Pindar opens this ode with an invocation to Vesta (the goddess who presided over the courts of justice, and whose statue and altar were for that reason placed in the town-halls, or Prytaneums, as the Greeks called them), beseeching her to receive favourably Aristagoras and his colleagues, who were then coming to offer sacrifices to her, upon their entering on their office of Prytans or magistrates of Tenedos, which office continuing for a year, he begs the goddess to take Aristagoras under her protection during that time, and to conduct him to the end of it without trouble or disgrace. From Aristagoras, Pindar turns himself in the next place to his father Arcesilaus, whom he pronounces happy, as well upon account of his son's merit and honour, as upon his own great endowments and good fortune: such as beauty, strength, courage, riches, and glory, resulting from his many victories in the games. But lest he should be too much puffed up with these praises, he reminds him at the same time of his mortality, and tells him that his clothing of flesh is perishable, that he must ever long be clothed with earth, the end of all things; and yet, continues he, it is but justice to praise and celebrate the worthy and deserving, who from good citizens ought to receive all kinds of honour and commendation; as Aristagoras, for instance, who hath rendered both himself and his country illustrious by the many victories he hath obtained, to the number of sixteen, over the neighbouring youth, in the games exhibited in and about his own country. From whence, says the poet, I conclude he would have come off victorious even in the Pythian and Olympic games, had he not been restrained from engaging in those famous lists by the too timid and cautious love of his parents. Upon which he falls into a moral reflection upon the vanity of man's hopes and fears; by the former of which they are oftentimes excited to attempts beyond their strength, which accordingly issue in their disgrace; as, on the other hand, they are frequently restrained, by unreasonable and ill-grounded fears, from enterprises, in which they would in all probability have come off with honour. This reflection he applies to Aristagoras, by saying it was very easy to foresee what success he was like to meet with, who both by father and mother was descended from a long train of great and valiant men. But here again, with a very artful turn of flattery to his father Arcesilaus, whom he had before represented as strong and valiant, and famous for his victories in the games, he observes that every generation, even of a great and glorious family, is not equally illustrious any more than the fields and trees are every year equally fruitful; that the gods had not given mortals any certain tokens by which they might foreknow when the rich years of virtue should succeed; whence it comes to pass, that men, out of self-conceit and presumption, are perpetually laying schemes, and forming enterprises, without previously consulting prudence or wisdom, whose streams, says he, lie remote and out of the common road. From all which he infers, that it is better to moderate our desires, and set bounds to our avarice and ambition, with which moral precept he concludes the ode.

STROPHE I.

Daughter of Rhea! thou, whose holy fire Before the awful seat of justice flames! Sister of heaven's almighty sire! Sister of Juno, who coequal claims With Jove to share the empire of the gods! O virgin Vesta! to thy dread abodes, Lo! Aristagoras directs his pace! Receive and near thy sacred sceptre place Him, and his colleagues, who, with honest zeal, O'er Tenedos preside, and guard the public weal.

ANTISTROPHE I.

And lo! with frequent offerings, they adore Thee*, first invoke'd in every solemn pray'r! To thee unmix'd libations pour, And fill with odorous fumes the fragrant air.

* It was usual in all solemn sacrifices and prayers to begin with invoking Around Vesta. POETRY.

Strophe I.

Around in festive songs the hymning choir Mix the melodious voice and sounding lyre, While still, prolong'd with hospitable love, Are solemniz'd the rites of genial Jove: Then guard him, Vesta, through his long career, And let him close in joy his ministerial year.

Epode I.

But hail, Arcesilas! all hail To thee, bless'd father of a son so great! Thou whom on fortune's highest scale The favourable hand of heav'n hath set, Thy manly form with beauty hath refin'd, And match'd that beauty with a valiant mind. Yet let not man too much presume, Tho' grac'd with beauty's fairest bloom; Tho' for superior strength renown'd; Tho' with triumphal chaplets crown'd: Let him remember, that, in flesh array'd, Soon shall he see that mortal vestment fade; Till lost, imprison'd in the mould'ring urn, To earth, the end of all things, he return.

