister's face, Thou hast already had her last embrace. But look aloft, and if thou kenn'st from far, Among the Pleiads a new kindled star, If any sparkles than the rest more bright, 'Tis she that shines in that propitious light.

X.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound, To raise the nations under ground; When in the valley of Jehoshaphat, The judging God shall close the book of fate; And there the last after keep For those who wake and those who sleep: When rattling bones together fly From the four corners of the sky; When snows o'er the skeletons are spread, Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead;

V.

Art she had none, yet wanted none; For nature did that want supply: So rich in treasure of her own, She might our boasted stores defy: Such noble vigour did her verse adorn, That it seem'd borrow'd where 'twas only born. Her morals, too, were in her bosom bred, By great examples daily fed, What in the best of books, her father's life she read. And to be read herself, she need not fear; Each test, and every light, her Muse will bear, Tho' Epicetus with his lamp were there. E'en love (for love sometimes her Muse express'd) Was but a lambent flame which play'd about her breast, Light as the vapours of a morning dream, So cold herself, while she such warmth express'd, 'Twas Cupid bathing in Diana's stream.

VI.

Born to the spacious empire of the Nine, One would have thought she should have been content To manage well that mighty government; But what can young ambitious souls confine? To the next realm she stretch'd her sway, For Painture near adjoining lay, A plenteous province and alluring prey. A Chamber of Dependencies was fram'd. (As conquerors will never want pretence, When arm'd, to justify th' offence) And the whole fief, in right of poetry, she claim'd. The country open lay without defense: For poets frequent inroads there had made, And perfectly could represent The shape, the face, with ev'ry lineament, And all the large domains which the dumb siller sway'd. All bow'd beneath her government, Receiv'd in triumph wherefo'er she went. Her pencil drew whate'er her soul design'd, And oft the happy draught surpass'd the image in her mind. The sylvan scenes of herds and flocks, And fruitful plains and barren rocks, Of shallow brooks that flow'd so clear, The bottom did the top appear; Of deeper too, and ampler floods, Which, as in mirrors, show'd the woods; Of lofty trees, with sacred shades, And perspectives of pleasant glades, Where nymphs of brightest form appear, And shaggy satyrs standing near, Which them at once admire and fear. The ruins too of some majestic piece, Boasting the power of ancient Rome or Greece, Whose statues, friezes, columns, broken lie, And, though defac'd, the wonder of the eye; What nature, art, bold fiction, e'er durst frame, Her forming hand gave feature to the name. So strange a concourse ne'er was seen before, But when the peopl'd ark the whole creation bore. The sacred poets first shall hear the sound, And foremost from the tomb shall bound, For they are cover'd with the lightest ground; And straight with in-born vigour, on the wing, Like mounting larks to the new morning song. There thou, sweet faint, before the quire shalt go As harbinger of heav'n, the way to show, The way which thou so well hast learnt below.

That this is a fine ode, and not unworthy of the genius of Dryden, must be acknowledged; but that it is the noblest which the English language has produced, or that any part of it runs with the torrent of enthusiasm which characterizes Alexander's Feast, are positions which we feel not ourselves inclined to admit. Had the critic by whom it is so highly praised, inspected it with the eye which scanned the odes of Gray, we cannot help thinking that he would have perceived some parts of it to be tediously minute in description, and others not very perspicuous at the first perusal. It may perhaps, upon the whole, rank as high as the following ode by Collins on the Popular Superstitions of the Highlands of Scotland; but to a higher place it has surely no claim.

I. Home, thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads long Have seen thee linger'ring with a fond delay, Mid those soft friends, whose heart some future day, Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song, Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth (G) Whom, long endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant's side; Together let us with him lasting truth, And joy untainted with his destin'd bride. Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast— My short-lived bliss, forget my social name; But think, far off, how, on the southern coast, I met thy friendship with an equal flame! *whose. Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, where ev'ry vale Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand: To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail; Thou need'st but take thy pencil to thy hand, And paint what all believe who own thy genial land.

II. There must thou wake perchance thy Doric quill; 'Tis fancy's land to which thou felt'st thy feet; Where still, 'tis said, the Fairy people meet, Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill. There, each trim laf, that skims the milky store, To the swart tribes their creamy bowl allots; By night they sip it round the cottage-door, While airy minstrels warble jocund notes.

There, ev'ry herd, by sad experience, knows, How, wing'd with Fate, their elf-shot arrows fly, When the sick ewe her summer food foregoes, Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. Such airy beings awe th' untutor'd swain: Nor thou, tho' learn'd, his homelier thoughts neglect: Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sustain; These are the themes of simple, pure effect, That add new conquests to her boundless reign, And fill, with double force, her heart-commanding

III. Ev'n yet preserv'd, how often may'st thou hear, Where to the pole the Boreal mountains run, Taught by the father to his rising son, Strange lays, whose pow'r had charm'd a Spenser's ear. At ev'ry pause, before thy mind possest, Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, With uncoth lyres in many-colour'd veft, Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown'd: Whether thou bid'st the well-taught hind repeat The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave, When ev'ry shrieking maid her bosom beat, And strew'd with choicest herbs his scented grave; Or whether fitting in the shepherd's shield (H), Thou hear'st some founding tale of war's alarms, When, at the bugle's call, with fire and steel, The sturdy clans pour'd forth their browny* swarms,* bory. And hostile brothers met to prove each other's arms.

IV. 'Tis thine to sing how framing hideous spells, In Sky's lone ille the gifted wizzard-feer +, Lodge'd in the wintry cave with Fate's fell spear (I), Or in the depth of Uist's dark forest dwells: How they whose flight such dreary dreams engrofs, With their own visions oft astonish'd droop, When, o'er the wat'ry fitrath, or quaggy mols, They see the gliding ghosts unbodied † troop. Or, if in sports, or on the festive green, Their defin'd & glance some fated youth desery, Who now, perhaps, in lofty vigour seen, And rosy health, shall soon lamented die. For them the viewless forms of air obey; Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair. They knew what spirit brews the stormful day, And heartless, oft like moody madmen, stare To see the phantom train their secret work prepare.

V. To monarchs dear (K), some hundred miles astray, Oft have they seen Fate give the fatal blow! The feir in Sky thrice'd as the blood did flow When headless Charles warm on the scaffold lay!

(c) A gentleman of the name of Barrow, who introduced Home to Collins. (hi) A summer hut, built in the high part of the mountains, to tend their flocks in the warm season, when the pasture is fine. (i) Waiting in wintry cave his wayward fits. (k) Of this beautiful ode two copies have been printed: one by Dr Carlyle, from a manuscript which he acknowledges to be mutilated; another by an editor who seems to hope that a nameless somebody will be believed, when he declares, that "he discovered a perfect copy of this admirable ode among some old papers in the concealed drawers of a bureau left him by a relation." The present age has been already too much amused with pretended discoveries of poems in the bottoms of old chests, to pay full credit to an assertion of this kind, even though the scene of discovery be laid in a bureau. As the ode of the anonymous editor differs, however, very little from that of Dr Carlyle, and as what is affirmed by a Gentleman may be true, though "he chooses not at present..." As Boreas threw his young Aurora forth, In the first year of the first George's reign, And battles rag'd in welkin of the North, They mourn'd in air, fell, fell rebellion, slain! And as of late they joy'd in Preston's flight, Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crown'd! They rav'd divining through their second-fight, Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drown'd! Illustrious William! Britain's guardian name! One William sav'd us from a tyrant's stroke; He, for a ceptre, gain'd heroic fame, But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast broke, To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke!

VI.

These, too, thou'lt sing! for well thy magic muse Can to the topmost heav'n of grandeur soar! Or slop to wail the swain that is no more! Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne'er loose; Let not dank Will mislead you to the heath: Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake, He glows, to draw you downward to your death, In his bewitch'd, low, marshy, willow brake! What though far off, from some dark dell espied, His glimm'ring mazes cheer th' excursive fight, Yet turn, ye wand'lers, turn your steps aside, Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; For watchful, lurking, 'mid th' unruffling reed, At those mirk hours the wily monster lies, And listens oft to hear the passing steed, And frequent round him rolls his fullen eyes, If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprize.

VII.

Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest, indeed! Whom late bewildered in the dank, dark fen, Far from his flocks, and smoking hamlet, then! To that dark spot where hums the sedgy weed.

On him, enrag'd, the fiend, in angry mood, Shall never look with pity's kind concern, But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood O'er its drown'd banks, forbidding all return! Or, if he meditate his wish'd escape, To some dim hill that seems uprising near, To his faint eye, the grim and grisly shape, In all its terrors clad, shall wild appear. Meantime the wat'ry surge shall round him rise, Pour'd sudden forth from ev'ry swelling source! What now remains but tears and hopeles sighs? His fear-struck limbs have lost their youthful force, And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corpse!

VIII.

For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait, Or wander forth to meet him on his way; For him in vain, at to-fall of the day, His babes shall linger at th' unloosing gate! Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if night, Her travell'd limbs in broken flumbers steep! With drooping willows dreft, his mournful sprite Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep: Then he, perhaps, with moist and wat'ry hand, Shall fondly seem to press her fluddering cheek, And with his blue-swoln face before her stand, And, thiv'ring cold, these piteous accents speak:

"Purifie, dear wife, thy daily toils purifie, "At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; "Nor e'er of me one helpless thought renew, "While I lie weeping on the ozier'd shore, "Drown'd by the kelpie's wrath, nor e'er shall aid thee the water."

IX.

Unbounded is thy range; with varied skill thy muse may, like those feath'ry tribes which spring From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing Round the moit marge of each cold Hebridean isle,

To

present to publish his name," we have inferred into our work the copy which pretends to be perfect, noting at the bottom or margin of the page the different readings of Dr Carlyle's edition. In the Doctor's manuscript, which appeared to have been nothing more than the prima cura, or first sketch of the poem, the fifth stanza and half of the sixth were wanting; and to give a continued context, he prevailed with Mr M'Kenzie, the ingenious author of the Man of Feeling, to fill up the chasm. This he did by the following beautiful lines, which we cannot help thinking much more happy than those which occupy their place in the copy said to be perfect:

"Or on some bellying rock that shades the deep, They view the lurid signs that crofs the sky, Where in the west the brooding tempests lie; And hear their rift, faint, rustling pennons sweep. Or in the arched cave, where deep and dark The broad unbroken billows heave and swell, In horrid mutings wrapt, they fit to mark The lab'ring moon; or lift the nightly yell Of that dread spirit, whose gigantic form The feer's entranced eye can well survey, Through the dim air who guides the driving storm, And points the wretched bark its destin'd prey. Or him who hovers on his flagging wing,

(L) By young Aurora, Collins undoubtedly meant the first appearance of the northern lights, which is commonly said to have happened about the year 1715. (M) Second-fight is the term that is used for the divination of the Highlanders. (N) The late duke of Cumberland, who defeated the Pretender at the battle of Culloden. (o) A fiery meteor, called by various names, such as Will with the Whip, Jack with the Lanthorn, &c. It hovers in the air over marshy and fenny places. To that hoar pile (p) which still its ruin shows: In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found, Whose bones the deliver with his spade upthrows, And culls them, wond'ring, from the hallow'd ground! Or thither (q), where beneath the show'ry well, The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid: Onoc foes, perhaps, together now they rest, No slaves revere them, and no wars invade: Yet frequent now, at midnight solemn hour, The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, And forth the monarchs stalk with foreign pow'r In pageant robes; and, wreath'd with fleeny gold, And on their twilight tombs aerial council hold.

X. But, oh! o'er all, forget not Kilda's race, On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting tides, Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides. Go! just, as they, their blameless manners trace! Then to my ear transmit some gentle song, Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along, And all their prospect but the wintry main. With sparing temp'rance at the needful time, They drain the scented spring; or, hunger-pref, Along th' Atlantic rock, undreading, climb, And of its eggs despoil the folan's nest.* Thus, blest in primal innocence, they live, Suffic'd, and happy with that frugal fare Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give. Hard is their shallow foil, and bleak and bare; Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

XI. Nor need'st thou blush that such falce themes engage Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores posset; For not alone they touch the village breast, But fill'd in elder time th' historic page. There, Shakespeare's self, with every garland crown'd, Flew to those fiery climes his fancy been (r), In muting hour; his wayward fitter fond, And with their terrors dress'd the magic scene. From them he sung, when 'mid his bold design, Before the Scot, afflicted, and agast! The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line, Thro' the dark cave in gleamy pageant pass'd. Proceed! nor quit the tales, which, simply told, Could once so well my answ'ring bosom pierce; Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colours bold, The native legends of thy land rehearse; To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy pow'ful verse.

XII. 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 trembl'd, when, at Tancred's stroke, Its gushing blood the gaping cyprels pour'd, When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, And the wild blair 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, as each picture, vivid life flows here! (s) Hence his warm lay, with loftest sweetness flows! Melting it flows, pure, murmuring*, strong, and clear, *numer- And fills th' impassion'd heart, and wins th' harmonious.

XIII. All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail! Ye splendid* friths and lakes, which, far away, Are by smooth Annan fill'd, or pail'tal Tay, Or Don's romantic springs, at distance, hail! The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread Your lowly glens*, o'erhung with spreading broom; *valleys. Or o'er your stretching heaths, by fancy led, Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom! (t) Then will I dres once more the faded bow'r, Where Jonson (u) sat in Drummond's clas'te*+ shade; +facial. Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flow'r, And mourn, on Yarrow's banks, where Willy's laid; ! the wi- Meantime, ye pow'rs that on the plains which bore The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains (x), attend! maid! Where'er HOME dwells §, on hill, or lowly moor, To him I loo[e ||, your kind protection lend, And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my absent friend!

Dr Johnson, in his life of Collins, informs us, that Dr Warton and his brother, who had seen this ode in the author's possession, thought it superior to his other works. The taste of the Wartons will hardly be ques- tioned: but we are not sure that the following Ode to the Passions has much less merit, though it be merit of a different kind, than the Ode on the Superstitions of the Highlands:

WHEN Music, heav'nly maid, was young, While yet in early Greece she sung, The Passions oft, to hear her shell, Throng'd around her magic cell, Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting, Posset beyond the Mute's painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, refin'd. Till once, 'tis said, when all were fir'd, Fill'd with fury, rapt, inspir'd, From the supporting myrtles round They snatch'd her instruments of sound:

---

(p) One of the Hebrides is called the Isle of Piggies, where it is reported, that several miniature bones of the human species have been dug up in the ruins of a chapel there.

(q) Icolmkill, one of the Hebrides, where many of the ancient Scottish, Irish, and Norwegian kings, are said to be interred.

(r) This line wanting in Dr Carlyle's edition.

(s) This line wanting in Dr Carlyle's edition.

(t) This line wanting in Dr Carlyle's edition.

(u) Ben Jonson paid a visit on foot in 1619 to the Scotch poet Drummond, at his seat of Hawthornden, within seven miles of Edinburgh.

(x) Barrow, it seems, was at the university of Edinburgh, which is in the county of Lothian. And as they oft had heard apart Sweet lessons of her forceful art, Each, for madness rul'd the hour, Would prove his own expressive power.

First Fear his hand, its skill to try, Amid the chords bewild'rd laid, And back recoll'd, he knew not why, Ev'n at the sound himself had made.

Next Anger rush'd; his eyes on fire, In lightnings own'd his secret things; In one rude clash he struck the lyre, And swept with hurried hand the strings.

With woeful measures wan Despair— Low sullen sounds his grief beguil'd; A solemn, strange, and mingled air; 'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.

But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair, What was thy delighted measure? Still it whisper'd promis'd pleasure, And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail!

Still would her touch the strain prolong, And from the rocks, the woods, the vale, She call'd on Echo still through all her song; And where her sweetest theme she chose, A soft responsive voice was heard at every close, And Hope enchanted smile'd, and wav'd her golden hair.

And longer had the song;—but, with a frown, Revenge impatient rose; He threw his blood-stain'd sword in thunder down, And, with a withering look, The war-denouncing trumpet took, And blew a blast so loud and dread, Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe. And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unalter'd mien, While each strain'd ball of fight seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to sought were fix'd, Sad proof of thy distressful state; Of differing themes the veering song was mix'd; And now it courted Love, now raving call'd on Hate.

With eyes up-rais'd, as one inspir'd, Pale Melancholy sat retir'd, And from her wild sequester'd seat, In notes by distance made more sweet, Pour'd through the mellow horn her pensive soul, And dashing soft from rocks around, Bubbling runnels join'd the sound; Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole, Or o'er some haunted streams with fond delay, Round an holy calm diffusing, Love of peace, and lonely musing, In hollow murmurs died away.

But O! how alter'd was its sprightlier tone! When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue, Her bow across her shoulder flung, Her buskins gemm'd with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung, The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known; The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chastely'd queen, Satyrs and Sylvan boys were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear, And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial; He, with viny crown advancing, First to the lively pipe his hand address'd, But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. They would have thought who heard the strain, They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, Amidst the festal bounding shades, To some unweari'd minstrel dancing, While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round: Loofe were her tresses seen, her zone unbound; And he amidst his frolic play, As if he would the charming air repay, Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

O music! sphere-defended maid, Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid, Why, Goddes, why to us denied? Lay'th thou thy ancient lyre aside? As in that lov'd Athenian bower, You learn'd an all-commanding power: Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd, Can well recall what then it heard. Where is thy native simple heart, Devote to virtue, fancy, art? Arise, as in that elder time, Warm, energetic, chastely sublime! Thy wonders, in that god-like age, Fill thy recording fitter's page— 'Tis said, and I believe the tale, Thy humblest reed could more prevail, Had more of strength, diviner rage, Than all which charms this laggard age; Ev'n all at once together found Cæcilia's mingled world of sound— O! bid our vain endeavours cease, Revive the just designs of Greece, Return in all thy simple state! Confirm the tales her sons relate.

We shall conclude this section, and these examples, with Gray's Progress of Poetry, which, in spite of the severity of Johnson's criticism, certainly ranks high among the odes which pretend to sublimity. The first stanza, when examined by the frigid rules of grammatical criticism, is certainly not faultless; but its faults will be overlooked by every reader who has any portion of the author's fervour:

I. I.

Awake, Æolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings: From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take; The laughing flowers, that round them blow, Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of music winds along, Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,

Thro' Thro' verdant vales, and Cercs' golden reign: Now rolling down the steep again, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: The rocks and nodding groves rebe low to the roar.

I. 2.

Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the fullen cares, And frantic passions, hear thy soft control. On Thracia's hills the lord of war Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropp'd his thirty lance at thy command. Perching on the feetred tree, Of Jove, thy magic hails the feather'd king With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing: Quench'd in dark clouds of lumber lie The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.

I. 3.

Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Temper'd to thy warbled lay: O'er Idalia's velvet green The rosy-crowned loves are seen. On Cytherea's day, With antic sports, and blue-ey'd pleasures, Frisking light in frolic measures; Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet; To brisk notes, in cadence beating, Glance their many twinkling feet. Slow melting strains their queen's approach declare: Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay. With arms sublime, that float upon the air, In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her war cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young desire, and purple light of love.

II. 1.

Man's feeble race what ills await; Labour, and penury, the racks of pain, Disease, and sorrow's weeping train, And death, sad refuge from the storms of fate! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly muse? Night, and all her fickle dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky; Till down the eastern cliffs afar, Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war.

II. 2.

In climes beyond the solar road, Where flaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom, To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. And oft, beneath the od'rous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, In loose numbers wildly sweet, Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the goddefs roves, Glory pursues, and generous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.

II. 3.

Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles, that crown the Ægean deep, Fields, that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Meander's amber waves In lingering labyrinth creep, How do your tuneful echoes languish, Mute, but to the voice of anguish! Where each old poet mountain Inspiration breath'd around; Ev'ry shade and hallow'd fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound: Till the sad nine, in Greece's evil hour, Left their Pantheus for the Latian plains. Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant power, And coward vice that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They fought, oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.

III. 1.

Far from the sun, and summer-gale, In thy green lap was nature's darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smil'd. This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: Thine too these golden keys, immortal boy! This can unlock the gates of joy; Of horror that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.

III. 2.

Nor second he, that rode sublime Upon the seraph wings of ecstacy, The secrets of th' abyss to spy. He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw: but, blasted with excess of light, Close'd his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-refounding pace.

III. 3.

Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-ey'd fancy, hovering o'er, Scatters from her pictur'd urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah! 'tis heard no more— Oh! Lyre divine, what daring spirit Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban eagle bear, Sailing with supreme dominion Through the azure deep of air: Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray, With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun: Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far—but far above the great.

Sect. II. Of the Elegy.

The Elegy is a mournful and plaintive, but yet sweet and engaging, kind of poem. It was first invented to bewail Elegy.

bewail the death of a friend; and afterwards used to express the complaints of lovers, or any other melancholy subject. In process of time, not only matters of grief, but joy, wishes, prayers, expostulations, reproaches, admonitions, and almost every other subject, were admitted into elegy; however, funeral lamentations and affairs of love seem most agreeable to its character, which is gentleness and tenacity.

The plaintive elegy, in mournful state, Dishevell'd weeps the stern decrees of fate; Now paints the lover's torments and delights; Now the nymph flatters, threatens, or invites, But he, who would these passions well express, Must more of love than poetry possess. I hate those lifeless writers whose forc'd fire In a cold style describes a hot desire; Who fish by rule, and, raging in cold blood, Their sluggish muse spur to an amorous mood. Their ecstasies infusively they feign; And always pine, and fondly hug their chain; Adore their prison, and their sufferings blest; Make sense and reason quarrel as they please. 'Twas not of old in this affected tone, That smooth Tibullus made his am'rous moan; Or tender Ovid, in melodious strains, Of love's dear art the pleasing rules explains. You, who in elegy would justly write, Consult your heart; let that alone entitle.

[From the French of Defreux.]

Soames.