Strophe II.

Yet should the worthy from the public tongue Receive their recompense of virtuous praise; By ev'ry zealous patriot sung, And deck'd with ev'ry flow'r of heav'nly lays. Such retribution in return for fame, Such, Aristagoras, thy virtues claim, Claim from thy country; on whose glorious brows The wrestler's chaplet still unfaded blows; Mix'd with the great Pancratias' crown, Which from the neigh'ring youth thy early valour won.

Antistrophe II.

And (but his timid parents' cautious love, Disturbing ever his too forward hands, Forbade their tender son to prove The toils of Pythia or Olympia's sands), Now by the Gods I swear, his valorous might Had escap'd victorious in each bloody fight; And from Castalia, or where dark with shade The mount of Saturn rears its olive head, Great and illustrious home had he return'd; While, by his fame eclips'd, his vanquish'd foes had mourn'd.

Epode II.

Then his triumphal tresses bound With the dark verdure of th' Olympic grove, With joyous banquets had he crown'd The great quinquennial festival of Jove; And cheer'd the solemn pomp with choral lays, Sweet tribute, which the muse to virtue pays. But, such is man's prepost'rous fate! Now, with o'er-weaning pride elate, Too far he aims his shaft to throw, And straining bursts his feeble bow: Now pusillanimous, depress'd with fear, He checks his virtue in the mid career; And of his strength distrustful, coward flies The contest, tho' empow'rd to gain the prize.

Strophe III.

But who could err in prophesying good Of him, whose undegenerating breast Swells with a tide of Spartan blood, From sire to sire in long succession trac'd Up to Pisander; who in days of yore From old Amyclae to the Lesbian shore And Tenedos, colleague'd in high command With great Orestes, led th' Æolian band? Nor was his mother's race less strong and brave, Sprung from a stock that grew on fair Ismenus' wave.*

Antistrophe III.

Tho' for long intervals obscure'd, again Oft-times the seeds of linéal worth appear. For neither can the furrow'd plain Full harvests yield with each returning year; Nor in each period will the pregnant bloom Invest the smiling tree with rich perfume. So, barren often, and inglorious, pass The generations of a noble race; While nature's vigour, working at the root, In after-ages swells, and blossoms into fruit.

Epode III.

Nor hath Jove giv'n us to foreknow When the rich years of virtue shall succeed: Yet bold and daring on we go, Contriving schemes of many a mighty deed; While hope, fond inmate of the human mind, And self-opinion, active, rash, and blind, Hold up a false illusive ray, That leads our dazzled feet astray Far from the springs, where, calm and slow, The secret streams of wisdom flow. Hence should we learn our ardour to restrain, And limit to due bounds the thirst of gain. To rage and madness oft that passion turns, Which with forbidden flames despairing burns.

* Ismenus was a river of Boeotia, of which country was Menalippe, the ancestor of Aristagoras by the mother's side.

From the above specimen, and from what we have already said on this subject, the reader will perceive, quitting that odes of this sort are distinguished by the happy characters transitions and digressions which they admit, and the surprising yet natural returns to the subject. This requires great judgment and genius; and the poet who would excel in this kind of writing, should draw the plan of his poem, in manner of the argument we have above inserted, and mark out the places where those elegant and beautiful salies and wanderings may be made, and where the returns will be easy and proper.

Pindar, it is universally allowed, had a poetical and fertile imagination, a warm and enthusiastic genius, a bold and figurative expression, and a concise and sententious style: but it is generally supposed that many of those pieces which procured him such extravagant praises and extraordinary testimonies of esteem from the ancients are lost; and if they were not, it would be perhaps impossible to convey them into our language; for beauties of this kind, like plants of an odoriferous and delicate nature, are not to be transplanted into another clime without losing much of their fragrance or essential quality. With regard to those compositions which are usually called Pindaric odes, (but which ought rather to be distinguished by the name of irregular odes), we have many in our language that deserve particular commendation: the criticism which Mr Congreve has given us on that subject, has too much asperity and too great latitude; for if other writers have, by mistaking Pindar's measures, given their odes an improper title, it is a crime, one would think, not so dangerous to the commonwealth of letters as to deserve such severe reproof. Besides which, we may suppose that some of these writers did not deviate from Pindar's method through ignorance, but by choice; and that as their odes were not to be performed with both singing and dancing, in the manner of Pindar's, it seemed unnecessary to confine the first and second stanzas to the same exact number as was done in his strophes and antistrophes. The poet therefore had a right to indulge himself with more liberty: and we cannot help thinking, that the ode which Mr Dryden has given us, entitled, Alexander's Feast, or the Power of Music, is altogether as valuable in loose and wild numbers, as it could have been if the stanzas were more regular, and written in the manner of Pindar. In this ode there is a wonderful sublimity of thought, a loftiness and sweetness of expression, and a most pleasing variety of numbers.

'Twas at the royal feast, by Persia won By Philip's warlike son, Aloft in awful state, The god-like hero sate On his imperial throne: His valiant peers were plac'd around; Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound, (So should desert in arms be crown'd): The lovely Thais by his side Sat like a blooming eastern bride, In flow'r of youth and beauty's pride. Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave, None but the brave, None but the brave deserve the fair. Chor. Happy Happy, &c.

Timotheus, plac'd on high Amid the tuneful quire, With flying fingers touch'd the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky, And heav'nly joys inspire. The song began from Jove, Who left his blissful seats above, (Such is the pow'r of mighty love!) A dragon's fiery form bely'd the god: Sublime on radiant spires he rode, When he to fair Olympia press'd; And while he sought her snowy breast: Then round her slender waist he curl'd, And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world. The list'ning crowd admire the lofty sound. A present deity, they shout around; A present deity, the vaulted roofs rebound: With ravish'd ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god; Affects to nod, And seems to shake the spheres. Chor. With ravish'd ears, &c.

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung; Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young: The jolly god in triumph comes; Sound the trumpets, beat the drums: Flush'd with a purple grace, He shows his honest face: Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes!

ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain: Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure: Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure: Sweet the pleasure after pain. Chor. Bacchus' blessings, &c.

Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain, Fought all his battles o'er again; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise; His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes; And while he heav'n and earth defy'd, Changed his hand, and check'd his pride. He chose a mournful muse Soft pity to infuse: He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate, Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And wel'tring in his blood; Deserted at his utmost need, By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth expos'd he lies, With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast looks the joyless victor sat, Revolving in his alter'd soul The various turns of chance below; And now and then a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow. Chor. Revolving, &c.

The mighty master smil'd to see That love was in the next degree: 'Twas but a kindred sound to move; For pity melts the mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures. Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour but an empty bubble, Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying. If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O think, it worth enjoying. Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee. The many rend the skies with loud applause; So love was crown'd, but music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gaz'd on the fair, Who caus'd his care, And And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and looke'd, Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again: At length, with love and wine at once oppress'd, The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

Chor. The prince, &c.

Now strike the golden lyre again; A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.

is bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him, like a rattling peal of thunder.

Hark! bark; the horrid sound, Has rais'd up his head,

wake from the dead, And amaz'd he stares around.

Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, See the furies arise: See the snakes that they rear, How they hiss in their hair, And the sparkles that flash from their eyes! Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand!

Those are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain, And unbury'd remain, Inglorious on the plain: Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew.

Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glittering temples of their hostile gods. The princes applaud with a furious joy; And the king seiz'd a flambeau, with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way To light him to his prey, And, like another Helen, she fir'd another Troy.

Chor. And the king seiz'd, &c.

Thus long ago, Ere heaving bellows learnt to blow, While organs yet were mute; Timotheus, to his breathing flute, And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul of rage, or kindle soft desire.

At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame; The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarg'd the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds, With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before.

Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown: He rais'd a mortal to the skies; She drew an angel down.

Grand chor. At last, &c.

There is another poem by Dryden, on the death of Mrs Anne Killigrew, a young lady eminent for her skill in poetry and painting, which a great critic * has pronounced to be "undoubtedly the noblest ode that our language has ever produced." He owns, that as a whole it may perhaps be inferior to Alexander's Feast; but he affirms that the first stanza of it is superior to any single part of the other. This famous stanza, he says, flows with a torrent of enthusiasm: Fervet immensusque ruat.