The plan of an elegy, as indeed of all other poems, ought to be made before a line is written; or else the author will ramble in the dark, and his verses have no dependence on each other. No epigrammatic points or conceits, none of those fine things which most people are so fond of in every sort of poem, can be allowed in this, but must give place to nobler beauties, those of nature and the passions. Elegy rejects whatever is facetious, satirical, or majestic, and is content to be plain, decent, and unaffected; yet in this humble state is the sweetest and engaging, elegant and attractive. This poem is adorned with frequent commendations, complaints, exclamations, addresses to things or persons, short and proper descriptions, allusions, comparisons, proverbs, or feigned persons, and sometimes with short descriptions. The diction ought to be free from any harshness; neat, easy, perspicuous, expressive of the manners, tender, and pathetic; and the numbers should be smooth and flowing, and captivate the ear with their uniform sweetness and delicacy.

Of elegies on the subject of death, that by Mr Gray, written in a country churchyard, is one of the best that has appeared in our language, and may be justly esteemed a masterpiece. But being so generally known, it would be superfluous to insert it here.

On the subject of love, we shall give an example from the elegies of Mr Hammond.

Let others boast their heaps of shining gold, And view their fields with waving plenty crown'd, Whom neigh'ring foes in constant terror hold, And trumpets break their slumbering, never found: While, calmly poor, I trifle life away, Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire, No wanton hope my quiet shall betray, But cheaply blest I'll scorn each vain desire.

Vol. XVII. Part I.

With timely care I'll sow my little field, And plant my orchard with its master's hand; Nor blithely spread the hay, the hook to wield, Or range my fleeces along the sunny land. If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam, I meet a strolling kid or bleating lamb, Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home, And not a little chide its thoughtless dam: What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain, And clasp a fearful mirth to my breast? Or lull'd to slumber by the beating rain, Secure and happy sink at last to rest. Or if the sun in flaming Leo ride, By shady rivers indolently stray, And, with my Delia walking side by side, Hear how they murmur, as they glide away: What joy to wind along the cool retreat, To stop and gaze on Delia as I go! To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet, And teach my lovely scholar all I know! Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream, In silent happiness I rest unknown; Content with what I am, not what I seem, I live for Delia and myself alone. Ah foolish man! who, thus of her possest, Could float and wander with ambition's wind, And, if his outward trappings spoke him blest, Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind. With her I scorn the idle breath of praise, Nor trust to happiness that's not our own; The smile of fortune might suspicion raise, But here I know that I am lov'd alone.

Stanhope, in wisdom as in wit divine, May rise and plead Britannia's glorious cause, With steady rein his eager wit confine, While manly sense the deep attention draws. Let Stanhope speak his list'ning country's wrong, My humble voice shall please one partial maid; For her alone I pen my tender song, Securely fitting in his friendly shade. Stanhope shall come, and grace his rural friend; Delia shall wonder at her noble guest, With blushing awe the riper fruit commend, And for her husband's patron cull the best. Here's the care of all my little train, While I with tender indulgence am blest, The favourite subject of her gentle reign, By love alone distinguished from the rest. For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough, In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock, For her a goatherd climb the mountain's brow, And sleep extended on the naked rock. Ah! what avails to press the stately bed, And far from her midst tasteful grandeur weep, By marble-fountains lay the pensive head, And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep!

Delia alone can please and never tire, Exceed the pain of thought in true delight; With her, enjoyment wakens new desire, And equal rapture glows thro' ev'ry night, Beauty and worth in her alike contend To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind; In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend, I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd. On her I'll gaze when others loves are o'er, And dying press her with my clay-cold hand— Thou weep'st already, as I were no more, Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand. Oh! when I die, my latest moments spare, Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill: Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair; Tho' I am dead, my soul shall love thee still. Oh quit the room, oh quit the deathful bed, Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart! Oh leave me, Delia! ere thou see me dead, These weeping friends will do thy mournful part. Let them, extended on the decent bier, Convey the corpse in melancholy state, Thro' all the village spread the tender tear, While pitying maids our wond'rous love relate.

Sect. IV. Of the Pastoral.

This poem takes its name from the Latin word pastor, a "shepherd;" the subject of it being something in the pastoral or rural life; and the persons, interlocutors, introduced in it, either shepherds or other rustic.

These poems are frequently called eclogues, which signifies "select or choice pieces;" though some account for this name in a different manner. They are also called bucolics, from Buxa, "a herdman."

This kind of poem, when happily executed, gives great delight; nor is it a wonder, since innocence and simplicity generally please: to which let us add, that the scenes of pastorals are usually laid in the country, where both poet and painter have abundant matter for the exercise of genius, such as enchanting prospects, purling streams, shady groves, enamelled meads, flowery lawns, rural amusements, the bleating of flocks, and the music of birds; which is of all melody the most sweet and pleasing, and calls to our mind the wisdom and taste of Alexander, who, on being importuned to hear a man that imitated the notes of the nightingale, and was thought a great curiosity, replied, that he had had the happiness of hearing the nightingale herself.

The character of the pastoral consists in simplicity, brevity, and delicacy; the two first render an eclogue natural, and the last delightful. With respect to nature, indeed, we are to consider, that as a pastoral is an image of the ancient times of innocence and undefining plainness, we are not to describe shepherds as they really are at this day, but as they may be conceived then to have been, when the best of men, and even princes, followed the employment. For this reason, an air of piety should run through the whole poem; which is visible in the writings of antiquity.

To make it natural with respect to the present age, some knowledge in rural affairs should be discovered, and that in such a manner as if it was done by chance rather than by design; lest by too much pains to seem natural, that simplicity be destroyed from whence arises the delight; for what is so engaging in this kind of poetry proceeds not so much from the idea of a country life itself, as in exposing only the best part of a shepherd's life, and concealing the misfortunes and miseries which sometimes attend it. Besides, the subject must contain some particular beauty in itself, and each eclogue present a scene or prospect to our view enriched with variety: which variety is in a great measure obtained by frequent comparisons drawn from the most agreeable objects of the country; by interrogations to things inanimate; by short and beautiful digressions; and by elegant turns on the words, which render the numbers more sweet and pleasing. To this let us add, that the connections must be negligent, the narrations and descriptions short, and the periods concise.

Riddles, parables, proverbs, antique phrases, and superstitious fables, are fit materials to be intermixed with this kind of poem. They are here, when properly applied, very ornamental; and the more so, as they give our modern compositions the air of the ancient manner of writing.

The style of the pastoral ought to be humble, yet stile pure; neat, but not florid; easy, and yet lively: and the numbers should be smooth and flowing.

This poem in general should be short, and ought never much to exceed 100 lines; for we are to consider that the ancients made these sort of compositions their amusement, and not their business: but however short they are, every eclogue must contain a plot or fable, which must be simple and one; but yet so managed as to admit of short digressions. Virgil has always observed this.—We shall give the plot or argument of his first pastoral as an example. Meliboeus, an unfortunate shepherd, is introduced with Tityrus, one in more fortunate circumstances; the former addresses the complaint of his sufferings and banishment to the latter, who enjoys his flocks and fields in the midst of the public calamity, and therefore expresses his gratitude to the benefactor from whom this favour flowed; but Meliboeus accuses fortune, civil wars, and bids adieu to his native country. This is therefore a dialogue.

But we are to observe, that the poet is not always obliged to make his eclogue allegorical, and to have real persons represented by the fictitious characters introduced; but is in this respect entirely at his own liberty.

Nor does the nature of the poem require it to be always carried on by way of dialogue; for a shepherd may with propriety sing the praises of his love, complain of her inconstancy, lament her absence, her death, &c., and address himself to groves, hills, rivers, and such like rural objects, even when alone.

We shall now give an example from each of those authors who have eminently distinguished themselves by this manner of writing, and introduce them in the order of time in which they were written.

Theocritus, who was the father or inventor of this kind of poetry, has been deservedly esteemed by the best critics; and by some, whose judgment we cannot dispute, preferred to all other pastoral writers, with perhaps the single exception of the tender and delicate Gesner. We shall infer his third idyllium, not because it is the best, but because it is within our compass.

To Amaryllis, lovely nymph, I speed, Meanwhile my goats upon the mountains feed. O Tityrus, tend them with affidious care, Lead them to crystal springs and pastures fair, And of the ridging's butting horns beware. Sweet Amaryllis, have you then forgot Our secret pleasures in the conscious grot, Where in my folding arms you lay reclin'd? Blest was the shepherd, for the nymph was kind. I whom you call'd your Dear, your Love, so late, Say, am I now the object of your hate? Say, is my form displeasing to your sight? This cruel love will surely kill me quite. Lo! ten large apples, tempting to the view, Pluck'd from your favourite tree, where late they grew. Accept this boon, 'tis all my present store; To-morrow will produce as many more. Meanwhile these heart-confusing pains remove, And give me gentle pity for my love. Oh! was I made by some transforming power A bee to buzz in your sequester'd bow'r! To pierce your ivy shade with murmuring sound, And the light leaves that compass you around. I know thee, Love, and to my sorrow find A god thou art, but of the savage kind; A lioness sure suckled the fell child, And with his brothers nurs'd him in the wild; On me his scorching flames incessant prey, Glow in my bones, and melt my soul away. Ah, nymph, whose eyes destructive glances dart, Fair is your face, but flinty is your heart: With kisses kind this rage of love appease; For me, fond swain! ev'n empty kisses please. Your scorn distracts me, and will make me tear The flow'ry crown I wove for you to wear, Where roses mingle with the ivy-wreath, And fragrant herbs ambrosial odours breathe. Ah me! what pangs I feel; and yet the pain Nor fees my sorrows nor will hear my pray'r. I'll doff my garments, since I needs must die, And from yon rock that points its summit high, Where patient Alps soars the finny fry, I'll leap, and, though perchance I rise again, You'll laugh to see me plunging in the main. By a prophetic poppy-leaf I found Your chang'd affection, for it gave no found, Though in my hand struck hollow as it lay, But quickly wither'd like your love away. An old witch brought sad tidings to my ears, She who tells fortunes with the sieve and thiers; For leafing barley in my fields of late, She told me, I should love, and you should hate! For you my care a milk-white goat supply'd. Two wanton kids run frisking at her side; Which oft the nut-brown maid, Erithacus, Has begg'd and paid before-hand with a kiss; And since you thus my ardent passion flight, Her's they shall be before to-morrow night. My right eye itches; may it lucky prove, Perhaps I soon shall see the nymph I love; Beneath yon pine I'll sing distinct and clear, Perhaps the fair my tender notes shall hear; Perhaps may pity my melodious moan; She is not metamorphos'd into stone. Hippomenes, provok'd by noble strife, To win a mistress, or to lose his life, Threw golden fruit in Atalanta's way: The bright temptation caus'd the nymph to stay; She look'd, she languish'd, all her soul took fire, She plung'd into the gulf of deep desire. To Pyle from Othrys sage Melampus came, He drove the lowing herd, yet won the dame; Fair Pero blest his brother Bias' arms, And in a virtuous race diffus'd unfading charms. Adonis fed his cattle on the plain, And sea-born Venus lov'd the rural swain; She mourn'd him wounded in the fatal chase, Nor dead dismis'd him from her warm embrace. Though young Endymion was by Cynthia blest, I envy nothing but his lasting rest. Jason flump'ring on the Cretan plain Ceres once saw, and blest the happy swain With pleasures too divine for ears profane. My head grows giddy, love affects me sore; Yet you regard not; so I'll sing no more— Here will I put a period to my care— Adieu, false nymph, adieu ungrateful fair; Stretch'd near the grotto, when I've breath'd my last, My corpse will give the wolves a rich repast, As sweet to them as honey to your taste.

Fawkes.

Virgil succeeds Theocritus, from whom he has in Virgil some places copied, and always imitated with success. As a specimen of his manner, we shall introduce his first pastoral, which is generally allowed to be the most perfect.

Meliboeus and Tityrus.

Mel. Beneath the shade which beechen boughs diffuse, You, Tityrus, entertain your sylvan muse. Round the wide world in banishment we roam, Forc'd from our pleasing fields and native home; While stretch'd at ease you sing your happy loves, And Amyrillis fills the shady groves.

Tiz. These blessings, friend, a deity bestow'd; For never can I deem him less than god. The tender firstling of my woolly breed Shall on his holy altar often bleed. He gave me kine to graze the flow'ry plain, And to my pipe renew'd the rural strain.

Mel. I envy not your fortune; but admire, That while the raging sword and wasteful fire Destroy the wretched neighbourhood around, No hostile arms approach your happy ground. Far different is my fate; my feeble goats With pains I drive from their forsaken cotes: And this you see I scarcely drag along, Who yearning on the rocks has left her young, The hope and promise of my falling fold. My loss by dire portents the gods foretold; For, had I not been blind, I might have seen Yon riven oak, the fairest on the green, And the hoarse raven on the blasted bough By croaking from the left presag'd the coming blow. But tell me, Tityrus, what heav'nly pow'r Preferr'd your fortunes in that fatal hour?

Tiz. Fool that I was, I thought imperial Rome Like Mantua, where on market-days we come, And thither drive our tender lambs from home. So kids and whelps the fires and dams express; And to the great I measur'd by the leas: But country-towns compar'd with her, appear Like shrubs when lofty cypresses are near.

Mel. What great occasion call'd you hence to Rome? Tiz. Freedom, which came at length, tho' slow to come: Nor did my search of liberty begin Till my black hairs were chang'd upon my chin; Nor Amaryllis would vouchsafe a look, Till Galatea's meaner bonds I broke. Till then a helpless, hopeless, homely swain, I fought not freedom, nor aspir'd to gain: Tho' many a victual from my folds was bought, And many a cheese to country markets brought, Yet all the little that I got I spent, And still returned as empty as I went.

Mel. We stood amaz'd to see your mistress mourn, Unknowing that she pin'd for your return; We wonder'd why she kept her fruit so long, For whom so late th' ungather'd apples hung: But now the wonder ceases, since I see She kept them only, Tityrus, for thee: For thee the bubbling springs appear'd to mourn, And whispering pines made vows for thy return.

Tit. What should I do? while here I was enchained, No glimpse of godlike liberty remain'd; Nor could I hope in any place but there To find a god to present to my prayer. There first the youth of heav'nly birth I view'd, For whom our monthly victims are renew'd. He heard my vows, and graciously decreed My grounds to be refor'd my former flocks to feed.

Mel. O fortunate old man! whose farm remains For you sufficient, and requites your pains, Though rushes overspread the neighboring plains, Tho' here the marthy grounds approach your fields, And there the soil a stony harvest yields. Your teeming ewes shall no strange meadows try, Nor fear a rot from tainted company. Behold yon bordering fence of fallow trees Is fraught with flow'rs, the flow'rs are fraught with bees: The busy bees, with a soft murmuring strain, Invite to gentle sleep the lab'ring swain: While from the neighboring rock with rural songs The pruner's voice the pleasing dream prolongs; Stock doves and turtles tell their am'rous pain, And, from the lofty elms, of love complain.

Tit. Th' inhabitants of seas and skies shall change, And fish on shore and flags in air shall range, The banish'd Parthian dwell on Arar's brink, And the blue German shall the Tigris drink; Ere I, forsaking gratitude and truth, Forget the figure of that godlike youth.

Mel. But we must beg our bread in climes unknown, Beneath the scorching or the freezing zone; And some to far Oaxis shall be fold, Or try the Libyan heat or Scythian cold; The rest among the Britons be confin'd, A race of men from all the world disjoin'd. O! must the wretched exiles ever mourn! Nor after length of rolling years return? Are we condemn'd by Fate's unjust decree, No more our houses and our homes to see? Or shall we mount again the rural throne, And rule the country, kingdoms once our own? Did we for these barbarians plant and sow, On these, on these, our happy fields bestow? Good heav'n, what dire effects from civil discord flow! Now let me graft my pears, and prune the vine; The fruit is theirs, the labour only mine.

Farewell my pastures, my paternal flock! My fruitful fields, and my more fruitful flock! No more, my goats, shall I behold you climb The steepy cliffs, or crop the flow'ry thyme; No more extended in the grot below, Shall I see you browsing on the mountain's brow The prickly shrubs, and after on the bare Lean down the deep abyss and hang in air! No more my sheep shall sip the morning dew; No more my fong shall please the rural crew: Adieu, my tuneful pipe! and all the world, adieu!

Tit. This night, at least, with me forget your care; Chesnuts and curds and cream shall be your fare: The carpet-ground shall be with leaves o'erspread, And boughs shall weave a cov'ring for your head: For see you sunny hill the shade extends, And curling smoke from cottages ascends.

Dryden.

Spenser was the first of our countrymen who acquired any considerable reputation by this method of writing. We shall insert his sixth eclogue, or that for June, which is allegorical, as will be seen by the

Argument. "Hobbinol, from a description of the pleasures of the place, excites Colin to the enjoyment of them. Colin declares himself incapable of delight by reason of his ill success in love, and his loss of Rosalind, who had treacherously forsaken him for Menalcas another shepherd. By Tityrus (mentioned before in Spenser's second eclogue, and again in the twelfth) is plainly meant Chaucer, whom the author sometimes professed to imitate. In the person of Colin is represented the author himself; and Hobbinol's inviting him to leave the hill country, seems to allude to his leaving the north, where, as is mentioned in his life, he had for some time resided."

Hob. Lo! Colin, here the place, whose pleasant sight From other shades hath wean'd my wand'ring mind: Tell me, what wants me here, to work delight? The simple air, the gentle warbling wind, So calm, so cool, as nowhere else I find: The grassy ground with dainty daisies bright, The bramble-bush, where birds of every kind To th' water's fall their tunes attempt right. Col. O! happy Hobbinol, I blest thy fate, That paradise hast found which Adam lost. Here wander may thy flock early or late, Without dread of wolves to been ytoft; Thy lovely lays here mayst thou freely boast: But I, unhappy man! whom cruel fate, And angry gods, pursue from coast to coast, Can nowhere find to shroud my luckless pate. Hob. Then if by me thou list advised be, Forsake the foil that doth thee bewitch: Leave me thole hills, where harbroughniss to see, Nor holly bush, nor breere, nor winding ditch; And to the dales resort, where shepherds rich, And fruitful flocks been everywhere to see: Here no night-ravens lodge, more black than pitch, Nor elvish ghosts, nor ghastly owls do flee. But friendly fairies meet with many graces, And light-foot nymphs can chace the ling'ring night, With heydeguies, and trimly trodden traces; Whilst sitters nine, which dwell on Parnas' height,

Dr. Part II.

Do make them music, for their more delight; And Pan himself to kiss their crystal faces, Will pipe and dance, when Phoebe shineth bright: Such peerless pleasures have we in these places.

Col. And I whilst youth, and course of careless years, Did let me walk withouten links of love, In such delights did joy amongst my peers: But riper age such pleasures doth reprove, My fancy cke from former follies move To strayed steps: for time in puffing wears (As garments done, which waxen old above) And draweth new delights with heavy hairs. Though couth I sing of love, and tune my pipe Unto my plaintive pleas in verses made: Though would I seek for queen-apples unripe To give my Rosalind, and in sommer thade Dight gaudy girlands was my common trade, To crown her golden locks: but years more ripe, And los of her, whose love as life I wayde, Those weary wanton toys away did wipe. Hob. Colin, to hear thy rhymes and roundelayes, Which thou wert wont on wasteful hills to sing, I more delight, than lark in sommer days: Whose echo made the neighbour groves to ring, And taught the birds, which in the lower spring Did throud in shady leaves from sunny rays, Frame to thy song their cheerful chirping, Or hold their peace, for shame of thy sweet lays. I saw Calliope with mules moe, Soon as thy oaten pipe began to sound, Their ivory lutes and tamburins forego, And from the fountain, where they fete around, Ren after hastily thy silver found. But when they came, where thou thy skill didst show, They drew aback, as half with shame confound, Shepherd to see, them in their art outgo. Col. Of mules, Hobbinol, I con no kill. For they been daughters of the highest Jove, And holden scorn of homely shepherds quill: For sith I heard that Pan with Phoebus strove Which him to much rebuke and danger drove, I never lift prelude to Parnas's hill, But piping low, in shade of lowly grove, I play to please myself, albeit ill. Nought weigh I, who my long doth praise or blame, Ne strive to win renown, or pass the rest: With shepherds fits not follow flying fame, But feed his flocks in fields, where falls him best. I wot my rimes been rough, and rudely drest; The fitter they, my careful care to frame: Enough is me to paint out my unrest, And pour my piteous plaints out in the same. The God of shepherds, Tityrus, is dead, Who taught me homely, as I can, to make: He, whilst he lived, was the foretelling head Of shepherds all, that been with love ytake. Well couth he wail his woes, and lightly flake The flames which love within his heart had bred, And tell us merry tales to keep us wake, The while our sheep about us safely fed. Now dead he is, and lieth wrapt in lead, (O why should death on him such outrage show!) And all his passing skill with him is fled, The same whereof doth daily greater grow. But if on me some little drops would flow.

Of that the spring was in his learned head, I soon would learn these woods to weal my woe, And teach the trees their trickling tears to shed. Then would my plaints, caus'd of discomfetce, As messengers of this my painful flight, Fly to my love, wherever that be, And pierce her heart with point of worthy wight; As she deserves, that wrought so deadly spight. And thou, Menalces, that by treachery Didst underfog my lafs to wax so light, Should'st well be known for such thy villany. But since I am not, as I with I were, Ye gentle shepherds, which your flocks do feed, Whether on hills or dales, or other where, Bear witnes all of this so wicked deed: And tell the lafs, whose flower is woxe a weed, And faultless faith is turn'd to faithless feere, That she the truest shepherd's heart made bleed, That lives on earth, and loved her most dear. Hob. O! careful Colin, I lament thy case, Thy tears would make the hardest flint to flow! Ah! faithless Rosalind, and void of grace, That art the root of all this rueful woe! But now is time, I guess, homeward to go; Then rise, ye blest flocks, and home apace Left night with stealing steps do you forego, And wet your tender lambs that by you trace.