How far this criticism is just, the public must determine.

I. Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, Made in the last promotion of the bless'd;

Whose palms, new-pluck'd from Paradise, In spreading branches more sublimely rise, Rich with immortal green above the rest; Whether, adopted to some neigh'ring star, Thou roll'st above us, in thy wand'ring race, Or in procession fix'd and regular, Mov'd with the heav'n's majestic pace; Or call'd to more superior bliss, Thou tread'st with seraphims the vast abyss: Whatever happy region is thy place, Cease thy celestial song a little space; Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine, Since heaven's eternal year is thine.

Hear then a mortal muse thy praise rehearse In no ignoble verse; But such as thy own voice did practise here, When thy first fruits of poesy were giv'n; To make thyself a welcome inmate there, While yet a young probationer, And candidate of heav'n.

II. If by traduction came thy mind, Our wonder is the less to find A soul so charming from a stock so good; Thy father was transfus'd into thy blood, So wert thou born into a tuneful strain, An early, rich, and inexhausted vein. But if thy pre-existing soul Was form'd at first with myriads more, It did through all the mighty poets roll, Who Greek or Latin laurels wore, And was that Sappho last which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore, Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find, Than was the beauteous frame she left behind: Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.

III. May we presume to say, that, at thy birth, New joy was sprung in heav'n, as well as here on earth? For sure the milder planets did combine On thy auspicious horoscope to shine, And e'en the most malicious were in trine. Thy brother angels at thy birth Strung each his lyre, and tun'd it high, That all the people of the sky Might know a poetess was born on earth. And then, if ever, mortal ears Had heard the music of the spheres. And if no clust'ring swarm of bees On thy sweet mouth distill'd their golden dew, 'Twas that such vulgar miracles Heav'n had not leisure to renew: For all thy bless'd fraternity of love Solemniz'd there thy birth, and kept thy holy day above.

IV. O gracious God! how far have we Profan'd thy heav'nly gift of poesy? Made prostitute and profligate the Muse, Debas'd to each obscene and impious use, Whose harmony was first ordain'd above For tongues of angels, and for hymns of love? O wretched me! why were we bury'd down This lubrique and adul'trate age,

* Dr John. Part II.

POETRY.

VII.

The scene then chang'd, with bold erect look Our martial king the sight with reverence struck: For not content t'express his outward part, Her hand call'd out the image of his heart: His warlike mind, his soul devoid of fear, His high-designing thoughts were figur'd there, As when, by magic, ghosts are made appear. Our phoenix queen was portrayed too so bright,

lone 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 she had design'd, Heaven only knows: To such immod'rate 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 finish 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 slow, And plunder'd first, and then destroy'd. O double sacrilege on things divine, To rob the relics, 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 wish 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 assizes keep For those who wake and those who sleep: When rattling bones together fly From the four corners of the sky; When sinews o'er the skeletons are spread, Those cloth'd with flesh, and life inspires the dead; 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 sing: There thou, sweet saint, 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'ing 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 wish him lasting truth, And joy untainted with his destin'd bride. Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast My short-liv'd bliss, forget my social name; But think, far off, how, on the southern coast, I met thy friendship with an equal flame! 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 taney's land to which thou sett'st thy feet; Where still, 'tis said, the Fairy people meet, Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill. There, each trim lass, 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.

(g) A gentleman of the name of Barrow, who introduced Home to Collins.

(h) 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 wintery 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..." present to publish his name," we have inserted into our work the copy which pretends to be perfect, nothing 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 cross the sky; Where in the west the brooding tempests lie; And hear their first, faint, rustling pennons sweep. Or in the arched cove, where deep and dark The broad unbroken billows heave and swell, In horrid musings wrapt, they sit to mark The lab'ring moon; or list the nightly yell Of that dread spirit, whose gigantic form The seer'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,

O'er the dire whirlpool, that in ocean's waste, Draws instant down whate'er devoted thing The falling breeze within its reach hath placed— The distant seaman hears, and flies with trembling haste.