By the following eclogue the reader will perceive that Phillips has, in imitation of Spenser, preserved in his pastorals many antiquated words, which, though they are discarded from polite conversation, may naturally be supposed still to have place among the shepherds and other rustics in the country. We have made choice of his second eclogue, because it is brought home to his own business, and contains a complaint against those who had spoken ill of him and his writings.

THENOT, COLINET.

Th. Is it not Colinet I lonefome see Leaning with folded arms against the tree? Or is it age of late bedims my sight? 'Tis Colinet, indeed, in woeful plight. Thy cloudy look, why melting into tears, Unseemly, now the sky so bright appears? Why in this mournful manner art thou found, Unthankful lad, when all things smile around? Or hear'd not lark and linnet jointly sing, Their notes blithe-warbling to salute the spring? Col. Tho' blithe their notes, not so my wayward fate; Nor lark would sing, nor linnet, in my state. Each creature, Thenot, to his task is born; As they to mirth and music, I to mourn. Waking, at midnight, I my woes renew, My tears oft mingling with the falling dew. Th. Small cause, I ween, has lusty youth to plaint; Or who may then the weight of old sustain, When every slackening nerve begins to fail, And the load presseth as our days prevail? Yet though with years my body downward tend, As trees beneath their fruit in autumn bend, Spite of my snowy head and icy veins, My mind a cheerful temper still retains; And why should man, mishap what will, repine, Sour every sweet, and mix with tears his wine? But tell me then; it may relieve thy woe, To let a friend thine inward ailment know. Co. Idly 'twill waste thee, Thenot, the whole day, Shouldst thou give ear to all my grief can say. Thine ewes will wander; and the heedless lambs, In loud complaints, require their absent dams.

Th. See Lightfoot; he shall tend them close: And I, 'Tween whiles, across the plain will glance mine eye.

Co. Where to begin I know not, where to end. Does there one smiling hour my youth attend? Though few my days, as well my follies show, Yet are those days all clouded o'er with wo: No happy gleam of sunshine doth appear, My lov'ring sky and wint'ry months to cheer. My piteous plight in yonder naked tree, Which bears the thunder-scar too plain, I see: Quite destitute it stands of shelter kind, The mark of storms, and sport of every wind; The riven trunk feels not the approach of spring; Nor birds among the leafless branches sing: No more, beneath thy shade, shall herdsmen throng With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleasing song. Ill-fated tree! and more ill-fated I! From thee, from me, alike the shepherds fly.

Th. Sure thou in hapless hour of time wast born, When blighting mists envelop the rising corn. Or blasting winds o'er blossom'd hedge-rows pass, To kill the promis'd fruits, and scorch the grafts; Or when the moon, by wizard charm'd, foretells Blood-stain'd in foul eclipse, impending woes. Untimely born, ill luck betides thee still.

Co. And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill?

Th. Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our sheep: From thee good shepherd's care his flock may keep; Against ill luck, alas! all forecast fails; Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, avails.

Co. Ah me, the while! ah me, the luckless day! Ah luckless lad! befits me more to say. Unhappy hour! when fresh in youthful bud, I left, Sabrina fair, thy silv'ry flood. Ah filly! more filly than my sheep, Which on thy flow'ry banks I wont to keep. Sweet are thy banks; oh, when shall I once more With ravish'd eyes review thine am'ld shore? When, in the crystal of thy waters, scan Each feature faded, and my colour wan? When shall I see my hut, the small abode Myself did raise and cover o'er with sod? Small though it be, a mean and humble cell, Yet is there room for peace and me to dwell.

Th. And what enticement charm'd thee far away From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart astray?

Co. A lewd desire strange lands and swains to know. Ah me! that ever I should covet wo. With wand'ring feet unblest, and fond of fame, I sought I know not what behooves a name.

Th. Or, footh to say, didst thou not hither come In search of gains more plenty than at home? A rolling stone is ever bare of moss; And, to their cost, green years old proverbs cross.

Co. Small need there was, in random search of gain, To drive my pining flock athwart the plain To distant Cam. Fine gain at length, I trow, To hoard up to myself such deal of wo! My sheep quite spent through travel and ill fare, And like their keeper ragged grown and bare,

The damp cold green sward for my nightly bed, And some flaunt willow's trunk to rest my head. Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain; And hard is want to the unpractis'd fawn; But neither want, nor pinching cold, is hard, To blasting storms of calumny compar'd: Unkind as hail it falls; the pelting show'r Destroys the tender herb and budding flow'r.

Th. Slander we shepherds count the vilest wrong: And what wounds sooner than an evil tongue?

Co. Untoward lads, the wanton imps of spite Make mock of all the ditties I entitle. In vain, O Colinet, thy pipe, so shrill, Charm every vale, and gladdens every hill: In vain thou seek'st the coverings of the grove, In the cool shade to sing the pains of love: Sing what thou wilt, ill-nature will prevail; And every elf hath skill enough to rail. But yet, though poor and artless be my vein, Menalcas seems to like my simple strain: And while that he delighteth in my song, Which to the good Menalcas doth belong, Nor night nor day shall my rude music cease; I ask no more, so I Menalcas please.

Th. Menalcas, lord of these fair fertile plains, Preserves the sheep, and o'er the shepherds reigns; For him our yearly wakes and feasts we hold, And choose the fairest striplings from the fold; He, good to all who good deserves, shall give Thy flock to feed, and thee at ease to live, Shall curb the malice of unbridled tongues, And bounteously reward thy rural songs.

Co. First then shall lightsome birds forget to fly, The briny ocean turn to pastures dry, And every rapid river cease to flow, Ere I unmindful of Menalcas grow.

Th. This night thy care with me forget, and fold Thy flock with mine, to ward th' injurious cold. New milk, and clouted cream, mild cheese and curd, With some remaining fruit of last year's hoard, Shall be our ev'n'ing fare; and, for the night, Sweet herbs and roots, which gentle sleep invite: And now behold the sun's departing ray, O'er yonder hill, the sign of ebbing day: With songs the jovial hinds return from plow; And unyok'd heifers, loitering homeward, low.

Mr Pope's Pastorals next appeared, but in a different Pope. drefs from those of Spenser and Philips; for he has discarded all antiquated words, drawn his fawns more modern and polite, and made his numbers exquisitely harmonious: his eclogues therefore may be called better poems, but not better pastorals. We shall insert the eclogue he has inscribed to Mr Wycherly, the beginning of which is in imitation of Virgil's first pastoral.

Beneath the shade a spreading beech displays, Hylas and Ægon sung their rural lays: This mourn'd a faithless, that an absent love, And Delia's name and Doris fill'd the grove. Ye Mantuan nymphs, your sacred succour bring; Hylas and Ægon's rural lays I sing. Thou, whom the nine with Plautus' wit inspire, The art of Terence, and Menander's fire: Whose sense instructs us, and whose humour charms, Whose judgment sways us, and whose spirit warms!

Oh Part II.

Pastoral. Oh, skill'd in nature! see the hearts of swains, Their artless passions, and their tender pains. Now setting Phoebus shone serenely bright, And fleecy clouds were streak'd with purple light; When tuneful Hylas, with melodious moan, Taught rocks to weep, and made the mountains groan. Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! To Delia's ear the tender notes convey. As some fad turtle his lost love deplores, And with deep murmurs fills the sounding flores; Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn, Alone unheard, unpitied, and forlorn. Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along! For her the feather'd quires neglect their song; For her, the limes their pleasing shades deny; For her, the lilies hang their head and die. Ye flow'rs, that droop forlorn by the spring; Ye birds, that left by summer cease to sing; Ye trees, that fade when autumn's heats remove; Say, is not absence death to those who love? Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! Curs'd be the fields that cause my Delia's stay: Fade ev'ry blofom, wither ev'ry tree, Die ev'ry flow'r; and perish all but she. What have I said? where'er my Delia flies, Let spring attend, and sudden flow'rs arise; Let opening roses knotted oaks adorn, And liquid amber drop from ev'ry thorn. Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs along! The birds shall cease to tune their ev'n'ing song, The winds to breathe, the waving woods to move, And streams to murmur, ere I cease to love. Not bubbling fountains to the thirsty swain, Not balmy sleep to lab'ring faint with pain, Not flow'rs to larks, or sunshine to the bee, Are half so charming as thy sight to me. Go, gentle gales, and bear my sighs away! Come, Delia, come! ah, why this long delay? Through rocks and caves the name of Delia sounds; Delia, each cave and echoing rock rebounds. Ye pow'rs, what pleasing frenzy fofohes my mind! Do lovers dream, or is my Delia kind? She comes, my Delia comes!—now cease, my lay; And cease, ye gales, to bear my sighs away! Next Ægon sung, while Windor groves admir'd; Rehearse, ye muses, what yourselves inspir'd. Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strain! Of perish'd Doris, dying, I complain: Here where the mountains, leaping as they rise, Loose the low vales, and steal into the skies; While lab'ring oxen, spent with toil and heat, In their loose traces from the field retreat; While curling smokes from village-tops are seen, And the fleet shades glide o'er the ducky green. Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay! Beneath you poplar oft we pass'd the day! Oft on the rind I carv'd her am'rous vows, While she with garlands hung the bending boughs: The garlands fade, the boughs are worn away; So dies her love, and so my hopes decay. Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strain! Now bright Arcturus glads the teeming grain; Now golden fruits in loaded branches shine, And grateful clusters swell with floods of wine; Now blushing berries paint the yellow grove: Just gods! shall all things yield return but love? Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay! The shepherds cry, "Thy flocks are left a prey." Ah! what avails it me the flocks to keep, Who lost my heart, while I prefer'd my sheep? Pan came, and ask'd, what magic caus'd my smart, Or what ill eyes malignant glances dart? What eyes but hers, alas! have pow'r to move? And is there magic but what dwells in love? Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful strains! I'll fly from shepherds, flocks, and flow'ry plains. From shepherds, flocks, and plains, I may remove, Forsoke mankind, and all the world—but love! I know thee, Love! wild as the raging main, More fell than tygers on the Libyan plain: Thou wert from Ætna's burning entrails torn, Got by fierce whirlwinds, and in thunder born. Refound, ye hills, refound my mournful lay! Farewell, ye woods, adieu the light of day! One leap from yonder cliff shall end my pains. No more, ye hills, no more refound my strains! Thus sung the shepherds till th' approach of night, The skies yet blushing with departing light, When falling dews with spangles deck the glade, And the low sun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade.

To these pastorals, which are written agreeably to the Gay taste of antiquity, and the rules above prescribed, we shall beg leave to subjoin another that may be called burlesque pastoral, wherein the ingenious author, Mr Gay, has ventured to deviate from the beaten road, and described the shepherds and ploughmen of our own time and country, instead of those of the golden age, to which the modern critics confine the pastoral. His six pastorals, which he calls the Shepherd's Week, are a beautiful and lively representation of the manners, customs, and notions of our rustic. We shall insert the first of them, intitled The Squabble, wherein two clowns try to outdo each other in fingering the praises of their sweethearts, leaving it to a third to determine the controversy. The persons named are Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, and Cloddipole.

Lob. Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake; No throatle shrill the bramble-bush forake; No chirping lark the welkin sheen * invokes; * Shining or bright sky. No damsel yet the swellingudder strokes; O'er yonder hill does scant + the dawn appear; Then why does Cuddy leave his cott to rear +? + Scarce. Early. Cud. Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween § my plight is gueft §; § Conceive. For he that lover, a stranger is to reft. If swains belye not, thou haft prov'd the smart, And Blouzalinda's mistrefs of thy heart. This rising tear betokeneth well thy mind; Those arms are folded for thy Blouzalind. And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree; Thee Blouzalinda finites, Buxoma me. Lob. Ah Blouzalind! I love thee more by half, Than dear their fawns, or cows the new-fall'n calf. Woe worth the tongue, may blifters fore it gall, That names Buxoma Blouzalind withal. Cud. Hold, witles Lobbin Clout, I thee advise, Left blifters fore on thy own tongue arife. Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithesome swain, The wisest louf out of all the neighbr'ring plain! From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies, To know when hail will fall, or winds arise.

Formerly he taught us erft * the heifer's tail to view, When stuck aloft, that show'd's would straight ensue: He first that useful secret did explain, That pricking corns foretold the gathering rain. When swallows fleet four high and sport in air, He told us that the welkin would be clear. Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse, And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse. I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee, That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.

Lob. See this tobacco-pouch, that's lin'd with hair, Made of the skin of flecked fallow-deer; This pouch, that's tied with tape of reddest hue, I'll wager, that the prize shall be my due.

Cud. Begin thy carols, then, thou vaunting flout; Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.

Lob. My Blouzalinda is the blithelest lass, Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-gras. Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows, Fair is the daisy that beside her grows; Fair is the gilly-flower of gardens sweet; Fair is the marigold, for pottage meet: But Blouzalinda's than gilly-flower more fair, Than daisy, marigold, or king-cup rare.

Cud. My brown Buxoma is the rarest maid That e'er at wake delightful gambol play'd; Clean as young lambkins, or the goose's down, And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown. The witless lamb may sport upon the plain, The frisking kid delight the gaping swain; The wanton calf may skip with many a bound, And my cur play deftly feet around: But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray, Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.

Lob. Sweet is my toil when Blouzalind is near; Of her bereft, 'tis winter all the year. With her no fultry summer's heat I know; In winter, when she's nigh, with love I glow. Come, Blouzalinda, ease thy swain's desire, My summer's shadow, and my winter's fire!

Cud. As with Buxoma once I work'd at hay, E'en noon-tide labour seem'd an holiday; And holidays, if haply she were gone, Like worky-days I wish'd would soon be done.

Very soon, Eftsoon I, O sweetheart kind, my love repay, And all the year shall then be holiday.

Lob. As Blouzalinda, in a gameesome mood, Behind a hay-cock loudly laughing stood, I slyly ran and snatch'd a hasty kiss; She wip'd her lips, nor took it much amiss. Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to say, Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay.

Cud. As my Buxoma, in a morning fair, With gentle finger stroak'd her milky care, I quaintly stole a kiss; at first, 'tis true, She frowned, yet after granted one or two. Lobbin, I swear, believe who will my vows, Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cows.

Lob. Leek to the Welsh, to Dutchmen butter's dear, Of Irish swains potatoes are the cheer; Oats for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind, Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzalind:

While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise, Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoes prize.

Cud. In good roast beef my landlord sticks his knife, The capon fat delights his dainty wife; Pudding our parson eats, the squire loves hare; But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare. While she loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be, Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.

Lob. As once I play'd at blind man's buff, it hap't About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt: I mis'd the swains, and f-iz'd on Blouzalind; True speaks that ancient proverb, Love is blind.

Cud. As at hot-cockles once I laid me down, And felt the weighty hand of many a clown; Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I Quick rose, and read soft mischief in her eye.

Lob. On two near elms the slacken'd cord I hung; Now high, now low, my Blouzalind swung; With the rude wind her rumpled garment rose, And show'd her taper leg and scarlet hose.

Cud. Across the fallen oak the plank I laid, And myself pois'd against the tottering maid! High leapt the plank, and down Buxoma fell; I spy'd—but faithful sweethearts never tell.

Lob. This riddle, Cuddy, if thou canst, explain, This wily riddle puzzles every swain: What flow'r is that which bears the virgin's name, The richest metal joined with the same? *

Cud. Answer, thou earle, and judge this riddle right, I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight: What flow'r is that which royal honour craves, Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis brown on graves? †

Cud. Forbear, contending louts, give o'er your strains; An oaken staff each merits for his pains. But see the sun-beams bright to labour warm, And gild the thatch of goodman Hodge's barn. Your herds for want of water stand a-dry; They're weary of your songs—and so am I.

We have given the rules usually laid down for pastoral writing, and exhibited some examples written on this plan; but we have to observe that this poem may take very different forms. It may appear either as a comedy or as a ballad. As a pastoral comedy, there is perhaps nothing which possesses equal merit with Ramfay's Gentle Shepherd, and we know not where to find in any language a rival to the Pastoral Ballad of Shenstone. That the excellence of this poem is great can hardly be questioned, since it compelled a critic, who was never lavish of his praise, and who on all occasions was ready to vilify the pastoral, to express himself in terms of high encomium. "In the first part (says he) are two passages, to which if any mind denies its sympathy, it has no acquaintance with love or nature:

I priz'd every hour that went by, Beyond all that had pleas'd me before; But now they are past, and I sigh, And I grieve that I priz'd them no more. When forc'd the fair nymph to forego, What anguish I felt in my heart! Yet I thought—but it might not be so, 'Twas with pain that she saw me depart." She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew, My path I could hardly discern; So sweetly she bade me adieu, I thought that she bade me return.

"In the second (continues the same critic) this passage has its prettiness, though it be not equal to the former:"

I have found out a gift for my fair; I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me that plunder forbear, She would say 'twas a barbarous deed: For he ne'er could be true, the averr'd, Who could rob a poor bird of its young; And I lov'd her the more when I heard Such tendernefs fall from her tongue.

Sect. V. Of Didactic or Preceptive Poetry.

The method of writing precepts in verse, and embellishing them with the graces of poetry, had its rise, we may suppose, from a due consideration of the frailties and pervertencies of human nature; and was intended to engage the affections, in order to improve the mind and amend the heart.

Didactic or preceptive poetry, has been usually employed either to illustrate and explain our moral duties, our philosophical inquiries, our business and pleasures; or in teaching the art of criticism or poetry itself. It may be adapted, however, to any other subject; and may in all cases, where instruction is designed, be employed to good purpose. Some subjects, indeed, are more proper than others, as they admit of more poetical ornaments, and give a greater latitude to genius: but whatever the subject is, those precepts are to be laid down that are the most useful; and they should follow each other in a natural easy method, and be delivered in the most agreeable engaging manner... What the prose writer tells you ought to be done, the poet often conveys under the form of a narration, or shows the necessity of in a description; and by representing the action as done, or doing, conceals the precept that should enforce it. The poet likewise, instead of telling the whole truth, or laying down all the rules that are requisite, selects such parts only as are the most pleasing, and communicates the rest indirectly, without giving us an open view of them; yet takes care that nothing shall escape the reader's notice with which he ought to be acquainted. He discloses just enough to lead the imagination into the parts that are concealed; and the mind, ever gratified with its own discoveries, is complimented with exploring and finding them out; which, though done with ease, seems so considerable, as not to be obtained but in consequence of its own adroitness and sagacity.

But this is not sufficient to render didactic poetry always pleasing: for where precepts are laid down one after another, and the poem is of considerable length, the mind will require some recreation and refreshment by the way; which is to be procured by seasonable moral reflections, pertinent remarks, familiar similes, and descriptions naturally introduced, by allusions to ancient histories or fables, and by short and pleasant digressions and excursions into more noble subjects, so aptly brought in, that they may seem to have a remote relation, and be of a piece with the poem. By thus varying the form of instruction, the poet gives life to his precepts, and awakens and secures our attention, without permitting us to see by what means we are thus captivated; and his art is the more to be admired, because it is so concealed as to escape the reader's observation.

The style, too, must maintain a dignity suitable to the subject, and every part be drawn in such lively colours, that the things described may seem as if presented to the reader's view.

But all this will appear more evident from example; and though entire poems of this kind are not within the compass of our design, we shall endeavour to select such passages as will be sufficient to illustrate the rules we have here laid down.

We have already observed, that, according to the usual divisions, there are four kinds of didactic poems, viz. those that respect our moral duties, our philosophical speculations, our business and pleasures, or that give precepts for poetry and criticism.

I. On the first subject, indeed, we have scarce any thing that deserves the name of poetry, except Mr Pope's Effay on Man, his Ethic Epistles, Blackmore's Creation, and part of Young's Night Thoughts; to which therefore we refer as examples.

II. Those preceptive poems that concern philosophical speculations, though the subject is so pregnant with matter, affords such a field of fancy, and is so capable of every decoration, are but few. Lucretius is the most considerable among the ancients who has written in this manner; among the moderns we have little else but small detached pieces, except the poem called Anti-Lucretius, which has not yet received an English dress; Dr Akenhead's Pleasures of the Imagination, and Dr Darwin's Botanic Garden; which are all worthy of our admiration. Some of the small pieces in this department are also well executed; and there is one entitled the Universe, written by Mr Baker, from which we shall borrow an example.

The author's scheme is in some measure coincident with Mr Pope's, to far especially as it tends to restrain the pride of man, with which design it was professedly written.

The passage we have selected is that respecting the planetary system.

Unwise! and thoughtless! impotent! and blind! Can wealth, or grandeur, satisfy the mind? Of all those pleasures mortals most admire, Is there one joy sincere, that will not tire? Can love itself endure? or beauty's charms Afford that bliss we fancy in its arms? Then let thy soul more glorious aims pursue: Have thy Creator and his works in view. Be these thy study: hence thy pleasures bring: And drink large draughts of wisdom from its spring; That spring, whence perfect joy, and calm repose, And blest content, and peace eternal, flows. Observe how regular the planets run, In stated times, their courses round the Sun. Different their bulk, their distance, their career, And different much the compass of their year: Yet all the same eternal laws obey, While God's unerring finger points the way. First Mercury, amidst full tides of light, Rolls next the sun, through his small circle bright. Didactic. All that dwell here must be refin'd and pure: Bodies like ours such ardour can't endure: Our earth would blaze beneath so fierce a ray, And all its marble mountains melt away. Fair Venus, next, fulfils her larger round, With softer beams, and milder glory crown'd. Friend to mankind, she glitters from afar, Now the bright ev'n'ing, now the morning star.

More distant still, our earth comes rolling on, And forms a wider circle round the sun: With her the moon, companion ever dear! Her course attending through the shining year.

See, Mars, alone, runs his appointed race, And measures out, exact, the destined space: Nor nearer does he wind, nor farther stray, But finds the point whence first he roll'd away.

More yet remote from day's all cheering source, Vast Jupiter performs his constant course: Four friendly moons, with borrow'd lustre, rise, Below their beams divine, and light his skies.

Farthest and last, scarce warm'd by Phœbus' ray, Through his vast orbit Saturn wheels away. How great the change could we be wafted there! How flow the seasons! and how long the year! One moon, on us, reflects its cheerful light: There, five attendants brighten up the night. Here, the blue firmament bedeck'd with stars; There, over-head, a lucid arch appears. From hence, how large, how strong, the sun's bright ball! But seen from thence, how languid and how small! When the keen north with all its fury blows, Congeals the floods, and forms the fleecy snows, 'Tis heat intense to what can there be known: Warmer our poles than is its burning zone.

Who there inhabits must have other pow'rs, Juices, and veins, and sense, and life, than ours. One moment's cold, like theirs, would pierce the bone, Freeze the heart-blood, and turn us all to stone.

Strange and amazing must the difference be 'Twixt this dull planet and bright Mercury: Yet reason says; nor can we doubt at all, Millions of beings dwell on either ball, With constitutions fitted for the spot, Where Providence, all wise, has fix'd their lot.

Wondrous art thou, O God, in all thy ways! Their eyes to thee let all thy creatures raise; Adore thy grandeur, and thy goodness praise. Ye sons of men! with satisfaction know, God's own right hand dispenses all below: Nor good nor evil does by chance befall; He reigns supreme, and he directs it all.

At his command, affrighting human-kind, Comets drag on their blazing lengths behind: Nor, as we think, do they at random rove, But, in determin'd times, through long ellipses move. And tho' sometimes they near approach the sun; Sometimes beyond our system's orbit run; Throughout their race they act their Maker's will, His pow'r declare, his purposes fulfil.

III. Of those preceptive poems that treat of the business and pleasures of mankind, Virgil's Georgics claim our first and principal attention. In these he has laid down the rules of husbandry in all its branches with the utmost exactness and perspicuity, and at the same time embellished them with all the beauties and graces of poetry. Though his subject was husbandry, he has delivered his precepts, as Mr Addison observes, not with the simplicity of a ploughman, but with the address of a poet: the meaning of his rules are laid down with a kind of grandeur; and he breaks the cloths, and tosses about the dust, with an air of gracefulness. Of the different ways of conveying the same truth to the mind, he takes that which is pleasantest; and this chief- ly distinguishes poetry from prose, and renders Virgil's rules of husbandry more delightful and valuable than any other.

These poems, which are esteemed the most perfect of the author's works, are, perhaps, the best that can be proposed for the young student's imitation in this man- ner of writing; for the whole of his Georgics is wrought up with wonderful art, and decorated with all the flowers of poetry.

IV. Of those poems which give precepts for the re- creations and pleasures of a country life, we have sev- eral in our own language that are justly admired. As the most considerable of those diversions, however, are finely treated by Mr Gay in his Rural Sports, we par- ticularly refer to that poem.

We should here treat of those preceptive poems that teach the art of poetry itself, of which there are many that deserve particular attention; but we have antici- pated our design, and rendered any farther notice of them in a manner useless, by the observations we have made in the course of this treatise. We ought how- ever to remark, that Horace was the only poet among the ancients who wrote precepts for poetry in verse; at least his epistle to the Pisos is the only piece of the kind that has been handed down to us; and that is so perfect, it seems almost to have precluded the necessity of any other. Among the moderns we have several that are justly admired; as Boileau, Pope, &c.

Poets who write in the preceptive manner should take care to choose such subjects as are worthy of their muse, and of consequence to all mankind; for to betray both parts and pains to teach people trifles that are un- worthy of their attention, is to the last degree ridicu- lous.

Among poems of the useful and interesting kind, Dr Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health deserves particu- lar recommendation, as well in consideration of the subject, as of the elegant and masterly manner in which he has treated it; for he has made those things, which are in their own nature dry and unentertaining, perfect- ly agreeable and pleasing, by adhering to the rules ob- served by Virgil and others in the conduct of these poems.

With regard to the style or dress of these poems, its proper it should be so rich as to hide the nakedness of the style. subject, and the barrenness of the precepts should be lost in the lustre of the language. "It ought to be bound in the most bold and forcible metaphors, the Didactic most glowing and picturesque epithets; it ought to be Poetry, elevated and enlivened by pomp of numbers and ma- jesty of words, and by every figure that can lift a lan- guage above the vulgar and current expressions." One may add, that in no kind of poetry (not even in the sublime ode) is beauty of expression so much to be re- garded as in this. For the epic writer should be very cautious of indulging himself in too florid a manner of expression, expression, especially in the dramatic parts of his fable, where he introduces dialogue: and the writer of tragedy cannot fall into nauseous and unnatural an affectation, as to put laboured descriptions, pompous epithets, studied phrases, and high-flown metaphors, into the mouths of his characters. But as the didactic poet speaks in his own person, it is necessary and proper for him to use a brighter colouring of style, and to be more studious of ornament. And this is agreeable to an admirable precept of Aristotle, which no writer should ever forget,—“That didactic ought most to be laboured in the inactive, that is, the descriptive, parts of a poem, in which the opinions, manners, and passions of men are not represented; for too glaring an expression obscures the manners and the sentiments.”

We have already observed that anything in nature may be the subject of this poem. Some things, however, will appear to more advantage than others, as they give a greater latitude to genius, and admit of more poetical ornaments. Natural history and philosophy are copious subjects. Precepts in these might be decorated with all the flowers in poetry; and, as Dr Trapp observes, how can poetry be better employed, or more agreeably to its nature and dignity, than in celebrating the works of the great Creator, and describing the nature and generation of animals, vegetables, and minerals; the revolutions of the heavenly bodies; the motions of the earth; the flux and reflux of the sea; the cause of thunder, lightnings, and other meteors; the attraction of the magnet; the gravitation, cohesion, and repulsion of matter; the impulsive motion of light; the slow progression of sounds; and other amazing phenomena of nature? Most of the arts and sciences are also proper subjects for this poem; and none are more so than its two latter arts, painting and music. In the former, particularly, there is room for the most entertaining precepts concerning the disposal of colours; the arrangement of lights and shades; the secret attractiveness of beauty; the various ideas which make up the one; the distinguishing between the attitudes proper to either sex, and every passion; the representing prospects of buildings, battles, or the country; and, lastly, concerning the nature of imitation, and the power of painting. What a boundless field of invention is here? What room for description, comparison, and poetical fable? How easy the transition, at any time, from the draught to the original, from the shadow to the substance? and from hence, what noble excursions may be made into history, into panegyric upon the greatest beauties or heroes of the past or present age?

Sect. VI. Of the Epistle.

This species of writing, if we are permitted to lay down rules from the examples of our best poets, admits of great latitude, and solicits ornament and decoration; yet the poet is still to consider, that the true character of the epistle is ease and elegance; nothing therefore should be forced or unnatural, laboured or affected, but every part of the composition should breathe an easy, polite, and unconstrained freedom.

It is suitable to every subject; for as the epistle takes place of discourse, and is intended as a sort of distant conversation, all the affairs of life and researches into nature may be introduced. Those, however, which are fraught with compliment or condolence, that contain a description of places, or are full of pertinent remarks, and in a familiar and humorous way describe the manners, vices, and follies of mankind, are the best; because they are most suitable to the true character of epistolary writing, and (business set apart) are the usual subjects upon which our letters are employed.

All farther rules and directions are unnecessary; for this kind of writing is better learned by example and practice than by precept. We shall, therefore, in conformity to our plan, select a few epistles for the reader’s imitation; which, as this method of writing has of late much prevailed, may be best taken, perhaps, from our modern poets.

The following letter from Mr Addison to Lord Halifax, contains an elegant description of the curiosities and places about Rome, together with such reflections on the inestimable blessings of liberty as must give pleasure to every Briton, especially when he sees them thus placed in direct opposition to the baneful influence of slavery and oppression, which are ever to be seen among the miserable inhabitants of those countries.

While you, my lord, the rural shades admire, And from Britannia’s public posts retire, Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please, For their advantage sacrifice your ease; Me into foreign realms my fate convey’d, Through nations fruitful of immortal lays, Where the soft season and inviting clime Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme.

For wherefo’er I turn my ravish’d eyes, Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise, Poetic fields encompass me around, And fill I seem to tread on classic ground; For here the muse so oft her harp has strung, That not a mountain tears its head unsung, Renown’d in verse each shady thicket grows, And ev’ry stream in heav’nly numbers flows.

How am I pleas’d to search the hills and woods For rising springs and celebrated floods; To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course; And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source; To see the Mincia draw its wat’ry store, Through the long windings of a fruitful shore, And hoary Albula’s infected tide O’er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide! Fir’d with a thousand raptures, I survey Eridanus thro’ flow’ry meadows stray, The king of floods! that, rolling o’er the plains, The towering Alps of half their moisture drains, And, proudly swoln with a whole winter’s snows, Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.

Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng, I look for streams immortaliz’d in song, That lost in silence and oblivion lie, (Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry) Yet run for ever by the muse’s skill, And in the smooth description murmur still.

Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire, And the fam’d river’s empty shores admire, That, destitute of strength, derives its course From thirsty urns, and an unfruitful source;

Examples in epistolary poetry from Addison. Yet sung so often in poetic lays, With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys; So high the deathless muse exalts her theme! Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream, That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd, And unobserv'd in wild meanders play'd; Till, by your lines, and Nassau's word renown'd, Its rising billows through the world resound, Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce, Or where the fame of an immortal verse.

Oh cou'd the muse my ravish'd breast inspire With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire, Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine, And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine!

See how the golden groves around me smile, That shun the coasts of Britain's stormy isle, Or when transplanted and prefer'd with care, Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents: Ev'n the rough rocks with tender myrtles bloom, And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats, Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats; Where western gales eternally reside, And all the seas lavish all their pride: Blooms, and fruits, and flowers together rise, And the whole year in gay confusion lies.

Immortal glories in my mind revive, And in my soul a thousand passions strive, When Rome's exalted beauties I descry Magnificent in piles of ruin lie. An amphitheatre's amazing height Here fills my eye with terror and delight, That on its public shows unpeopled Rome, And held uncrowded nations in its womb; Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies; And here the proud triumphal arches rise, Where the old Romans deathless acts display'd, Their base degenerate progeny upbraid: Whole rivers here forsake the fields below, And wond'ring at their height thro' airy channels flow. Still to new scenes my wand'ring muse retires; And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires; Where the smooth chisel all its force has shown, And soften'd into flesh the rugged stone. In solemn silence, a majestic band, Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls stand, Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown, And emperors in Parian marble frown; While the bright dames, to whom they humbly su'd, Still show the charms that their proud hearts subdue'd. Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse, And show th' immortal labours in my verse, Where from the mingled strength of shade and light A new creation rises to my sight, Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow, So warm with life his blended colours glow. From theme to theme with secret pleasure tost, Amidst the soft variety I'm lost. Here pleasing airs my ravish'd soul confound With circling notes and labyrinths of sound; Here domes and temples rise in distant views, And opening palaces invite my muse.

How has kind heav'n adorn'd the happy land, And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand! But what avail her unexhausted stores, Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores, With all the gifts that heav'n and earth impart, The smiles of nature, and the charms of art, While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, And tyranny usurps her happy plains? The poor inhabitant beholds in vain The red'ning orange and the swelling grain: Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines: Starves, in the midst of nature's bounty curst, And in the loaded vineyard dies for thirst.

O liberty, thou goddess heav'nly bright, Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight! Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, And smiling plenty leads thy wanton train; Eas'd of her load, subjection grows more light, And poverty looks cheerful in thy sight; Thou mak'st the gloomy face of nature gay, Giv'st beauty to the sun, and pleasure to the day. Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's ille adores; How has she oft exhausted all her stores, How oft in fields of death thy presence fought, Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought! On foreign mountain may the sun refine The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine, With citron groves adorn a distant foil, And the fat olive swell with floods of oil: We envy not the warmer clime, that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, Nor at the coarseness of our heav'n repine, Tho' o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine: 'Tis liberty that crowns Britannia's ille, And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mountains smile.

Others with towering piles may please the fight, And in their proud aspiring dome delight; A nicer touch to the stretch'd canvas give, Or teach their animated rocks to live: 'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate, And hold in balance each contending state, To threaten bold presumptuous kings with war, And answer her afflicted neighbour's pray'r. The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by fierce alarms, Blest the wise conduct of her pious arms: Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease, And all the northern world lies hush'd in peace. Th' ambitious Gaul beholds with secret dread Her thunder aim'd at his aspiring head, And fain her godlike sons would disunite By foreign gold, or by domestic spite; But strives in vain to conquer or divide, Whom Nassau's arms defend and counsell guide.

Fir'd with the name, which I so oft have found The distant climes and different tongues resound, I bridle in my struggling muse with pain, That longs to launch into a bolder strain, But I've already troubled you too long, Nor dare attempt a more adventurous song: My humble verse demands a softer theme, A painted meadow, or a purling stream; Unfit for heroes; whom immortal lays, And lines like Virgil's, or like yours, should praise. There is a fine spirit of freedom, and love of liberty, displayed in the following letter from Lord Lyttleton to Mr Pope; and the message from the shade of Virgil, which is truly poetical, and justly preceptive, may prove an useful lesson to future bards.

From Rome, 1730.

Immortal bard! for whom each muse has wove The fairest garlands of the Aonian grove; Preferv'd, our drooping genius to restore, When Addison and Congreve are no more; After so many stars extinct in night, The darken'd age's last remaining light! To thee from Latin realms this verle is writ, Inspir'd by memory of ancient wit: For now no more the climes their influence boast, Fall'n is their glory, and their virtue lost; From tyrants, and from priests, the muses fly, Daughters of reason and of liberty.

Nor Baiae now nor Umbria's plain they love, Nor on the banks of Nar or Mincia rove; To Thames's flow'ry borders they retire, And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire. So in the shades, where cheer'd with summer rays Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays, Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain Of gloomy winter's inauspicious reign, No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love, But mournful filience faddens all the grove.

Unhappy Italy! whose alter'd state Has felt the worst severity of fate: Not that barbarian bands her faces broke, And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke; Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown, Her cities desert, and her fields unown; But that her ancient spirit is decay'd, That sacred wisdom from her bounds is fled, That there the source of science flows no more, Whence its rich streams supply'd the world before.

Illustrious names! that once in Latium shin'd, Born to instruct and to command mankind; Chiefs, by whose virtue mighty Rome was rais'd, And poets, who those chiefs fulminely prais'd! Oft I the traces you have left explore, Your ashes visit, and your urns adore; Oft kiss, with lips devout, some mouldering stone, With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown; Those hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to see, Than all the pomp of modern luxury.

As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flow'rs I strow'd, While with th'inspiring muse my bosom glow'd, Crown'd with eternal bays, my ravish'd eyes Beheld the poet's awful form arise: Stranger, he said, whose pious hand has paid These grateful rites to my attentive shade, When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air, To Pope this message from his master bear.

Great bard, whose numbers I myself inspire, To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre, If high exalted on the throne of wit, Near me and Homer thou aspire to sit, No more let meaner satire dim the rays That flow majestic from thy noble bays. In all the flow'ry paths of Pindus stray: But shun that thorny, that unpleasing way;

Nor, when each soft engaging muse is thine, Address the least attractive of the nine. Of thee more worthy were the task to raise A lasting column to thy country's praise, To sing the land, which yet alone can boast That liberty corrupted Rome has lost; Where science in the arms of peace is laid, And plants her palm beneath the olive's shade. Such was the theme for which my lyre I strung, Such was the people whose exploits I sung; Brave, yet refin'd, for arms and arts renown'd, With different bays by Mars and Phoebus crown'd, Dauntless opposers of tyrannic sway, But pleas'd a mild Augustus to obey.

If these commands submissive thou receive, Immortal and unblam'd thy name shall live; Envy to black Cocytus shall retire, And howl with furies in tormenting fire; Approving time shall consecrate thy lays, And join the patriot's to the poet's praise.

The following letter from Mr Philips to the earl of Dorset is entirely descriptive; but is one of those descriptions which will be ever read with delight.

Copenhagen, March 9, 1709.

From frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow, From streams which northern winds forbid to flow, What present shall the muse to Dorset bring, Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing? The hoary winter here conceals from sight All pleasing objects which to verse invite. The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, The flow'ry plains, and silver-treaming floods, By snow disguis'd, in bright confusion lie, And with one dazzling waft fatigue the eye.

No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring, No bird within the desert region sing: The ships, unmov'd, the boisterous winds defy, While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. The vast Leviathan wants room to play, And spout his waters in the face of day: The starving wolves along the main sea prowl, And to the moon in icy valleys howl. O'er many a shining league the level main Here spreads itself into a glassy plain: There solid billows of enormous size, Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise. And yet but lately have I seen, ev'n here, The winter in a lovely dress appear. Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasure'd snow, Or winds began through hazy skies to blow, At ev'n'ning a keen caffern breeze arose, And the descending rain unfly'd froze; Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, The ruddy morn disclos'd at once to view The face of nature in a rich disguise, And brighten'd ev'n object to my eyes: For ev'n shrub, and ev'n blade of grass, And ev'n pointed thorn, seem'd wrought in glass; In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show, While through the ice the crimson berries glow. The thick spring reeds, which watery marshes yield, Seem'd polish'd lances in a hostile field. The stag in limpid currents with surprise, Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise: The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine, Glaz'd over, in the freezing aether shine. The frighted birds the rattling branches thun, Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.

When if a sudden gust of wind arise, The brittle forest into atoms flies, The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends, And in a spangled flower the prospect ends: Or, if a southern gale the region warm, And by degrees unbend the wintry charm, The traveller a miry country sees, And journeys sad beneath the dropping trees: Like some deluded peasant Merlin leads Thro' fragrant bow'rs and thro' delicious meads, While here enchanted gardens to him rise, And airy fabrics there attract his eyes, His wandering feet the magic paths pursue, And while he thinks the fair illusion true, The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air, And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear; A tedious road the weary wretch returns, And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.

The great use of medals is properly described in the ensuing elegant epistle from Mr Pope to Mr Addison; and the extravagant passion which some people entertain only for the colour of them, is very agreeably and very justly ridiculed.

See the wild waste of all devouring years! How Rome her own fad sepulchre appears! With nodding arches, broken temples spread! The very tombs now vanish like their dead! Imperial wonders rais'd on nations spoil'd! Where mix'd with slaves the groaning martyr toil'd! Huge theatres, that now unpeopled woods, Now drain'd a distant country of her floods! Fanes, which admiring gods with pride survey, Statues of men, scarce less alive than they! Some felt the silent stroke of mouldering age, Some hostile fury, some religious rage; Barbarian blindness, Christian zeal confine, And papal piety, and Gothic fire. Perhaps, by its own ruin sav'd from flame, Some bury'd marble half preserves a name: That name the learn'd with fierce disputes purfus, And give to Titus old Vespasian's due.

Ambition sigh'd: She found it vain to trust The faithless column and the crumbling butt; Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to shore, Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more; Convince'd she, now contracts her vast design, And all her triumphs shrink into a coin. A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps, Beneath her palm here sad Judea weeps; Now scantier limits the proud arch confine, And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine; A small Euphrates through the piece is roll'd, And little eagles wave their wings in gold.

The medal, faithful to its charge of fame, Through climes and ages bears each form and name: In one short view subjected to our eye, Gods, emprors, heroes, sages, beauties, lie. With sharpen'd flight pale antiquaries pore, 'Th' inscription value, but the rust adore.

This the blue varnish, that the green endears, The sacred rust of twice ten hundred years: To gain Pescennius one employs his schemes, One grasps a Cecrops in ecstatic dreams. Poor Vadius, long with learned spleen devour'd, Can taste no pleasure since his shield was scour'd: And Curio, restless by the fair one's side, Sighs for an Otho, and neglects his bride.

Their's is the vanity, the learning thine: Touch'd by thy hand, again Rome's glories shine; Her gods and god-like heroes rise to view, And all her faded garlands bloom anew. Nor blith these studies they regard engage; These pleas'd the fathers of poetic rage; The verse and sculpture bore an equal part, And art reflected images to art.

Oh when shall Britain, conscious of her claim, Stand emulous of Greek and Roman fame? In living medals see her wars enroll'd, And vanquish'd realms supply recording gold? Here, rising bold, the patriot's honest face; There, warriors frowning in historic brafs? Then future ages with delight shall see How Plato's, Bacon's, Newton's looks agree; Or in fair series laurel'd bards be shown, A Virgil there, and here an Addison. Then shall thy Craggs (and let me call him mine) On the cast ore, another Pollio shine; With aspect open shall erect his head, And round the orb in lasting notes be read, "Statesman, yet friend to truth! of foul sincere, "In action faithful, and in honour clear; "Who broke no promise, serv'd no private end, "Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend; "Ennobled by himself, by all approved, "Prais'd, wept, and honour'd, by the muse he lov'd."

We have already observed, that the essential, and indeed the true characteristic of epistolary writing, is ease; and on this account, as well as others, the following letter from Mr Pope to Miss Blount is to be admired.

To Miss Blount, on her leaving the Town after the Coronation.

As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care Drags from the town to wholesome country air; Just when she learns to roll a melting eye, And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh, From the dear man unwilling the maut fever, Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever; Thus from the world fair Zephyrinda flew, Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew: Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent; She sigh'd, not that they stay'd, but that she went. She went, to plain-work, and to purling brooks, Old-fashioned halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks: She went from op'ra, park, assembly, play, To morning walks, and prayers three hours a-day; To part her time 'twixt reading and bohea, To muse, and spill her solitary tea, Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;

Divert Part II.

Epistle. Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire, Hum half a tune, tell stories to the 'quire; Up to her godly garret after seven, There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.