Or if on land the fiend exerts his sway, Silent he broods o'er quicksand, bog, or fen, Far from the sheltering roof and haunts of men, When witched darkness shuts the eye of day, And shrouds each star that wont to cheer the night; Or if the drifted snow perplex the way, With treach'rous gleams he lures the fated wight And leads him flound'ring on and quite astray."

(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-sight 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 Wisp, Jack with the Lantern, &c. It hovers in the air over marshy and fenny places. To that hoar pile (v) which still its ruin shows: In whose small vaults a pigmy-folk is found, Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows, And calls them, wood'ring, from the hallow'd ground: Or, thither (q), where beneath the show'ry west, The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid: Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest; No slaves reverre 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 sov'reign pow'r In pageant robes; and, wreath'd with sheeny 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 temperance at the needful time, They drain the scented spring; or, hunger-prest, Along th' Atlantic rock, undreading, climb, And of its eggs despoil the solan'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 soil, and bleak and bare; Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

XI. Nor need'st thou blush that such false themes engage Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possess; 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 sheen (r), In musing hour; his wayward sisters found, And with their terrors dress'd the magic scene. From them be sung, when 'mid his bold design, Before the Scot, afflicted, and aghast! 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 ans'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 cypress pour'd, When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, And the wild blast 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 sang! Hence, at each sound, imagination glows! Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here! (s) Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows! Melting it flows, pure, murm'ring *, strong, and clear, * numer- And fills the impassion'd heart, and wins th' harmonious ear.

XIII. All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail! Ye splendid * fruits and lakes, which, far away, Are by smooth Aman * fill'd, or pastoral 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 dress once more the faded bow'r, Where Jonson (u) sat in Drummond's classic shade; + social. Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flow'r, And mourn, on Yarrow's banks, where Willy's laid + + dowed Meantime, ye pow'rs that on the plains which bore The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains (x), attend! § he dwell. Where'er Home dwells §, on hill, or lovely moor, To him I lose ||, your kind protection lend, And, tooch'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 questioned: 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, Possess beyond the Muse's painting; By turns they felt the glowing mind Disturb'd, delighted, rais'd, reh'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:

Ami

(v) One of the Hebrides is called the Isle of Pigmies, 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 recoil'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 stings; 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 smil'd, and wav'd her golden hair.

And longer had she sung;—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 sight seem'd bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to nought 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 gemen'd with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rang, The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known; The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen, Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green;

xercise rejoice'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 awak'ning 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 sounding shades, To some unweary'd minstrel dancing.

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings, Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round: Loose 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-descended maid, Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid, Why, Goddess, why to us denied? Lay'st 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, chaste, sublime! Thy wonders, in that god-like age, Fill thy recording sister'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 Cecilia's mingled world of sound— O! bid our vain endeavours cease, Revive the just designs of Grecce, 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' Of Lyre Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign: Now rolling down the steep main, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour: The rocks and nodding groves rebeillow to the roar.

1. 2. Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting shell! the sullen 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 thirsty lance at thy command, Perching on the sceptred hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing; Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.

1. 3. There 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 turas, the Graces homage pay. With arms sublime that float upon the air, In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her warm 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 sickly dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of beding 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 shaggy 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-cincter'd chiefs, and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the goddess 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 Marsander's amber waves In ling'ring lab'rinths 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 Parnassus 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 sought, 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 Stretched forth his little arms, and smil'd. This pencil take (she said) whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: These 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 ecstasy, 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, Clos'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 cloath'd, and long-resounding pace.

III. 3. Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright ey'd fancy, how'ring 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, unorrow'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. III. Of the Elegy.

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

POETRY.

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 these lifeless writers whose fore'd fire In a cold style describes a hot desire; Who sigh by rule, and, raging in cold blood, Their sluggish muse spur to an am'rous mood. Their ecstasies insipidly they feign; And always pine, and fondly hug their chain; Adore their prison, and their sufferings bless; 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 entice.

[From the French of Despreux.]