Some 'quire, perhaps, you take delight to rack; Whose game is whisks, whose treat's a toast in sack; Who visits with a gun, presents you birds, Then gives a snacking bals, and cries,—no words! Or with his hound comes hollowing from the stables, Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table; Whose laughs are hearty, tho' his jests are coarse, And loves you best of all things—but his horse.

In some fair ev'n'ing, on your elbow laid, You dream of triumphs in the rural shade; In pensive thought recal the fancy'd scene, See coronations rise on every green; Before you pass th' imaginary sights Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights, While the spread fan o'er shades your closing eyes: Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies. Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls, And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls!

So when your slave, at some dear idle time, (Not plagu'd with headaches, or the want of rhyme) Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew, And while he seems to study, thinks of you: Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes, Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise, Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite, Streets, chairs, and coxcombs, rush upon my sight; Vex'd to be still in town, I knit my brow, Look four, and hum a tune, as you may now.

Sect. VII. Of Descriptive Poetry.

Descriptive poetry is of universal use, since there is nothing in nature but what may be described. As poems of this kind, however, are intended more to delight than to instruct, great care should be taken to make them agreeable. Descriptive poems are made beautiful by similes properly introduced, images of feigned persons, and allusions to ancient fables or historical facts; as will appear by a perusal of the best of these poems, especially Milton's L'Allegro and Il Penseroso, Denham's Cooper Hill, and Pope's Windsor Forest. Every body being in possession of Milton's works, we forbear inserting the two former; and the others are too long for our purpose. That inimitable poem, The Seasons, by Mr Thomson, notwithstanding some parts of it are didactic, may be also with propriety referred to this head.

Sect. VIII. Of Allegorical Poetry.

Could truth engage the affections of mankind in her native and simple dress, she would require no ornaments or aid from the imagination; but her delicate light, though lovely in itself, and dear to the most discerning, does not strike the senses of the multitude so as to secure their esteem and attention: the poets therefore drest her up in the manner in which they thought she would appear the most amiable, and called in allegories and airy disguises as her auxiliaries in the cause of virtue.

An allegory is a fable or story, in which, under the disguise of imaginary persons or things, some real action or instructive moral is conveyed to the mind. Every allegory therefore has two senses, the one literal and the other mystical; the first has been aptly compared to a dream or vision, of which the last is the true meaning or interpretation.

From this definition of allegorical poetry the reader will perceive that it gives great latitude to genius, and affords such a boundless scope for invention, that the poet is allowed to soar beyond all creation; to give life and action to virtues, vices, passions, diseases, and natural and moral qualities; to raise floating islands, enchanted palaces, castles, &c., and to people them with the creatures of his own imagination.

The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heav'n to earth, from earth to heav'n; And, as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name.

SHAKESPEARE.

But whatever is thus raised by the magic of his mind must be visionary and typical, and the mystical sense must appear obvious to the reader, and inculcate some moral or useful lesson in life; otherwise the whole will be deemed rather the effects of a distempered brain, than the productions of real wit and genius. The poet, like Jason, may fail to parts unexplored, but will meet with no applause if he returns without a golden fleece; for these romantic reveries would be unpardonable but for the mystical meaning and moral that is thus artfully and agreeably conveyed with them, and on which account only the allegory is indulged with a greater liberty than any other sort of writing.

The ancients justly considered this sort of allegory as the most essential part of poetry; for the power of raising images of things not in being, giving them a form of life and action, and presenting them as it were before the eyes, was thought to have something in it like creation: but then, in such compositions, they always expected to find a meaning couched under them of consequence; and we may reasonably conclude, that the allegories of their poets would never have been handed down to us, had they been deficient in this respect.

As the fable is the part immediately offered to the reader's consideration, and intended as an agreeable vehicle of a just hicle to convey the moral, it ought to be bold, lively, and surprising, that it may excite curiosity and support attention; for if the fable be spiritless and barren of invention, the attention will be disengaged, and the moral, however useful and important in itself, will be little regarded.

There must likewise be a justness and propriety in the fable, that is, it must be closely connected with the subject on which it is employed; for notwithstanding the boundless compass allowed the imagination in these writings, nothing absurd or useless is to be introduced. In epic poetry some things may perhaps be admitted for no other reason but to surprize, and to raise what is called the wonderful, which is as necessary to the epic as the probable; but in allegories, however wild and extravagant the fable and the persons introduced, each must correspond with the subject they are applied to, and, like the members of a well-written simile, bear a due proportion and relation to each other: for we are to consider, that the allegory is a sort of extended or rather multiplied simile, and therefore, like that, should never lose the subject it is intended to illustrate. Whence it will appear, that genius and fancy are here insufficient without the aid of taste and judgment: these first, indeed, may produce a multitude of ornaments, a wilderness of sweets; but the last must be employed to accommodate them to reason, and to arrange them so as to produce pleasure and profit.

But it is not sufficient that the fable be correspondent with the subject, and have the properties above described; for it must also be consistent with itself. The poet may invent what story he pleases, and form any imaginary beings that his fancy shall suggest; but here, as in dramatic writings, when persons are once introduced, they must be supported to the end, and all speak and act in character: for notwithstanding the general licence here allowed, some order must be observed; and however wild and extravagant the characters, they should not be absurd. To this let me add, that the whole must be clear and intelligible; for the "fable (as Mr Hughes observes) being designed only to clothe and adorn the moral, but not to hide it, should resemble the draperies we admire in some of the ancient statues, in which the folds are not too many nor too thick, but so judiciously ordered, that the shape and beauty of the limbs may be seen through them."

But this will more obviously appear from a perusal of the best compositions of this class; such as Spenser's Fairy Queen, Thomson's Castle of Indolence, Addison and Johnson's beautiful allegories in the Spectator and Rambler, &c. &c.

The word allegory has been used in a more extensive sense than that in which we have here applied it: for all writings, where the moral is conveyed under the cover of borrowed characters and actions, by which other characters and actions (that are real) are represented, have obtained the name of allegories; though the fable or story contains nothing that is visionary or romantic, but is made up of real or historical persons, and of actions either probable or possible. But these writings should undoubtedly be distinguished by some other name, because the literal sense is consistent with right reason, and may convey an useful moral, and satisfy the reader, without putting him under the necessity of seeking for another.

Some of the ancient critics, as Mr Addison observes, were fond of giving the works of their poets this second or concealed meaning, though there was no apparent necessity for the attempt, and often but little show of reason in the application. Thus the Iliad and Odyssey of Homer are said to be fables of this kind, and that the gods and heroes introduced are only the affections of the mind represented in a visible shape and character. They tell us, says he, that Achilles in the first Iliad represents anger, or the irascible part of human nature: that upon drawing his sword against his superior, in a full assembly, Pallas (which, say they, is another name for reason) checks and advises him on the occasion, and at her first appearance touches him upon the head; that part of the man being looked upon as the seat of reason. In this sense, as Mr Hughes has well observed, the whole Aeneis of Virgil may be said to be an allegory, if you suppose Aeneas to represent Augustus Caesar, and that his conducting the remains of his countrymen from the ruins of Troy, to a new settlement in Italy, is an emblem of Augustus's forming a new government out of the ruins of the aristocracy, and establishing the Romans, after the conclusion of the civil war, in a peaceable and flourishing condition. However ingenious this coincidence may appear, and whatever design Virgil had in view, he has avoided a particular and direct application, and so conducted his poem, that it is perfect without any allegorical interpretation; for whether we consider Aeneas or Augustus as the hero, the morals contained are equally instructive. And indeed it seems absurd to suppose, that because the epic poets have introduced some allegories into their works, every thing is to be understood in a mystical manner, where the sense is plain and evident without any such application. Nor is the attempt that Tasso made to turn his Jerusalem into a mystery, any particular recommendation of the work: for notwithstanding he tells us, in what is called the allegory, printed with it, that the Christian army represents man, the city of Jerusalem civil happiness, Godfrey the understanding, Rinaldo and Tancred the other powers of the soul, and that the body is typified by the common soldiers and the like; yet the reader will find himself as little delighted as edified by the explication: for the mind has little pleasure in an allegory that cannot be opened without a key made by the hand of the same artist; and indeed every allegory that is too dark, and, as it were, inexplicable, loses its very essence, and becomes an enigma or riddle, that is left to be interpreted by every crude imagination.

This last species of writing, whether called an allegory, or by any other name, is not less eminent and parable useful; for the introducing of real or historical persons may not abridge or lessen either our entertainment or instruction. In these compositions we often meet with an uncommon moral conveyed by the fable in a new and entertaining manner; or with a known truth so artfully decorated, and placed in such a new and beautiful light, that we are amazed how anything so charming and useful should so long have escaped our observation. Such, for example, are many of Johnson's pieces published in the Rambler under the title of Eastern Stories, and by Hawkeworth in the Adventurer.

The ancient parables are of this species of writing: and it is to be observed, that those in the New Testament have a most remarkable elegance and propriety; and are the most striking, and the most instructive, for being drawn from objects that are familiar.—The more striking, because, as the things are seen, the moral conveyed becomes the object of our senses, and requires little or no reflection:—the more instructive, because every time they are seen, the memory is awakened, and the same moral is again exhibited with pleasure to the mind, and accustoms it to reason and dwell on the subject. So that this method of instruction improves nature, as it were, into a book of life; since every thing before us may be so managed, as to give lessons for our advantage. Our Saviour's parables of the sower and the seed, of the tares, of the mustard-seed, and of the leaven (Matthew xiii.), are all of this kind, and were obviously taken from the harvest just ripening before him; for his disciples plucked the ears of corn and did eat, rubbing them in their hands. See the articles Allegory, and Metaphor and Allegory, in the general alphabet. No method of instruction has been more ancient, more universal, and probably none more effectual, than that by apologue or fable. In the first ages, amongst a rude and fierce people, this perhaps was the only method that would have been borne; and even since the progress of learning has furnished other helps, the fable, which at first was used through necessity, is retained from choice, on account of the elegant happiness of its manner, and the refined address with which, when well conducted, it infuses its moral.

As to the actors in this little drama, the fabulist has authority to press into his service every kind of existence under heaven; not only beasts, birds, insects, and all the animal creation; but flowers, shrubs, trees, and all the tribe of vegetables. Even mountains, fossils, minerals, and the inanimate works of nature, discourse articulately at his command, and act the part which he assigns them. The virtues, vices, and every property of beings, receive from him a local habitation and a name. In short, he may personify, bestow life, speech, and action, on whatever he thinks proper.

It is easy to imagine what a source of novelty and variety this must open to a genius capable of conceiving and of employing these ideal persons in a proper manner; what an opportunity it affords him to diversify his images, and to treat the fancy with changes of objects, while he strengthens the understanding, or regulates the passions, by a succession of truths. To raise beings like these into a state of action and intelligence, gives the fabulist an undoubted claim to that first character of the poet, a creator.

When these persons are once raised, we must carefully endow them proper tasks, and assign them sentiments and language suitable to their several natures and respective properties. A raven should not be extolled for her voice, nor a bear be represented with an elegant shape. It were a very obvious instance of absurdity, to paint a hare cruel, or a wolf companionate. An ass were but ill qualified to be general of an army, though he may well enough serve, perhaps, for one of the trumpeters. But so long as popular opinion allows to the lion magnanimity, rage to the tiger, strength to the mule, cunning to the fox, and buffoonery to the monkey; why may not they support the characters of an Agamemnon, Achilles, Ajax, Ulysses, and Therites? The truth is, when moral actions are with judgment attributed to the brute creation, we scarce perceive that nature is at all violated by the fabulist. He appears at most to have only translated their language. His lions, wolves, and foxes, behave and argue as those creatures would, had they originally been endowed with the human faculties of speech and reason.

But greater art is yet required whenever we personify inanimate beings. Here the copy so far deviates from the great lines of nature, that, without the nicest care, reason will revolt against the fiction. However, beings of this sort, managed ingeniously and with address, recommend the fabulist's invention by the grace of novelty and of variety. Indeed the analogy between things natural and artificial, animate and inanimate, is often very striking, that we can, with seeming propriety, give

passions and sentiments to every individual part of existence. Appearance favours the deception. The vine may be enamoured of the elm; her embraces testify her passion. The swelling mountain may, naturally enough, be delivered of a mouse. The gourd may reproach the pine, and the sky-rocket insult the stars. The axe may solicit a new handle of the forest; and the moon, in her female character, request a fashionable garment. Here is nothing incongruous; nothing that shocks the reader with impropriety. On the other hand, were the axe to defy a periwig, and the moon petition for a new pair of boots, probability would then be violated, and the absurdity become too glaring.

The most beautiful fables that ever were invented may be disfigured by the language in which they are clothed. Of this poor Ælop, in some of his English drestes, affords a melancholy proof. The ordinary style of fable should the proper style of fable.

The familiar, says M. La Motte, is the general tone or accent of fable. It was thought sufficient, on its first appearance, to lend the animals our most common language. Nor indeed have they any extraordinary pretensions to the sublime; it being requisite they should speak with the same simplicity that they behave.

The familiar also is more proper for infirmation than the elevated; this being the language of reflection, as the former is the voice of sentiment. We guard ourselves against the one, but lie open to the other; and infirmation will always the most effectually sway us, when it appears least jealous of its rights and privileges.

The familiar style, however, that is here required, notwithstanding that appearance of ease which is its character, is perhaps more difficult to write than the more elevated or sublime. A writer more readily perceives when he has risen above the common language, than he perceives, in speaking this language, whether he has made the choice that is most suitable to the occasion: and it is nevertheless, upon this happy choice that all the charms of the familiar depend. Moreover, the elevated style deceives and seduces, although it be not the best chosen; whereas the familiar can procure itself no fort of respect, if it be not easy, natural, just, delicate, and unaffected. A fabulist must therefore below great attention upon his style; and even labour it so much the more, that it may appear to have cost him no pains at all.

The authority of Fontaine justifies these opinions in regard to style. His fables are perhaps the best examples of the genteel familiar, as Sir Roger l'Estrange affords the grossest of the indelicate and low. When we read, that "while the frog and the mouse were disputing it at swords-point, down comes a kite powdering upon them in the interim, and gobbles up both together to part the fray;" and "where the fox reproaches a bevy of jolly goffipping wenches making merry over a dish of pullets, that if he but peeped into a hen-roost, they always made a bawling with their dogs and their bastards; while you yourselves (says he) can lie stuffing your guts with your hens and capons, and not a word of the pudding." This may be familiar; but it is also coarse and vulgar, and cannot fail to disgust a reader that has the least degree of taste or delicacy.

The style of fable then must be simple and familiar; and it must likewise be correct and elegant. By the former, Of Fables, former, we mean, that it should not be loaded with figure and metaphor; that the disposition of words be natural, the turn of sentences easy, and their construction unembarrassed. By elegance, we would exclude all coarse and provincial terms; all affected and puerile conceits; all obsolete and pedantic phrases. To this we would adjoin, as the word perhaps implies, a certain finishing polish, which gives a grace and spirit to the whole; and which, though it have always the appearance of nature, is almost ever the effect of art.

But notwithstanding all that has been said, there are some occasions on which it is allowable, and even expedient, to change the style. The language of a fable must rise or fall in conformity to the subject. A lion, when introduced in his regal capacity, must hold discourse in a strain somewhat more elevated than a country mouse. The lioness then becomes his queen, and the beasts of the forest are called his subjects; a method that offers at once to the imagination both the animal and the person he is designed to represent. Again, the buffoon-monkey should avoid that pomp of phrase, which the owl employs as her best pretence to wisdom. Unless the style be thus judiciously varied, it will be impossible to preserve a just distinction of character.

Descriptions, at once concise and pertinent, add a grace to fable; but are then most happy when included in the action: whereof the fable of Boreas and the Sun affords us an example. An epithet well chosen is often a description in itself; and so much the more agreeable, as it less retards us in our pursuit of the catastrophe.

Lastly, little strokes of humour when arising naturally from the subject, and incidental reflections when kept in due subordination to the principal, add a value to these compositions. These latter, however, should be employed very sparingly, and with great address; be very few, and very short: it is scarcely enough that they naturally spring out of the subject; they should be such as to appear necessary and essential parts of the fable. And when these embellishments, pleasing in themselves, tend to illustrate the main action, they then afford that nameless grace remarkable in Fontaine and some few others, and which persons of the best discernment will more easily conceive than they can explain.

Sect. X. Of Satire.

This kind of poem is of very ancient date, and (if we believe Horace) was introduced, by way of interlude, by the Greek dramatic poets in their tragedies, to relieve the audience, and take off the force of those strokes which they thought too deep and affecting. In these satirical interludes, the scene was laid in the country; and the persons were rural deities, satyrs, country peasants, and other rustics.

The first Tragedians found that serious style Too grave for their uncultivated age, And so brought wild and naked satyrs in (Whose motion, words, and shape, were all a farce) As oft as decency would give them leave; Because the mad, ungovernable rout, Full of confusion and the fumes of wine, Lov'd such variety and antic tricks.

Roscommon's Horace.

The satire we now have is generally allowed to be of Roman invention. It was first introduced without the decorations of scenes and action; but written in verses of different measures by Ennius, and afterwards moulded into the form we now have it by Lucilius, whom Horace has imitated, and mentions with esteem. This is the opinion of most of the critics, and particularly of Boileau, who says,

Lucilius led the way, and bravely bold, To Roman vices did the mirror hold; Protected humble goodness from reproach, Show'd worth on feet, and rascals in a coach. Horace his pleasing wit to this did add, That none, uncurst'd, might be fools or mad: And Juvenal, with rhetorician's rage, Scourg'd the rank vices of a wicked age; Tho' horrid truths thro' all his labours shine, In what he writes there's something of divine.

Our satire, therefore, may be distinguished into two kinds; the jocose, or that which makes sport with vice and folly, and sets them up to ridicule; and the ferious, or that which deals in asperity, and is severe and acrimonious. Horace is a perfect master of the first, and Juvenal much admired for the last. The one is facetious, and smiles; the other is angry, and storms. The foiblés of mankind are the object of one; but crimes of a deeper dye have engaged the other. They both agree, however, in being pungent and biting: and from a due consideration of the writings of these authors, who are our masters in this art, we may define satire to be, A free, (and often jocose), witty, and sharp poem, wherein the follies and vices of men are laathed and ridiculed in order to their reformation. Its subject is whatever deserves our contempt or abhorrence, (including every thing that is ridiculous and absurd, or scandalous and repugnant to the golden precepts of religion and virtue). Its manner is invective; and its end, shame. So that satire may be looked upon as the physician of a distempered mind, which it endeavours to cure by bitter and unfavourable, or by pleasant and salutary, applications.

A good satirist ought to be a man of wit and address, sagacity and eloquence. He should also have a great deal of good-nature, as all the sentiments which satire are beautiful in this way of writing must proceed from that quality in the author. It is good-nature produces that disdain of all baseness, vice, and folly, which prompts the poet to express himself with such smartness against the errors of men, but without bitterness to their persons. It is this quality that keeps the mind even, and never lets an offence unseasonably throw the satirist out of his character.

In writing satire, care should be taken that it be true and general; that is, levelled at abuses in which numbers are concerned: for the personal kind of satire, or lampoon, which exposes particular characters, and affects the reputation of those at whom it is pointed, is scarcely to be distinguished from scandal and defamation. The poet also, whilst he is endeavouring to correct the guilty, must take care not to use such expressions as may corrupt the innocent: he must therefore avoid all obscene words and images that tend to debauch and mislead the mind. Horace and Juvenal, the chief satirists among Part II.

Of Satire.

among the Romans, are faulty in this respect, and ought to be read with caution.

The style proper for satire is sometimes grave and animated, inveighing against vice with warmth and earnestness; but that which is pleasant, sportive, and, with becoming raillery, banter men out of their bad disposition, has generally the best effect, as it seems only to play with their follies, though it omits no opportunity of making them feel the lash. The verses should be smooth and flowing, and the language manly, just, and decent.

Of well-chosen words some take not care enough, And think they should be as the subject rough: But satire must be more exactly made, And sharpest thoughts in smoothest words convey'd.

Duke of Bucks's Effay.

Satires, either of the jocose or serious kind, may be written in the epistolary manner, or by way of dialogue. Horace, Juvenal, and Persius, have given us examples of both. Nay, some of Horace's satires may, without incongruity, be called epistles, and his epistles satires. But this is obvious to every reader.

Of the facetious kind, the second satire of the second book of Horace imitated by Mr Pope, and Swift's verses on his own death, may be referred to as examples.

As to those satires of the serious kind, for which Juvenal is so much distinguished, the characteristic properties of which are, morality, dignity, and severity; a better example cannot be mentioned than the poem entitled London, written in imitation of the third satire of Juvenal, by Dr Johnson, who has kept up to the spirit and force of the original.

Nor must we omit to mention Dr Young's Love of Fame the Universal Pallasion, in seven satires; which, though characteristic, abound with morality and good sense. The characters are well selected, the ridicule is high, and the satire well pointed and to the purpose.

We have already observed, that personal satire approaches too near defamation, to deserve any countenance or encouragement. Dryden's Mock Flecknoe is for this reason exceptionable, but as a composition it is inimitable.

We have dwelt thus long on the present subject, because there is reason to apprehend, that the benefits arising from well-conducted satire have not been sufficiently considered. A satire may often do more service to the cause of religion and virtue than a sermon; since it gives pleasure, at the same time that it creates fear or indignation, and conveys its sentiments in a manner the most likely to captivate the mind.

Of all the ways that wisest men could find To mend the age and mortify mankind, Satire well writ has most successful prov'd, And cures, because the remedy is lov'd.

Duke of Bucks's Effay.

But to produce the desired effect, it must be jocose, free, and impartial, though severe. The satirist should always preserve good humour; and, however keen he cuts, should cut with kindness. When he loses temper, his weapons will be inverted, and the ridicule he threw at others will retort with contempt upon himself: for the reader will perceive that he is angry and hurt, and consider his satire as the effect of malice, not of judgment; and that it is intended rather to wound persons than reform manners.

Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down: A satyr's smile is sharper than his frown.

The best, and indeed the only, method to expose vice and folly effectually, is to turn them to ridicule, and hold them up for public contempt; and as it most offends these objects of satire, so it least hurts ourselves. One pallion frequently drives out another; and as we cannot look with indifference on the bad actions of men (for they must excite either our wrath or contempt), it is prudent to give way to that which most offends vice and folly, and least affects ourselves; and to sneer and laugh, rather than be angry and scold.

Burlesque poetry, which is chiefly used by way of drollery and ridicule, falls properly to be spoken under the head of satire. An excellent example of this kind is a poem in blank verse, intitled The Splendid Hudibras. Shilling, written by Mr John Philips, which, in the opinion of one of the best judges of the age, is the finest burlesque in the English language. In this poem the author has handled a low subject in the lofty style and numbers of Milton; in which way of writing Mr Philips has been imitated by several, but none have come up to the humour and happy turn of the original. When we read it, we are betrayed into a pleasure that we could not expect; though, at the same time, the sublimity of the style, and gravity of the phrase, seem to chastise that laughter which they provoke.

There is another sort of verse and style, which is most frequently made use of in treating any subject in a ludicrous manner, viz. that which is generally called Hudibrastic, from Butler's admirable poem intitled Hudibras. Almost every one knows, that this poem is a satire upon the authors of our civil diffusions in the reign of King Charles I. wherein the poet has, with abundance of wit and humour, exposed and ridiculed the hypocrisy or blind zeal of those unhappy times. In short, it is a kind of burlesque epic poem, which, for the oddity of the rhymes, the quaintness of the families, the novelty of the thoughts, and that fine raillery which runs through the whole performance, is not to be paralleled.

Sect. XI. Of the Epigram.

The epigram is a little poem, or composition in verse, treating of one thing only, and whose distinguishing characters are, brevity, beauty, and point.

The word epigram signifies "inscription;" for epigrams derive their origin from those inscriptions placed by the ancients on their statues, temples, pillars, triumphal arches, and the like; which, at first, were very short, being sometimes no more than a single word; but afterwards, increasing their length, they made them in verse, to be the better retained by the memory. This short way of writing came at last to be used upon any occasion or subject; and hence the name of epigram has been given to any little copy of verses, without regard to the original application of such poems.

Its usual limits are from two to twenty verses, though sometimes it extends to fifty; but the shorter, the better it is, and the more perfect, as it partakes more of the nature nature and character of this kind of poem: besides, the epigram, being only a single thought, ought to be expressed in a little compass, or else it loses its force and strength.

The beauty required in an epigram is an harmony and apt agreement of all its parts, a sweet simplicity, and polite language.

The point is a sharp, lively, unexpected turn of wit, with which an epigram ought to be concluded. There are some critics, indeed, who will not admit the point in an epigram; but require that the thought be equally diffused through the whole poem, which is usually the practice of Catullus, as the former is that of Martial. It is allowed there is more delicacy in the manner of Catullus; but the point is more agreeable to the general taste, and seems to be the chief characteristic of the epigram.

This sort of poem admits of all manner of subjects, provided that brevity, beauty, and point, are preferred; but it is generally employed either in praise or satire.

Though the best epigrams are said to be such as are comprised in two or four verses, we are not to understand it as if none can be perfect which exceed those limits. Neither the ancients nor moderns have been so scrupulous with respect to the length of their epigrams; but, however, brevity in general is always to be studied in these compositions.

For examples of good epigrams in the English language, we shall make choice of several in the different styles we have mentioned; some remarkable for their delicate turn and simplicity of expression; and others for their salt and sharpness, their equivocating pun, or pleasant allusion. In the first place, take that of Mr Pope, said to be written on a glass with the earl of Chesterfield's diamond-pencil.

Accept a miracle, instead of wit; See two dull lines by Stanhope's pencil writ.

The beauty of this epigram is more easily seen than described; and it is difficult to determine, whether it does more honour to the poet who wrote it, or to the nobleman for whom the compliment is designed.—The following epigram of Mr Prior is written in the same taste, being a fine encomium on the performance of an excellent painter.

On a Flower, painted by Varelst.

When fam'd Varelst this little wonder drew, Flora vouchsafe'd the growing work to view; Finding the painter's science at a stand, The goddefs snatch'd the pencil from his hand, And, finishing the piece, the smiling said, Behold one work of mine which ne'er shall fade.

Another compliment of this delicate kind he has made Mr Howard in the following epigram.

Venus Mistaken.

When Chloe's picture was to Venus shown; Surpris'd, the goddefs took it for her own. And what, said she, does this bold painter mean? When was I bathing thus, and naked seen? Pleas'd Cupid heard, and check'd his mother's pride: And who's blind now, mamma? the urchin cry'd.

'Tis Chloe's eye, and cheek, and lip, and breast: Friend Howard's genius fancy'd all the rest.

Most of Mr Prior's epigrams are of this delicate cast, and have the thought, like those of Catullus, diffused through the whole. Of this kind is his address

To Chloe Weeping.

See, whilst thou weep'st, fair Chloe, see The world in sympathy with thee. The cheerful birds no longer sing, Each drops his head, and hangs his wing. The clouds have bent their bosom lower, And shed their sorrow in a shower. The brooks beyond their limits flow, And louder murmurs speak their wo: The nymphs and swains adopt thy cares; They heave thy sighs, and weep thy tears. Fantastic nymph! that grief should move Thy heart obdurate against love. Strange tears! whose pow'r can soften all But that dear breast on which they fall.

The epigram written on the leaves of a fan by Dr Atterbury, late bishop of Rochester, contains a pretty thought, expressed with ease and conciseness, and closed in a beautiful manner.

On a Fan.

Flavia the least and slightest toy Can with restless art employ. This fan in meaner hands would prove An engine of small force in love. Yet she, with graceful air and men, Not to be told or safely seen, Directs its wanton motion so, That it wounds more than Cupid's bow, Gives coolness to the matchless dame, To ev'ry other breast a flame.

We shall now select some epigrams of the biting and for their satirical kind, and such as turn upon the pun or equi-point, vogue, as the French call it: in which sort the point is more conspicuous than in those of the former character.

The following distich is an admirable epigram, having all the necessary qualities of one, especially point and brevity.

On a Company of bad Dancers to good Music.

How ill the motion with the music suits! So Orpheus fiddled, and so dance'd the brutes.

This brings to mind another epigram upon a bad fiddler, which we shall venture to insert merely for the humour of it, and not for any real excellence it contains.

To a bad Fiddler.

Old Orpheus play'd so well, he mov'd Old Nick; But thou mov'st nothing but thy fiddle stick.

One of Martial's epigrams, where he agreeably rallies the foolish vanity of a man who hired people to make verses for him, and publish them as his own, has been thus translated into English.

Paul, so fond of the name of a poet is grown, With gold he buys verses, and calls them his own. Go on, master Paul, nor mind what the world says, They are surely his own for which a man pays.

Some bad writer having taken the liberty to censure Mr Prior, the poet very wittily lashed his impertinence in this epigram:

While faster than his coifive brain indites Philo's quick hand in flowing letters writes, His case appears to me like honest Teague's When he was run away with by his legs. Phoebus, give Philo o'er himself command; Quicken his senses, or restrain his hand: Let him be kept from paper, pen, and ink; So he may cease to write, and learn to think.

Mr Wesley has given us a pretty epigram, alluding to a well-known text of Scripture on the setting up a monument in Westminster Abbey, to the memory of the ingenious Mr Butler, author of Hudibras.

While Butler, needy wretch, was yet alive, No generous patron would a dinner give. See him when starv'd to death, and turn'd to dust, Prefaced with a monumental bust! The poet's fate is here in emblem shown; He ask'd for Bread, and he receiv'd a Stone.

We shall close this section with an epigram written on the well-known story of Apollo and Daphne, by Mr Smart.

When Phoebus was amorous and long'd to be rude, Miss Daphne cry'd Pith! and ran swift to the wood; And rather than do such a naughty affair, She became a fine laurel to deck the god's hair. The nymph was, no doubt, of a cold constitution; For sure, to turn tree was an odd resolution! Yet in this she behav'd like a true modern spouse, For she fled from his arms to distinguish his brows.

Sect. XII. Of the Epitaph.

These compositions generally contain some eulogium of the virtues and good qualities of the deceased, and have a turn of seriousness and gravity adapted to the nature of the subject. Their elegance consists in a nervous and expressive brevity; and sometimes they are clothed with an epigrammatic point. In these composi- tions, no mere epithet (properly so called) should be admitted: for here illustration would impair the strength, and render the sentiment too diffuse and languid. Words that are synonymous are also to be rejected.

Though the true characteristic of the epitaph is se- riousness and gravity, yet we may find many that are jocose and ludicrous: some likewise have true metre and rhyme; while others are between prose and verse, without any certain measure, though the words are truly poetical; and the beauty of this last sort is generally heightened by an apt and judicious antithesis. We shall give examples of each.

The following epitaph on Sir Philip Sydney's sister, the countess of Pembroke, said to be written by the fa- mous Ben Jonson, is remarkable for the noble thought with which it concludes.

On Mary Countess-dowager of PEMBROKE.

Underneath this marble hearse, Lies the subject of all verse, Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother; Death, ere thou hast kill'd another Fair, and learn'd, and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee.

Take another epitaph of Ben Jonson's, on a beauti- ful and virtuous lady, which has been deservedly admir- ed by very good judges.

Underneath this stone doth lie As much virtue as could die; Which when alive did vigour give To as much beauty as could live.

The following epitaph by Dr Samuel Johnson, on a musician much celebrated for his performance, will bear a comparison with these, or perhaps with any thing of the kind in the English language.

Philips! whose touch harmonious could remove The pangs of guilty pow'r and hapless love, Rest here, distrest by poverty no more; Find here that calm thou gav'st so oft before; Sleep undisturb'd within this peaceful shrine, Till angels wake thee with a note like thine.

It is the just observation of an eminent critic, that the best subject for epitaphs is private virtue; virtue exerted in the same circumstances in which the bulk of mankind are placed, and which, therefore, may admit of many imitators. He that has delivered his country from oppression, or freed the world from ignorance and error, besides that he stands in no need of monumental panegyric, can excite the emulation of a very small number. The bare name of such men answers every purpose of a long inscription, because their achievements are universally known, and their fame is immortal.— But the virtues of him who has repelled the tempta- tions of poverty, and disdained to free himself from di- stress at the expense of his honour or his conscience, as they were practised in private, are fit to be told, because they may animate multitudes to the same firmness of heart and steadfastness of resolution. On this account, there are few epitaphs of more value than the following, which was written by Pope on Mrs Corbet, who died of a cancer in her breast.

Here rests a woman, good without pretence, Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense; No conquest she, but o'er herself desir'd; No arts effay'd, but not to be admir'd. Passion and pride were to her soul unknown, Convinced that virtue only is our own. So unaffected, so compos'd a mind, So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refin'd, Heav'n, as its purest gold, by tortures try'd; The saint sustain'd it, but the woman dy'd.

This epitaph, as well as the second quoted from Ben Jonson, has indeed one fault; the name is omitted. The end of an epitaph is to convey some account of the dead; and to what purpose is anything told of him whose name is concealed? The name, it is true, may be inscribed by itself upon the stone; but such a shift of the poet is like that of an unskilful painter, who is obliged to make his purpose known by adventitious help.

Amongst the epitaphs of a punning and ludicrous cast, we know of none prettier than that which is said to have been written by Mr Prior on himself, wherein he is pleasantly satirical upon the folly of those who value themselves upon account of the long series of ancestors through which they can trace their pedigree.

Nobles and heralds, by your leave, Here lie the bones of Matthew Prior, The son of Adam and of Eve: Let Bourbon or Nassau go higher.

The following epitaph on a miser contains a good caution and an agreeable raillery.

Reader, beware immoderate love of pelf: Here lies the worst of thieves, who robb'd himself.

But Dr Swift's epitaph on the same subject is a masterpiece of the kind.

Beneath this verdant hillock lies Demer, the wealthy and the wife. His heirs, that he might safely rest, Have put his carcass in a chest: The very chest, in which, they say, His other self, his money, lay. And if his heirs continue kind To that dear self he left behind, I dare believe that four in five Will think his better half alive.

We shall give but one example more of this kind, which is a merry epitaph on an old fiddler, who was remarkable (we may suppose) for beating time to his own music.

On Stephen the Fiddler.

Stephen and time are now both even; Stephen beat time, now time's beat Stephen.

We are come now to that sort of epitaph which rejects rhyme, and has no certain and determinate measure; but where the diction must be pure and strong, every word have weight, and the antithesis be preserved in a clear and direct opposition. We cannot give a better example of this sort of epitaph than that on the tomb of Mr Pulteney in the cloisters of Westminster-abbey.

Reader, If thou art a Briton, Behold this Tomb with Reverence and Regret: Here lie the Remains of Daniel Pulteney, The kindest Relation, the truest Friend, The warmest Patriot, the worthiest Man. He exercised Virtues in this Age, Sufficient to have distinguished him even in the best. Sagacious by Nature, Industrious by Habit, Inquisitive with art; He gain'd a complete Knowledge of the state of Britain, Foreign and Domestic;

In most the backward Fruit of tedious Experience, In him the early acquisition of undiluted Youth. He serv'd the Court several Years: Abroad, in the auspicious reign of Queen Anne; At home, in the reign of that excellent prince K. George I. He serv'd his Country always, At Court independent, In the Senate unbias'd, At every Age, and in every Station, This was the bent of his generous Soul, This the business of his laborious Life. Public Men, and Public Things, He judged by one constant Standard, The True Interest of Britain: He made no other Distinction of Party, He abhorred all other. Gentle, humane, disinterested, beneficent, He created no Enemies on his own Account: Firm, determined, inflexible, He feared none he could create in the Cause of Britain.

Reader, In this Misfortune of thy Country lament thy own: For know The Loss of so much private Virtue Is a public Calamity.

That poignant satire, as well as extravagant praise, satirical, may be conveyed in this manner, will be seen by the following epitaph written by Dr Arbuthnot on Francis Charteris; which is too well known, and too much admired, to need our commendation.

Here continueth to rot The body of FRANCIS CHARTERIS, Who with an INFLEXIBLE CONSTANCY, And INIMITABLE UNIFORMITY of Life, PERSISTED, In spite of AGE and INFIRMITIES, In the Practice of EVERY HUMAN VICE, Excepting PRODIGALITY and HYPOCRISY: His infatinate AVARICE exempted him from the first, His matchless IMPUDENCE from the second. Nor was he more singular In the undeviating PRIVITY of his Manners, Than successful In Accumulating WEALTH: For, without TRADE or PROFESSION, Without TRUST of PUBLIC MONEY, And without BRIBE-WORTHY SERVICE, He acquired, or more properly created, A MINISTERIAL ESTATE. He was the only Person of his Time Who could CHEAT without the Mark of HONESTY; Retain his Primeval MEANNESS When possessed of TEN THOUSAND a-year; And having daily deserved the GIBBET for what he did, Was at last condemn'd to it for what he could not do.

Oh indignant reader! Think not his Life useless to Mankind; PROVIDENCE conniv'd at his execrable designs, To give to After-ages A conspicuous PROOF and EXAMPLE Of how small Estimation is EXORBITANT WEALTH. In the Sight of GOD, By His bestowing it on the most UNWORTHY of ALL MORTALS.

We We shall conclude this species of poetry with a droll and satirical epitaph written by Mr Pope, which we transcribed from a monument in Lord Cobham's gardens at Stow in Buckinghamshire.

To the Memory of Signior Fido, An Italian of good extraction; Who came into England, Not to bite us, like most of his Countrymen, But to gain an honest Livelihood. He hunted not after Fame, Yet acquired it; Regardless of the Praise of his Friends, But most sensible of their Love, Though he lived amongst the Great, He neither learnt nor flattered any Vice. He was no Bigot, Though he doubted of none of the 39 Articles.

And, if to follow Nature, And to respect the laws of Society, Be Philosophy, He was a perfect Philosopher, A faithful Friend, An agreeable Companion, A loving Husband Distinguished by a numerous offspring, All which he lived to see take good Courses. In his old Age he retired To the house of a Clergyman in the country, Where he finished his earthly Race, And died an Honour and an Example to the whole Species.

Reader, This Stone is guiltless of Flattery; For he to whom it is inscrib'd Was not a Man, But a GRE-HOUND.

PART III. ON VERSIFICATION.

On this subject it is meant to confine our inquiry to Latin or Greek hexameters, and to French and English heroic verse; as the observations we shall have occasion to make, may, with proper variations, be easily transferred to the composition of other sorts of verse.

Before entering upon particulars, it must be premised in general, that to verse of every kind five things are of importance. 1st, The number of syllables that compose a line. 2d, The different lengths of syllables, i.e. the difference of time taken in pronouncing. 3d, The arrangement of these syllables combined in words. 4th, The pauses or stops in pronouncing. 5th, Pronouncing syllables in a high or a low tone. The three first mentioned are obviously essential to verse: if any of them be wanting, there cannot be that higher degree of melody which distinguishes verse from prose. To give a just notion of the fourth, it must be observed, that pauses are necessary for three different purposes: one, to separate periods, and members of the same period, according to the sense; another, to improve the melody of verse; and the last, to afford opportunity for drawing breath in reading. A pause of the first kind is variable, being long or short, frequent or less frequent, as the sense requires. A pause of the second kind, being determined by the melody, is in no degree arbitrary. The last sort is in a measure arbitrary, depending on the reader's command of breath. But as one cannot read with grace, unless, for drawing breath, opportunity be taken of a pause in the sense or in the melody, this pause ought never to be distinguished from the others; and for that reason shall be laid aside. With respect then to the pauses of sense and of melody, it may be affirmed without hesitation, that their coincidence in verse is a capital beauty: but as it cannot be expected, in a long work especially, that every line should be so perfect; we shall afterward have occasion to see, that, unless the reader be uncommonly skilful, the pause necessary for the sense must often, in some degree, be sacrificed to the verse-pause, and the latter sometimes to the former.

The pronouncing syllables in a high or low tone contributes also to melody. In reading, whether verse or prose, a certain tone is assumed, which may be called the key-note; and in that tone the bulk of the words are founded. Sometimes to humour the sense, and sometimes the melody, a particular syllable is sounded in a higher tone, and this is termed accenting a syllable, or gracing it with an accent. Opposed to the accent is the cadence, which, however, being entirely regulated by the sense, hath no peculiar relation to verse. The cadence is a falling of the voice below the key-note at the close of every period; and so little is it essential to verse, that in correct reading the final syllable of every line is accented, that syllable only excepted which closes the period, where the sense requires a cadence.

Though the five requisites above mentioned enter the composition of every species of verse, they are however governed by different rules, peculiar to each species. Upon quantity only, one general observation may be premised, because it is applicable to every species of verse. That syllables, with respect to the time taken in pronouncing, are long or short; two short syllables, with respect to time, being precisely equal to a long one. These two lengths are essential to verse of all kinds; and to no verse, it is believed, is a greater variety of time necessary in pronouncing syllables. The voice indeed is frequently made to rest longer than usual upon a word that bears an important signification; but this is done to humour the sense, and is not necessary for melody. A thing not more necessary for melody occurs with respect to accenting, similar to that now mentioned: A word signifying anything humble, low, or dejected, is naturally, in prose as well as in verse, pronounced in a tone below the key-note.

We are now sufficiently prepared for particulars; beginning with Latin or Greek hexameter, which are the same. The observations upon this species of verse will come under the four following heads; number, arrangement, pause, and accent; for as to quantity, what is observed above may suffice.

I. HEXAMETER I. HEXAMETER LINES, as to time, are all of the same length; being equivalent to the time taken in pronouncing twelve long syllables or twenty-four short. An hexameter line may consist of seventeen syllables; and when regular and not spondaic it never has fewer than thirteen; whence it follows, that where the syllables are many, the plurality must be short; where few, the plurality must be long.

This line is susceptible of much variety as to the succession of long and short syllables. It is, however, subjected to laws that confine its variety within certain limits; and for ascertaining these limits, grammarians have invented a rule by dactyls and spondees, which they denominate feet.

Among the ancient Greeks and Romans, these feet regulated the pronunciation, which they are far from doing among us; of which the reason will be discovered from the explanation that we shall give of the English accent. We shall at present content ourselves with pointing out the difference between our pronunciation and that of the Romans in the first line of Virgil's eclogues, where it is scarcely credible how much we pervert the quantity.

Tit'yre tū pat'ulce rec'ubans sub teg'mine fāgi.

It will be acknowledged by every reader who has an ear, that we have placed the accentual marks upon every syllable, and the letter of every syllable, that an Englishman marks with the ictus of his voice when he recites the line. But, as will be seen presently, a syllable which is pronounced with the stress of the voice upon a consonant is uttered in the shortest time possible. Hence it follows, that in this verse, as recited by us, there are but two long syllables, tū and fā; though it is certain, that, as recited by a Roman, it contained no fewer than eight long syllables.

Tīt'yre | tū pā'tūlāē recū'bāns fāb | tēg'mīnē | fāgī.

But though to pronounce it in this manner with the voice dwelling on the vowel of each long syllable would undoubtedly be correct, and preserve the true movement of the verse, yet to an English ear, prejudiced in behalf of a different movement, it sounds very uncouth, that Lord Kames has pronounced the true feet of the Greek and Roman verses extremely artificial and complex; and has substituted in their stead the following rules, which he thinks more simple and of more easy application.