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 she sweet and engaging, elegant and attractive. This poem is adorned with frequent commiserations, complaints, exclamations, addresses to things or persons, short and proper digressions, allusions, comparisons, prosopopoeia or feigned persons, and sometimes with short descriptions. The diction ought to be made 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 neighb'ring foes in constant terror hold, And trumpets break their slumber, never sound: While, calmly poor, I trifle life away, Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire, No wanton hope my quiet shall betray, But cheaply bless'd 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 blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield, Or range my sheaves 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 wand'rer home, And not a little chide its thoughtless dam. What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain, And clasp a fearful mistress 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 possess'd, 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 sitting 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. Her's be the care of all my little train, While I with tender indolence am blest, The favourite subject of her gentle reign, By love alone distinguish'd 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 tasteless 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' every 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 weepst 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: Wounds 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. Those 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 pastoral, 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 rustics.

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 bacchics, from Bacchus, "a herdsman."

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 undesigning 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 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 folds 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 insert 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 assiduous care, Lead them to crystal springs and pastures fair, And of the ridgling's butting horns beware. Sweet Amaryllis, have you then forgot Our secret pleasures in the conscious grott, Part II.

POETRY.

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, Sav, 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-consuming 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 nurst 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 wore 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 fair Nor sees my sorrows nor will hear my pray'r. I'll doff my garments, since I needs must die, And from you rock that points its summit high, Where patient Alps snares 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 sound, 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 sheers; For leasing 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 slight, 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 chace, Nor dead dismiss'd him from her warm embrace. Though young Endymion was by Cynthia blest, I envy nothing but his lasting rest. Jason slumbering on the Cretan plain

nce 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 corse 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 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 Amaryllis fills the shady groves.

Tit. 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 so 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 differ'd 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 You 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 Preserv'd your fortunes in that fatal hour?

Tit. 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 sires and dams express; And so the great I measur'd by the less: 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? Tit. 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 Amuryllis would vouchsafe a look, Till Galatea's meaner bonds I broke. Till then a helpless, hopeless, homely swain, I sought not freedom, nor aspir'd to gain: Tho' many a victim from my folds was bought, And many a cheese to country markets brought, Yet all the little that I got I spent, And still return'd 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 so present to my pray'r: 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 restor'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 neighb'ring plains, Thee here the marshy 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 you hard'ring fence of sallow trees Is fraught with flow'rs, the flow'rs are fraught with bees: The busy bees, with a soft murm'ring strain, Invite to gentle sleep the lab'ring swain: While from the neighb'ring 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 clims, of love complain.

Tit. Th' inhabitants of seas and skies shall change, And fish on shore and stags 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 sold, 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 discords flow! Now let me graft my pears, and prune the vine; The fruit is theirs, the labour only mine.

Farewell my pastures, my paternal stock! 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 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 song 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. "Hobbinoil, 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 Hobbinoil'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 dight, The bramble-bush, where birds of every kind To th' water's fall their tunes temper right. Col. O! happy Hobbinoil, I bless thy state, That paradise hast found which Adam lost. Here wander may thy flock early or late, Withouten dread of wolves to been yest; 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 sail that so doth thee bewitch: Leave me those hills, where harbroughnis to see, Nor holly bush, nor brece, nor winding ditch; And to the dales resort, where shepherds rich, And fruitful flocks been everywhere to see: Here no night-ravens lodge, more bleak than pitch, Nor elvish ghosts, nor ghastly owls do fleec. But friendly fairies met with many graces, And light-foot nymphs can chace the ling'ring night, With heydegues, and trimly trodden traces; Whilst sisters nine, which dwell on Parnass' height,

Da Do make them music, for their more delight; And Pan himself to kiss their crystal faces, Will pipe and dance, when Phoebus 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 eke from former follies move To strayed steps: for time in passing wears (As garments done, which waxen old above) And draweth new delights with hoary 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 shade Dight gaudy girlands was my common trade, To crown her golden locks: but years more ripe, And loss 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 went 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 shroud 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 muses mee, Soon as thy oaten pipe began to sound, Their ivory lutes and tamburins forego, And from the fountain, where they sate around, Ren after hastily thy silver sound. 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 ostgo.