1st. The line must always commence with a long syllable, and close with two long preceded by two short. 2d. More than two short can never be found together, nor fewer than two. And, 3d. Two long syllables which have been preceded by two short cannot also be followed by two short. These few rules fulfil all the conditions of a hexameter line with relation to order or arrangement. For these again a single rule may be substituted, which has also the advantage of regulating more affirmatively the construction of every part. To put this rule into words with perspicuity, a hint is taken from the twelve long syllables that compose an hexameter line, to divide it into twelve equal parts or portions, being each of them one long syllable or two short. The rule then is: "The 1st, 3d, 5th, 7th, 9th, 11th, and 12th portions, must each of them be one long syllable; the 10th must always be two short syllables; the 2d, 4th, 6th, and 8th, may either be one long or two short." Or to express the thing still more shortly, "The 2d, 4th, 6th, and 8th portions may be one long syllable or two short; the 10th must be two short syllables; all the rest must consist each of one long syllable." This fulfils all the conditions of an hexameter line, and comprehends all the combinations of dactyls and spondees that this line admits.

Next in order comes the pause. At the end of every pausa in hexameter line, every one must be sensible of a complete hexameter close or full pause; the cause of which follows. The considered two long syllables preceded by two short, which always affect an hexameter line, are a fine preparation for a melody and pause: for long syllables, or syllables pronounced slow, resembling a slow and languid motion tending to rest, naturally incline the mind to rest, or, which is the same, to pause; and to this inclination the two preceding short syllables contribute, which, by contrast, make the slow pronunciation of the final syllables the more conspicuous. Beside this complete close or full pause at the end, others are also requisite for the sake of melody; of which two are clearly discoverable, and perhaps there may be more. The longest and most remarkable succeeds the 5th portion: the other, which, being shorter and more faint, may be called the semipause, succeeds the 8th portion. So striking is the pause first mentioned, as to be distinguished even by the rudest ear: the monkish rhymes are evidently built upon it; in which, by an invariable rule, the final word always chimes with that which immediately precedes the pause:

De planetu cudo || metrum cum carmine nudo Mingere cum bumbis || res eft saluberrima lumbis.

The difference of time in the pause and semipause occasions another difference not less remarkable; that it is lawful to divide a word by a semipause, but never by a pause, the bad effect of which is sensibly felt in the following examples:

Effusus labor, att|que inmitis rupta Tyranni

Again: Observans nido im||plumes detraxit; stilla

Again: Loricam quan De||moleo detraxerat ipse

The dividing a word by a semipause has not the same bad effect:

Jamque pedem referens || casus e|vaferat omnes.

Again: Qualis populea || moerens Philo|mela sub umbra

Again: Ludere quæ vellem || calamo per|misit agresti.

Lines, however, where words are left entire, without being divided even by a semipause, run by that means much the more sweetly.

Nec gemere aërea || ceelabit | turtur ab ulmo.

Again: Quadrupedante putrem || fonitu quatic | ungula campum.

Again: Eurydicen toto || referebant | flumine ripæ.

The reason of these observations will be evident upon the slightest reflection. Between things so intimately connected connected in reading aloud as are sense and sound, every degree of discord is unpleasant; and for that reason it is a matter of importance to make the musical pauses coincide as much as possible with those of sense; which is requisite more especially with respect to the pause, a deviation from the rule being less remarkable in a semi-pause. Considering the matter as to melody solely, it is indifferent whether the pauses be at the end of words or in the middle; but when we carry the sense along, it is disagreeable to find a word split into two by a pause, as if there were really two words: and though the disagreeableness here be connected with the sense only, it is by an easy transition of perceptions transferred to the sound; by which means we conceive a line to be harsh and grating to the ear, when in reality it is only so to the understanding.

To the rule that fixes the pause after the 5th portion there is one exception and no more. If the syllable succeeding the 5th portion be short, the pause is sometimes postponed to it.

Pupillis quos dura || premitt custodia matrum

Again:

In terras oppressa || gravi sub religione

Again:

Et quorum pars magna || sui; quis talia fando

This contributes to diversify the melody; and, where the words are smooth and liquid, is not ungraceful; as in the following examples:

Formosam refonare || doces Amaryllida sylvas

Again:

Agricolae, quibus ipsa || procul discordibus armis

If this pause, placed as aforeaid after the short syllable, happen also to divide a word, the melody by these circumstances is totally annihilated. Witness the following line of Ennius, which is plain prose:

Romae moenia terrulit impiger | Hannibal armis.

Hitherto the arrangement of the long and short syllables of a hexameter line, and its different pauses, have been considered with respect to melody: but to have a just notion of hexameter verse, these particulars must also be considered with respect to sense. There is not perhaps any other sort of verse such latitude in the long and short syllables; a circumstance that contributes greatly to that richness of melody which is remarkable in hexameter verse, and which made Aristotle pronounce that an epic poem in any other verse would not succeed*. One defect, however, must not be dissembled, that the same means which contribute to the richness of the melody render it less fit than several other sorts for a narrative poem. There cannot be a more artful contrivance, as above observed, than to clothe a hexameter line with two long syllables preceded by two short; but unhappily this construction proves a great embarrassment to the sense; which will thus be evident. As in general there ought to be a strict concordance between the thought and the words in which it is dressed; so, in particular, every clothe in the sense ought to be accompanied with a clothe in the sound. In prose this law may be strictly observed, but in verse the same strictness would occasion insuperable difficulties. Willing to sacrifice to the melody of verse some share of the concordance between thought and expression, we freely excuse the separation of the musical pause from that of the sense during the course of a line; but the clothe of an hexameter line is too conspicuous to admit this liberty: for which reason there ought always to be some pause in the sense at the end of every hexameter line, were it but such a pause as is marked by a comma; and for the same reason there ought never to be a full clothe in the sense but at the end of a line, because there the melody is cloathed. An hexameter line, to preserve its melody, cannot well admit any great relaxation; and yet, in a narrative poem, it is extremely difficult to adhere strictly to the rule even with these indulgences. Virgil, the chief of poets for versification, is forced often to end a line without any clothe in the sense, and as often to clothe the sense during the running of a line; though a clothe in the melody during the movement of the thought, or a clothe in the thought during the movement of the melody, cannot be agreeable.

The accent, to which we proceed, is not less essential observation than the other circumstances above noticed. By a good ear it will be discerned, that in every line there is one syllable distinguishable from the rest by a capital accent: That syllable, being the seventh portion, is invariably long.

Nec bene promeritis || capitûr nec | tangitur ira

Again:

Non fibi sed toto || genitûm se | credere mundo

Again:

Qualis spelunca || subitâ com|mota columba

In these examples the accent is laid upon the last syllable of a word; which is favourable to the melody in the following respect, that the pause, which for the sake of reading distinctly must follow every word, gives opportunity to prolong the accent. And for that reason, a line thus accented has a more spirited air than when the accent is placed on any other syllable. Compare the foregoing lines with the following.

Alba neque Affyrio || faeâtur | lana veneno

Again:

Panditur interea || domus omnipotentis Olympi

Again:

Olli fedato || respôndit | corde Latinus.

In lines where the pause comes after the short syllable succeeding the 5th portion, the accent is displaced, and rendered less sensible: it seems to be split into two, and to be laid partly on the 5th portion, and partly on the 7th, its usual place; as in

Nuda genu, nodôque || sinûs collecta fluentes.

Again:

Formosam refonare || doces Amaryllida sylvas.

Beside this capital accent, lighter accents are laid upon other portions; particularly upon the 4th, unless where it consists of two short syllables; upon the 9th, which is always a long syllable; and upon the 11th, where where the line concludes with a monosyllable. Such conclusion, by the by, impairs the melody, and for that reason is not to be indulged unless where it is expressive of the sense. The following lines are marked with all the accents.

Ludere quae velllem calamô permîsit agresti

Again:

Et duræ quercus sudâbunt rôscida mella

Again:

Parturiunt mûntes, nascitur ridiculus mus.

Reflecting upon the melody of hexameter verse, we find that order or arrangement doth not constitute the whole of it; for when we compare different lines, equally regular as to the succession of long and short syllables, the melody is found in very different degrees of perfection; which is not occasioned by any particular combination of dactyls and spondees, or of long and short syllables, because we find lines where dactyls prevail, and lines where spondees prevail, equally melodious. Of the former take the following instance:

Æneadum genitrix hominum divumque voluptas.

Of the latter:

Molli paulatim flavescet campus arista.

What can be more different as to melody than the two following lines, which, however, as to the succession of long and short syllables, are constructed precisely in the same manner?

Spond. Daët. Spond. Spond. Daët. Spond.

Ad talos stola dimissa et circumdata palla. Hor.

Spond. Daët. Spond. Spond. Daët. Spond.

Placatumque nitet diffuso lumine coelum. Lucret.

In the former, the pause falls in the middle of a word, which is a great blemish, and the accent is disturbed by a harsh elision of the vowel a upon the particle et. In the latter, the pauses and the accent are all of them distinct and full: there is no elision; and the words are more liquid and sounding. In these particulars consists the beauty of an hexameter line with respect to melody; and by neglecting these, many lines in the satires and epistles of Horace are less agreeable than plain prose; for they are neither the one nor the other in perfection. To draw melody from these lines, they must be pronounced without relation to the sense: it must not be regarded that words are divided by pauses, nor that harsh elisions are multiplied. To add to the account, profane low-sounding words are introduced; and, which is still worse, accents are laid on them. Of such faulty lines take the following instances.

Candida rectaque fit, munda lacte tus fit neque longa. Jupiter exclamat simul atque audit; at in se Custodes, leæca, cinifiones, parasite Optimus est moderator, ut Alfenus Vafer omni Nunc illud tantum queram, meritone tibi fit.

These observations on pauses and semi-pauses, and on the structure of an hexameter line, are doubtless ingenious; but it is by no means certain that a strict attention to them would afflit any man in the writing of such verses as would have been pleasing to a Roman ear. Many of his lordship's rules have no other foundation than what rests on our improper mode of accenting Latin words; which to Virgil or Lucretius would probably have been as offensive as the Scotch accent is to a native of Middlesex.

II. Next in order comes English heroic verse; which shall be examined under the heads of number, accent, quantity, movement, and pause. These have been treated in so clear and matterly a manner by Sheridan in his Art of Reading, that we shall have little more to do than abridge his doctrine, and point out the few instances in which attachment to a system and partiality to his native tongue seem to have betrayed him into error, or at least made him carry to an extreme what is just only when used with moderation.

"Numbers, in the strict sense of the word*, whether* Art of Reading, vol. ii. with regard to poetry or music, consist in certain impressions made on the ear at stated and regular distances. The lowest species of numbers is a double stroke of the same note or sound, repeated a certain number of times, at equal distances. The repetition of the same single note in a continued series, and exactly at equal distances, like the ticking of a clock, has in it nothing numerous; but the same note, twice struck a certain number of times, with a pause between each repetition of double the time of that between the strokes, is numerous. The reason is, that the pleasure arising from numbers, consists in the observation of proportion; now the repetition of the same note, in exactly the same intervals, will admit of no proportion. But the same note twice struck, with the pause of one between the two strokes, and repeated again at the distance of a pause equal to two, admits of the proportional measurement in the pauses of two to one, to which time can be beaten, and is the lowest and simplest species of numbers. It may be exemplified on the drum, as tu-m-tu-m--tu-m-tu-m--tu-m-tu-m, &c.

"The next progression of numbers is, when the same note is repeated, but in such a way as that one makes a more sensible impression on the ear than the other, by being more forcibly struck, and therefore having a greater degree of loudness; as ti-tu-m--ti-tu-m; or, tu-m-ti--tu-m-ti: or when two weak notes precede a more forcible one, as ti-ti-tu-m--ti-ti-tu-m; or when the weak notes follow the forcible one, tu-m-ti--ti-tu-m-ti-ti.

"In the first and lowest species of numbers which we have mentioned, as the notes are exactly the same in every respect, there can be no proportion observed but in the time of the pauses. In the second, which rises in a degree just above the other, though the notes are still the same, yet there is a diversity to be observed in their respective loudness and softness, and therefore a measurable proportion of the quantity of sound. In them we must likewise take into consideration the order of the notes, whether they proceed from strong to weak, or from weak to strong; for this diversity of order occasions a great difference in the impressions made upon the ear, and in the effects produced upon the mind. To express the diversity of order in the notes in all its several kinds, the common term movement may be used, as the term measure will properly enough express the different proportions of time both in the pauses and in the notes."

For For it is to be observed, that all notes are not of the same length or on the same key. In poetry, as well as in music, notes may be high or low, flat or sharp; and some of them may be prolonged at pleasure. "Poetic numbers are indeed founded upon the very same principles with those of the musical kind, and are governed by similar laws (see Music). Proportion and order are the sources of the pleasure which we receive from both; and the beauty of each depends upon a due observation of the laws of measure and movement. The essential difference between them is, that the matter of the one is articulate, that of the other inarticulate sounds; but syllables in the one correspond to notes in the other; poetical feet to musical bars; and verses to strains; in a word, they have all like properties, and are governed by laws of the same kind.

"From what has been said, it is evident, that the essence of numbers consists in certain impressions made on the mind through the ear at stated and regular distances of time, with an observation of a relative proportion in those distances; and that the other circumstances of long or short in syllables, or diversity of notes in uttering them, are not essentials but only accidents of poetical numbers. Should this be questioned, the objector might be silenced by having the experiment tried on a drum, on which, although it is incapable of producing long or short, high or low notes, there is no kind of metre which may not be beat. That, therefore, which regulates the series and movement of the impressions given to the ear by the recitation of an English verse, must, when properly disposed, constitute the essence of English poetical numbers; but it is the accent which particularly impresses the sound of certain syllables or letters upon the ear; for in every word there is a syllable or letter accented. The necessity and use of the accent, as well in prose as in verse, we shall therefore proceed to explain.

"As words may be formed of various numbers of syllables, from one up to eight or nine*, it was necessary that there should be some peculiar mark to distinguish words from disjointed syllables, otherwise speech would be nothing but a continued succession of syllables conveying no ideas. This distinction of one word from another might be made by a perceptible pause at the end of each in speaking, analogous to the distance made between them in writing and in printing. But these pauses would make discourse disgustingly tedious; and though they might render words sufficiently distinct, they would make the meaning of sentences extremely confused. Words might also be distinguished from each other, and from a collection of detached syllables, by an elevation or depression of the voice upon one syllable of each word; and this, as is well known to the learned, was the practice of the Greeks and Romans. But the English tongue has for this purpose adopted a mark of the easiest and simplest kind, which is called accent. By accent is meant, a certain stress of the voice, upon a particular letter of a syllable, which distinguishes it from the rest, and at the same time distinguishes the syllable itself to which it belongs from the other syllables which compose the word. Thus, in the word hab'it, the accent upon the b distinguishes that letter from the others, and the first syllable from the last; add more syllables to it, and it will still do the same, as hab'it'able. In the word accep't, the p is the distinguished letter, and the syllable which contains it the distinguished syllable; but if we add more syllables to it, as in the word accep'ta'ble, the seat of the accent is changed to the first syllable, of which c is the distinguished letter. Every word in our language of more syllables than one has one of the syllables distinguished from the rest in this manner, and every monosyllable has a letter. Thus, in the word hat', the t is accented, in hid'e the vowel a, in cub' the b, and in cube the u: so that as articulation is the essence of syllables, accent is the essence of words; which without it would be nothing more than a mere succession of syllables."

We have said, that it was the practice of the Greeks and Romans to elevate or depress their voice upon one syllable of each word. In this elevation or depression consisted their accent; but the English accent consists in the mere stress of the voice, without any change of note.

"Among the Greeks, all syllables were pronounced either in a high, low, or middle note; or else in a union of the high and low by means of the intermediate. The middle note, which was exactly at an equal distance between the high and the low, was that in which the unaccented syllables were pronounced. But every word had one letter, if a monosyllable; or one syllable, if it consisted of more than one, distinguished from the rest; either by a note of the voice perceptibly higher than the middle note, which was called the acute accent; or by a note perceptibly, and in an equal proportion, lower than the middle one, which was called the grave accent; or by an union of the acute and grave on one syllable, which was done by the voice passing from the acute, through the middle note, in continuity down to the grave, which was called the circumflex."

"Now in pronouncing English words, it is true that one syllable is always distinguished from the rest; but it is not by any perceptible elevation or depression of the voice, any high or low note, that it is done, but merely by dwelling longer upon it, or by giving it a more forcible stroke. When the stress or accent is on the vowel, we dwell longer on that syllable than on the rest; as, in the words glory, father, holy. When it is on the consonant, the voice, passing rapidly over the vowel, gives a smarter stroke to the consonant, which distinguishes that syllable from others, as in the words battle, habit, barrow."

Having treated so largely of accent and quantity, the next thing to be considered in verse will be quickly discussed; for in English it depends wholly on the seat of the accent. "When the accent or stress is on the vowel, the syllable is necessarily long, because the accent cannot be made without dwelling on the vowel a longer time than usual. When it is on the consonant, the syllable is short; because the accent is made by passing rapidly over the vowel, and giving a smart stroke of the voice to the following consonants. Thus the words ad'd, led', bil'd, cul't, are all short, the voice passing quickly over the vowel to the consonant; but for the contrary reason, the words ill'd, id'd, bide, cube, are long; the accent being on the vowels, on which the voice dwells some time before it takes in the sound of the consonant."

"Obvious as this point is, it has wholly escaped the observation of many an ingenious and learned writer. Lord Kames affirms*, that accenting is confined in *Art of Reading, vol. i. English heroic verse to the long syllables; for a short syllable. syllable (says he) is not capable of an accent: and Dr Forster, who ought to have understood the nature of the English accent better than his Lordship, asks, whether we do not employ more time in uttering the first syllables of heavily, hastily, quickly, slowly; and the second in solicit, mistaking, researches, delusive, than in the others? To this question Mr Sheridan replies that "in some of these words we certainly do as the Doctor supposes; in hastily, slowly, mistaking, delusive, for instance; where the accent being on the vowels renders their sound long; but in all the others, heavily, quickly, solicit, re-searches, where the accent is on the consonant, the syllables heavy, quick, list, fer, are pronounced as rapidly as possible, and the vowels are all short. In the Scotch pronunciation (continues he) they would indeed be all reduced to an equal quantity, as thus; hái-vily, háis-tily, quick-ly, flów-ly, fo-léé-cit, re-fáir-ches, de-lá-fve. But here we see that the four short syllables are changed into four long ones of a different sound, occasioned by their placing the seat of the accent on the vowels instead of the consonants: thus instead of heav they say háiv; for quick, quék; for lis, léée; and for fer, féér.

It appears therefore, that the quantity of English syllables is adjusted by one easy and simple rule; which is, that when the seat of the accent is on a vowel, the syllable is long; when on a consonant, short; and that all unaccented syllables are short. Without a due observation of quantity in reciting verses there will be no poetic numbers; yet in composing English verses the poet need not pay the least attention to the quantity of his syllables, as measure and movement will result from the observation of other laws, which are now to be explained.

It has been affirmed by a writer of great authority among the critics, that in English heroic verse every line consists of ten syllables, five short and five long; from which there are but two exceptions, both of them rare. The first is, where each line of a couplet is made eleven syllables, by an additional short syllable at the end.

There heroes wit's are kept in pond'rous vales, And beaus' in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases.

The other exception, he says, concerns the second line of a couplet, which is sometimes stretched out to twelve syllables, termed an Alexandrine line.

A needless Alexandrine ends the song, That, like a wounded snake, drags its slow length along.

After what has been just said, it is needless to stop for the purpose of pointing out the ingenious author's mistake respecting long and short syllables. Every attentive reader of what has been already laid down, must perceive, that in the first line of the former couplet, though there are no fewer than five accented syllables when it is properly read, yet of these there are but three that are long, viz. those which have the accent on the vowel. Our business at present is, to show the falsity of the rule which restrains the heroic line to ten syllables; and this we shall do by producing lines of a greater number.

And the shrill sounds ran echoing through the wood.

This line, though it consists of eleven syllables, and has the last of those accented, or, as Lord Kames would say, long, is yet undoubtedly a heroic verse of very fine found. Perhaps the advocates for the rule may contend, that the vowel o in echoing ought to be struck out by an apostrophe; but as no one reads,

And the shrill sounds ran echoing through the wood, it is surely very absurd to omit in writing what cannot be omitted in utterance. The two following lines have each eleven syllables, of which not one can be suppressed in recitation.

Their glittering textures of the filmy dew, The great hierarchal standard was to move.

Mr Sheridan quotes as a heroic line,

O'er many a frozen, many a fiery Alp; and observes what a monstrous line it would appear, if pronounced,

O'er man's a frozen, man's a fi'ry Alp, instead of that noble verse, which it certainly is, when all the thirteen syllables are distinctly uttered. He then produces a couplet, of which the former line has fourteen, and the latter twelve syllables.

And many an amorous, many a humorous lay, Which many a bard had haunted many a day.

That this is a couplet of very fine found cannot be controverted; but we doubt whether the numbers of it or of the other quoted line of thirteen syllables be truly heroic. To our ears at least there appears a very perceptible difference between the movement of these verses and that of the verses of Pope or Dryden; and we think, that, though such couplets or single lines may, for the sake of variety or expression, be admitted into a heroic poem, yet a poem wholly composed of them would not be considered as heroic verse. It has a much greater resemblance to the verse of Spenser, which is now broke into two lines, of which the first has eight and the second six syllables. Nothing, however, seems to be more evident, from the other quoted instances, than that a heroic line is not confined to the syllables, and that it is not by the number of syllables that an English verse is to be measured.

But if a heroic verse in our tongue be not composed, as in French, of a certain number of syllables, how is it formed? We answer by feet, as was the hexameter line of the ancients; though between their feet and ours there is at the same time a great difference. The poetic feet of the Greeks and Romans are formed by quantity, those of the English by stress or accent. "Though these terms are in continual use, and in the mouths of all who treat of poetic numbers, very confused and erroneous ideas are sometimes annexed to them. Yet as the knowledge of the peculiar genius of our language with regard to poetic numbers and its characteristic difference from others in that respect, depends upon our having clear and precise notions of those terms, it will be necessary to have them fully explained. The general nature of them has been already sufficiently laid open, No scholar is ignorant that quantity is a term which relates to the length or the shortness of syllables, and that a long syllable is double the length of a short one. Now the plain meaning of this is, that a long syllable takes up double the time in founding that a short one does; a fact of which the ear alone can be the judge. When a syllable in Latin ends with a consonant, and the subsequent syllable commences with one, every school-boy knows that the former is long, to use the technical term, by the law of position. This rule was in pronunciation strictly observed by the Romans, who always made such syllables long by dwelling on the vowels; whereas the very reverse is the case with us, because a quite contrary rule takes place in English words so constructed, as the accent or stress of the voice is in such cases always transferred to the consonant, and the preceding vowel being rapidly passed over, that syllable is of course short.

The Romans had another rule of profody, that when one syllable ending with a vowel, was followed by another beginning with a vowel, the former syllable was pronounced short; whereas in English there is generally an accent in that case on the former syllable, as in the word pious, which renders the syllable long. Pronouncing Latin therefore by our own rule, as in the former case, we make those syllables short which were founded long by them; so in the latter we make those syllables long which with them were short. We say arma and virumque, instead of arma and virumque; fecit and idus, instead of fecit and tuus.

Having made these preliminary observations, we proceed now to explain the nature of poetic feet. Feet in verse correspond to bars in music: a certain number of syllables connected form a foot in the one, as a certain number of notes make a bar in the other. They are called feet, because it is by their aid that the voice as it were steps along through the verse in a measured pace; and it is necessary that the syllables which mark this regular movement of the voice should in some measure be distinguished from the others. This distinction, as we have already observed, was made among the ancient Romans, by dividing their syllables into long and short, and ascertaining their quantity by an exact proportion of time in founding them; the long being to the short as two to one; and the long syllables, being thus the more important, marked the movement of the verse. In English, syllables are divided into accented and unaccented; and the accented syllables being as strongly distinguished from the unaccented, by the peculiar stress of the voice upon them, are as capable of marking the movement, and pointing out the regular paces of the voice, as the long syllables were by their quantity among the Romans. Hence it follows, that our accented syllables corresponding to their long ones, and our unaccented to their short, in the structure of poetic feet, an accented syllable followed by one unaccented in the same foot will answer to their trochee; and preceded by an unaccented one, to their iambus; and so forth.

All feet used in poetry consist either of two or three syllables; and the feet among the ancients were denominated from the number and quantity of their syllables. The measure of quantity was the short syllable, and the long one in time was equal to two short. A foot could not consist of less than two times, because it must contain at least two syllables; and by a law respecting numbers, which is explained elsewhere (see Music), a poetic foot would admit of no more than four of those times. Consequently the poetic feet were necessarily reduced to eight; four of two syllables, and four of three. Those of two syllables must either consist of two short, called a pyrrhic; two long, called a spondee; a long and a short, called a trochee; or a short and a long, called an iambus. Those of three syllables were, either three short, a tribrach; a long and two short, a dactyl; a short, long, and short, an amphibrach; or two short and a long, an anapest (γ).

We are now sufficiently prepared for considering what feet enter into the composition of an English heroic verse. The Greeks and Romans made use of but two feet in the structure of their hexameters; and the English heroic may be wholly composed of one foot, viz. the iambic, which is therefore the foot most congenial to that species of verse. Our poetry indeed abounds with verses into which no other foot is admitted. Such as,

The pow'rs | gave ear | and granted half | his pray'r, The rest | the winds | dispel'd | in empty air.

Our heroic line, however, is not wholly restrained to the use of this foot. In the opinion of Mr. Sheridan it admits all the eight before enumerated; and it certainly excludes none, unless perhaps the tribrach. It is known to every reader of English poetry, that some of the finest heroic verses in our language begin with a trochee; and that Pope, the smoothest of all our versifiers, was remarkable for his use of this foot, as is evident from the following example, where four succeeding lines out of six have a trochaic beginning.

Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, Quick as | her eyes | and as unfix'd as thine: Favours | to none | to all the smiles extends, Oft the | rejects | but never once offends. Bright as | the sun | her eyes the gazers strike, And like the sun she shines on all alike.

(γ) For the convenience of the less learned reader we shall here subjoin a scheme of poetic feet, using the marks (-o-) in use among the Latin grammarians to denote the genuine feet by quantity; and the following marks (o-o) to denote the English feet by accents, which answer to those.

| Roman | English | |-------|--------| | Trochee | - o o | | Iambus | o - o | | Spondee | - - o | | Pyrrhic | o o o |

| Roman | English | |-------|--------| | Dactyl | - o o | | Amphibrach | o - o | | Anapest | o o - | | Tribrach | o o o | The use of this foot, however, is not necessarily confined to the beginning of a line. Milton frequently introduces it into other parts of the verse; of which take the following instances:

That all | was loft' | back' to | the thick'let flunk— Of E'vee | whose ey'e | dàcted contà|gious fire.

The last line of the following couplet begins with a pyrrhic:

She said, | and mélting as in tears she lay, In à | soft sil|ver stream diffolv'd away.

But this foot is introduced likewise with very good effect into other parts of the verse, as

Pant on | thy lip' | and tò | thy heart | be prest. The phantom flies me | as unkind as you. Leaps o'er the fence with eafe | înto | the fold. And thè | shrill' sounds | ran echoing through the wood.

In this last line we see that the first foot is a pyrrhic, and the second a spondee; but in the next the two first feet are spondees.

Hill's peep | o'er hill's | and Alps | on Alps | arise.

In the following verse a trochee is succeeded by two spondees, of which the former is a genuine spondee by quantity, and the latter equivalent to a spondee by accent.

Sée thè | bòld yòuth | strán up | the threat'ning steep.

We shall now give some instances of lines containing both the pyrrhic and the spondee, and then proceed to the consideration of the other four feet.

That on | weak wings | from far pursues your flight. Thro'thè | fair féene | ròll flow | the líng'ring streams. On hér | white breast' | a sparkling crofs she wore.

Of the four trisyllabic feet, the first, of which we shall give instances in heroic lines, is the daftly; as

Murmuring, | and with | him'fled the shades | of night. Hovering | on wing | under | the cépe | of hell. Tim'orous | and slothful yet he pas'd the ear. Of trútth | in word | mightier | than they | in arms.

Of the anapest a single instance shall suffice; for except by Milton it is not often used.

The great | híér'árd'hal standard was to move.

The amphibrach is employed in the four following verses, and in the three last with a very fine effect.

With wheels | yet hóvering o'er the ocean brim. Rous'd from their slumber on | thàt fééry | couch. While the | pròmis'cúrous crowd stood yet aloof. Throws his steep flight | în mány | an airy whirl.

Having thus sufficiently proved that the English heroic verse admits of all the feet except the tribrach, it may be proper to add, that from the nature of our accent we have duplicates of these feet, viz. such as are formed by quantity, and such as are formed by the mere iéus of the voice; an opulence peculiar to our tongue, and which may be the source of a boundless variety. But as feet formed of syllables which have the accent or iéus on the consonant are necessarily pronounced in less time than similar feet formed by quantity, it may be objected, that the measure of a whole line, constructed in the former manner, must be shorter than that of another line constructed in the latter; and that the intermixture of verses of such different measures in the same poem must have a bad effect on the melody, as being destructive of proportion. This objection would be well-founded, were not the time of the short accented syllables compensated by a small pause at the end of each word to which they belong, as is evident in the following verse:

Then rus'tling crack'ling crash'ing thun'lder down.

This line is formed of iambs by accent upon consonants, except the last syllable; and yet by means of these soft pauses or rests, the measure of the whole is equal to that of the following, which consists of pure iambs by quantity.

O'er héaps | of ròlin stàlk'd | the stately hìnd.

Movement, of so much importance in versification, regards the order of syllables in a foot, measure their quantity. The order of syllables respects their progress from short to long or from long to short, as in the Greek and Latin languages; or from strong to weak or weak to strong, i.e. from accented or unaccented syllables, as in our tongue. It has been already observed, that an English heroic verse may be composed wholly of iambs; and experience shows that such verses have a fine melody. But as the stress of the voice in repeating verses of pure iambs, is regularly on every second syllable, such uniformity would disgust the ear in any long succession, and therefore such changes were sought for as might introduce the pleasure of variety without prejudice to melody; or which might even contribute to its improvement. Of this nature was the introduction of the trochee to form the first foot of an heroic verse, which experience has shown us is so far from spoiling the melody, that in many cases it heightens it. This foot, however, cannot well be admitted into any other part of the verse without prejudice to the melody, because it interrupts and stops the usual movement by another directly opposite. But though it be excluded with regard to pure melody, it may often be admitted into any part of the verse with advantage to expression, as is well known to the readers of Milton.

"The next change admitted for the sake of variety, without prejudice to melody, is the intermixture of pyrrhics and spondees; in which two impressions in the one foot make up for the want of one in the other; and two long syllables compensate two short, so as to make the sum of the quantity of the two feet equal to two iambs. That this may be done without prejudice to the melody, take the following instances:

On hér | white bread | a sparkling crofs she wore.— Nór thè | deep tràct | of hell—say first what caufé.

This intermixture may be employed ad libitum, in any part of the line; and sometimes two spondees may be placed together in one part of the verse, to be compensated by two pyrrhics in another; of which Mr Sheridan quotes the following lines as instances:

Stòod ròld | stòol vást | ínf insi'úde | confined. Shè all | nìght òag | hér anòl'rous dé'cant sung.

That the former is a proper example, will not perhaps be questioned; but the third foot in the latter is certainly ly no pyrrhic. As it is marked here and by him, it is a tribrach; but we appeal to our English readers, if it ought not to have been marked an amphibrach by accent, and if the fourth foot be not an iambus. To us the feet of the line appear to be as follow:

She all | night long | her am'ō|ious des|cant sun'g.

It is indeed a better example of the proper use of the amphibrach than any which he has given, unless perhaps the two following lines.

Up to | the fiē|ry con|cave tow'er'ing high Throws his | steep flight | in man'y | airy whirl.

That in these three lines the introduction of the amphibrach does not hurt the melody, will be acknowledged by every person who has an ear; and those who have not, are not qualified to judge. But we appeal to every man of taste, if the two amphibrachs succeeding each other in the last line do not add much to the expression of the verse. If this be questioned, we have only to change the movement to the common iambic, and we shall discover how feeble the line will become.

Throws his | steep flight | in man'y | airy whirls.

This is simple description, instead of that magical power of numbers which to the imagination produces the object itself, whirling as it were around an axis.

Having thus shown that the iambus, spondee, pyrrhic, and amphibrach, by accent, may be used in our measure with great latitude; and that the trochee may at all times begin the line, and in some cases with advantage to the melody; it now remains only to add, that the dactyl, having the same movement, may be introduced in the place of the trochee; and the anapest in the place of the iambus. In proof of this, were not the article dwelling in our hands, we could adduce many instances which would show what an inexhaustible fund of riches, and what an immense variety of materials, are prepared for us, "to build the lofty rhyme." But we halten to the next thing to be considered in the art of verifying, which is known by the name of pauses.

"Of the poetic pauses there are two sorts, the cefural and the final. The cefural divides the verse into equal or unequal parts; the final closes it. In a verse there may be two or more cefural pauses, but it is evident that there can be but one final. As the final pause concerns the reader more than the writer of verses, it has been seldom treated of by the critics. Yet as it is this final pause which in many cases distinguishes verse from prose, it cannot be improper in the present article to show how it ought to be made. Were it indeed a law of our verification, that every line should terminate with a stop in the sentence, the boundaries of the measure would be fixed, and the nature of the final pause could not be mistaken. But nothing has puzzled the bulk of readers, or divided their opinions, more than the manner in which those verses ought to be recited, where the sentence which is an incomplete one; and by disjoining the sentence as well as the words, often confounds the meaning. Others again, but these fewer in number, and of the more absurd kind, drop their voice at the end of every line, in the same note which they use in marking a full stop; to the utter annihilation of the sentence. Some readers (continues our author) of a more enthusiastic kind, elevate their voices at the end of all verses to a higher note than is ever used in the stops which divide the meaning. But such a continued repetition of the same high note becomes disgusting by its monotony, and gives an air of chanting to such recitation. To avoid these several faults, the bulk of readers have chosen what they think a safer course, which is that of running the lines one into another without the least pause, where they find none in the sentence; but by this mode of recitation they reduce poetry to something worse than prose, to verse run mad.

But it may be asked, if this final pause must be marked neither by an elevation nor by a depression of the voice, how is it to be marked at all? To which Mr Sheridan replies, by making no change whatever in the voice before it. This will sufficiently distinguish it from the other pauses, the comma, semicolon, &c., because some change of note, by raising or depressing the voice, always precedes them, whilst the voice is here only suspended.

Now this pause of suspension is the very thing wanting to preserve the melody at all times, without interfering with the sentence. For it perfectly marks the bound of the metre: and being made only by a suspension, not by a change of note in the voice, it never can affect the sentence; because the sentential stops, or those which affect the sentence, being all made with a change of note, where there is no such change the sentence cannot be affected. Nor is this the only advantage gained to numbers by this stop of suspension. It also prevents the monotony at the end of lines; which, however pleasing to a rude, is disgusting to a delicate ear. For as this stop has no peculiar note of its own, but always takes that which belongs to the preceding word, it changes continually with the matter, and is as various as the sentence.

Having said all that is necessary with regard to the final, we proceed now to consider the cefural pause. To these two pauses it will be proper to give the denomination of musical, to distinguish them from the comma, semicolon, colon, and full stop, which may be called sentential pauses; the office of the former being to mark the melody, as that of the latter is to point out the sentence. The cefural, like the final pause, sometimes coincides with the sentential; and sometimes takes place where there is no stop in the sentence. In this last case, it is exactly of the same nature, and governed by the same laws with the pause of suspension, which we have just described.

The cefural, though not essential, is however a great ornament to verse, as it improves and diversifies the melody, by a judicious management in varying its situation; but it discharges a still more important office than this. Were there no cefural, verse could aspire to no higher ornament than that of simple melody; but by means of this pause there is a new source of delight opened in poetical numbers, correspondent in some sort to harmony in music. This takes its rise from that act of the mind which compares the relative proportions that that the members of a verse thus divided bear to each other, as well as to those in the adjoining lines. In order to see this matter in a clear light, let us examine what effect the cæsura produces in single lines, and afterwards in comparing contiguous lines with each other.

With regard to the place of the cæsura, Mr Pope and others have expressly declared, that no line appeared musical to their ears, where the cæsura was not after the fourth, fifth, or sixth syllable of the verse. Some have enlarged its empire to the third and seventh syllables; whilst others have asserted that it may be admitted into any part of the line.

"There needs but a little distinguishing (says Mr Sheridan), to reconcile these different opinions. If melody alone is to be considered, Mr Pope is in the right when he fixes its seat in or as near as may be to the middle of the verse. To form lines of the first melody, the cæsura must either be at the end of the second or of the third foot, or in the middle of the third between the two. Of this movement take the following examples:

1. Of the cæsura at the end of the second foot.

Our plenteous streams || a various race supply; The bright-eyed perch || with fins of Tyrian dye; The silver eel || in shining volumes roll'd; The yellow carp' || in scales bedrop'd with gold.

2. At the end of the third foot.

With tender billet-doux || he lights the pyre, And breathes three amorous sighs || to raise the fire.

3. Between the two, dividing the third foot.

The fields are ravish'd || from the industrious swains, From men their cities, || and from gods their fanes.

These lines are certainly all of a fine melody, yet they are not quite upon an equality in that respect. Those which have the cæsura in the middle are of the first order; those which have it at the end of the second foot are next; and those which have the pause at the end of the third foot the last. The reason of this preference it may not perhaps be difficult to assign.

In the pleasure arising from comparing the proportion which the parts of a whole bear to each other, the more easily and distinctly the mind perceives that proportion, the greater is the pleasure. Now there is nothing which the mind more instantaneously and clearly discerns, than the division of a whole into two equal parts, which alone would give a superiority to lines of the first order over those of the other two. But this is not the only claim to superiority which such lines possess. The cæsura being in them always on an unaccented, and the final pause on an accented syllable, they have a mixture of variety and equality of which neither of the other orders can boast, as in these orders the cæsural and final pauses are both on accented syllables.

In the division of the other two species, if we respect quantity only, the proportion is exactly the same, the one being as two to three, and the other as three to two; but it is the order or movement which here makes the difference. In lines where the cæsura bounds the second foot, the smaller portion of the verse is first in order, the greater last; and this order is reversed in lines which have the cæsura at the end of the third foot. Now, as the latter part of the verse leaves the strongest and most lasting impression on the ear, where the larger portion belongs to the latter part of the line, the impression must in proportion be greater; the effect in found being the same as that produced by a climax in sense, where one part rises above another.

Having shown in what manner the cæsura improves and diversifies the melody of verse, we shall now treat of its more important office, by which it is the chief source of harmony in numbers. But, first, it will be necessary to explain what we mean by the term harmony, as applied to verse.

Melody in music regards only the effects produced by successive sounds; and harmony, strictly speaking, the effects produced by different co-existing sounds, which are found to be in concord. Harmony, therefore, in this sense of the word, can never be applied to poetic numbers, of which there can be only one reciter, and consequently the sounds can only be in succession. When therefore we speak of the harmony of verse, we mean nothing more than an effect produced by an action of the mind in comparing the different members of verse already constructed according to the laws of melody with each other, and perceiving a due and beautiful proportion between them.

The first and lowest perception of this kind of harmony arises from comparing two members of the same line with each other, divided in the manner to be seen in the three instances already given; because the beauty of proportion in the members, according to each of these divisions, is founded in nature. But there is a perception of harmony in versification, which arises from the comparison of two lines, and observing the relative proportion of their members; whether they correspond exactly to each other by similar divisions, as in the couplets already quoted; or whether they are diversified by cæsuras in different places. As,

See the bold youth || strain up the threatening steep, Rush thro' the thickets || down the valleys sweep.

Where we find the cæsura at the end of the second foot of the first line, and in the middle of the third foot of the last.

Hang o'er their coursers heads || with eager speed, And earth rolls back || beneath the flying steed.

Here the cæsura is at the end of the third foot in the former, and of the second in the latter line.—The perception of this species of harmony is far superior to the former; because, to the pleasure of comparing the members of the same line with each other, there is superadded that of comparing the different members of the different lines with each other; and the harmony is enriched by having four members of comparison instead of two. The pleasure is still increased in comparing a greater number of lines, and observing the relative proportion of the couplets to each other in point of similarity and diversity. As thus,

Thy forests, Windsor, || and thy green retreats, At once the monarch's || and the muse's seats, Invite my lays. || Be present fylvan maids, Unlock your springs || and open all your shades.

Here we find that the cæsura is in the middle of the verse in each line of the first couplet, and at the end of the second foot in each line of the last; which gives a similarity in each couplet distinctly considered, and a diversity when the one is compared with the other, that has a very pleasing effect. Nor is the pleasure less where we find a diversity in the lines of each couplet, and a similarity in comparing the couplets themselves. As in these,

Not half so swift || the trembling doves can fly, When the fierce eagle || cleaves the liquid sky; Not half so swiftly || the fierce eagle moves, When thro' the clouds || he drives the trembling doves.

There is another mode of dividing lines well suited to the nature of the couplet, by introducing semipauses, which with the censure divide the line into four portions. By a semipause, we mean a small rest of the voice, during a portion of time equal to half of that taken up by the censure; as will be perceived in the following fine couplet:

Warms || in the sun || refreshes || in the breeze, Glows || in the stars || and blossoms || in the trees.

That the harmony, and of course the pleasure, resulting from poetic numbers, is increased as well by the semipause as by the censure, is obvious to every ear; because lines so constructed furnish a greater number of members for comparison: but it is of more importance to observe, that by means of the semipauses, lines which, separately considered, are not of the finest harmony, may yet produce it when opposed to each other, and compared in the couplet. Of the truth of this observation, the following couplet, especially as it succeeds that immediately quoted, is a striking proof:

Lives || thro' all life || extends || thro' all extent, Spreads || undivided || operates || unspent.

What we have advanced upon this species of verse, will contribute to solve a poetical problem thrown out by Dryden as a crux to his brethren: it was to account for the peculiar beauty of that celebrated couplet in Sir John Denham's Cooper's Hill, where he thus describes the Thames:

Tho' deep || yet clear || tho' gentle || yet not dull. Strong || without rage || without o'erflowing || full.

This description has great merit independent of the harmony of the numbers; but the chief beauty of the versification lies in the happy disposition of the pauses and semipauses, so as to make a fine harmony in each line when its portions are compared, and in the couplet when one line is compared with the other.

Having now said all that is necessary upon pauses and semipauses, we have done the utmost justice to our subject which the limits assigned us will permit. Feet and pauses are the constituent parts of verse; and the proper adjustment of them depends upon the poet's knowledge of numbers, accent, quantity, and movement, all of which we have endeavoured briefly to explain. In conformity to the practice of some critics, we might have treated separately of rhyme and of blank verse; but as the essentials of all heroic verses are the same, such a division of our subject would have thrown no light upon the art of English versification. It may be just worth while to observe, that the pause at the end of a couplet ought to coincide, if possible, with a slight pause in the sense, and that there is no necessity for this coincidence of pauses at the end of any particular blank verse. We might likewise compare our heroic line with the ancient hexameter, and endeavour to appreciate their respective merits; but there is not a reader capable of attending to such a comparison who will not judge for himself; and it may perhaps be questioned, whether there be two who will form precisely the same judgment. Mr Sheridan, and all the mere English critics, give a high degree of preference to our heroic, on account of the vast variety of feet which it admits: whilst the readers of Greek and Latin poetry prefer the hexameter, on account of its more musical notes and majestic length.