Col. Of muses, Hobbinoil, I con no skill. For they been daughters of the highest Jove, And holdest scorn of homely shepherds quill: For sith I heard that Pan with Phoebus strove Which him to much rebuke and danger drove, I never list presume to Parnass' hill, But piping low, in shade of lowly grove, I play to please myself, albeit ill. Nought weigh I, who my song doth praise or blame; No 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 case 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 sov'reign head Of shepherds all, that been with love ytake. Well couth he wail his woes, and lightly slake 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 bed, I soon would learn these woods to wail my woe, And teach the trees their trickling tears to shed. Then would my plaints, caus'd of discourtesie, As messengers of this my painful flight, Fly to my love; wherever that she be, And pierce her heart with point of worthy wight; As she deserves, that wrought so deadly spight. And thou, Menalcas, that by treachery Didst underfog my lass to wax so light, Should'st well be known for such thy villany. But since I am not, as I wish I were, Ye gentle shepherds, which your flocks do feed, Whether on hills or dales, or other where,

itness all of this so wicked deed: And tell the lass, whose flower is woxe a weed, And faultless faith is turn'd to faithless seere, 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 blessed flocks, and home space Lest night with stealing steps do you foresee, And wet your tender lambs that by you trace.

By the following eclogue the reader will perceive that Mr Philips 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 lonesome 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, how the sky so bright appears? Why in this mournful manner art thou found, Unthankful lad, when all things smile around? Or hear'st not lark and linnet jointly sing, Their notes blithe-warbling to salute the spring? Co. 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 plain; 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.

Idly 'twill waste thee, Thenot, the whole day, Should'st 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.

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 low'ring sky and wintry 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 shepherds throng With jocund tale, or pipe, or pleasant 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 was born, When bightning mildews spoil the rising corn. Or blasting winds o'er blossom'd hedge-rows pass, To kill the promis'd fruits, and scorch the grass, Or when the moon, by wizard charm'd, foreshows Blood-stain'd in foul eclipse, impending woes. Untimely born, ill luck betides thee still.

And can there, Thenot, be a greater ill? TH. Nor fox, nor wolf, nor rot among our sheep: From these good shepherd's care his flock may keep; Against ill luck, alas! all forecast fails; Nor toil by day, nor watch by night, avails.

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 silly I! more silly 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 amell'd 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 inticement charm'd thee far away From thy lov'd home, and led thy heart astray?

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

TH. Or, sooth 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.

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 woe! 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 slant willow's trunk to rest my head. Hard is to bear of pinching cold the pain; And hard is want to the unpractis'd swain; 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 sorer than an evil tongue?

Untoward lads, the wanton imps of spite Make mock of all the ditties I endite. In vain, O Colinet, thy voice so shrill, Charsn 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, Menalca seems to like my simple strain: And while that he delighteth in my song, Which to the good Menalca doth belong, Nor night nor day shall my rude music cease; I ask no more, so I Menalca please.

TH. Menalca, lord of those 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 firstlings 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.

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 Menalca 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 moss, 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 dress from those of Spenser or Philips; for he has discarded all antiquated words, drawn his swains 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,

nd Ægion sung their rural lays: This mov'n'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 Ægion'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, 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 sad turtle his lost love deplores, And with deep murmurs fills the sounding shores; Thus, far from Delia, to the winds I mourn, Alike unheard, unheark't, 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 forsaken 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 blossom, 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 show'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;

each cave and echoing rock rebounds. Ye pow'rs, what pleasing frenzy soothes 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 Windsor groves admir'd; Rehearse, ye muses, what yourselves inspir'd. Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful strain! Of perjur'd Doris, dying, I complain: Here where the mountains, less'ning as they rise, Lose 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 smoke from village-tops are seen, And the fleet shades glide o'er the dusky green. Resound, ye hills, resound my mournful lay! Beneath yon 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.

Resound, ye hills, resound 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:

ods! shall all things yield return but love? Resound, ye hills, resound 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 preserv'd my sheep?