One day there chaunced into these halls to rove A joyous youth, who took you at first sight; Him the wild wave of pleasure hither drove, Before the sprightly tempest tossing light: Certes, he was a most engaging wight,

Of social glee, and wit humane, though keen,
Turning the night to day, and day to night:
For him the merry bells had rung, I ween,
If in this nook of quiet bells had ever been.

But not even pleasure to excess is good:
What most elates then sinks the soul as low:
When spring-tide joy pours in with copious flood,
The higher still th' exulting billows flow,
The farther back again they flagging go,
And leave us groveling on the dreary shore :
Taught by this son of joy we found it so ;
Who, whilst he staid, kept in a gay uproar
Our madden'd castle all, th' abode of sleep no more.

As when in prime of June a burnish'd fly,
Sprung from the meads, o'er which he sweeps along,
Cheer'd by the breathing bloom and vital sky,
Tunes up amid these airy halls his song,
Soothing at first the gay reposing throng:
And oft he sips their bowl; or, nearly drown'd,
He, thence recovering, drives their beds among,
And scares their tender sleep, with trump profound;
Then out again he flies, to wing his mazy round.

Another guest there was †, of sense refined,
Who felt each worth, for every worth he had;
Serene, yet warm; humane, yet firm his mind,
As little touch'd as any man's with bad:
Him through their inmost walks the Muses lad,
To him the sacred love of nature lent,
And sometimes would he make our valley glad;
When as we found he would not here be pent,
To him the better sort this friendly message sent.

66 'Come, dwell with us! true son of virtue, come !
But if, alas! we cannot thee persuade,
To lie content beneath our peaceful dome,
Ne ever more to quit our quiet glade;
Yet when at last thy toils but ill apaid
Shall dead thy fire, and damp its heavenly spark,
Thou wilt be glad to seek the rural shade,
There to indulge the Muse, and nature mark:
We then a lodge for thee will rear in Hagley-Park."

Here whilom ligg'd th' Esopus of the age;
But call'd by Fame, in soul ypricked deep,
A noble pride restored him to the stage,
And roused him like a giant from his sleep.
Even from his slumbers we advantage reap:
With double force th' enliven'd scene he wakes,
Yet quits not nature's bounds. He knows to keep
Each due decorum: now the heart he shakes,
And now, with well-urged sense, th' enlighten'd
judgment takes.

[* Young John Forbes of Duncan Forbes.]

Culloden, the only son of [t Lord Lyttelton.]

[Quin, whom a quarrel with Garrick had driven temporarily off the stage.]

A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems §;
Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain,
On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes,
Pour'd forth his unpremeditated strain :
The world forsaking with a calm disdain,
Here laugh'd he careless in his easy seat;
Here quaff'd encircled with the joyous train,
Oft moralizing sage; his ditty sweet
He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat.

Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod,
Of clerks great plenty here you mote espy.
A little, round, fat, oily man of God ||,
Was one I chiefly mark'd among the fry :
He had a roguish twinkle in his eye,
And shone all glittering with ungodly dew,
If a tight damsel chaunced to trippen by;
Which when observed, he shrunk into his mew,
And straight would recollect his piety anew.

Nor be forgot a tribe, who minded nought
(Old inmates of the place) but state affairs:
They look'd, perdie, as if they deeply thought;
And on their brow sat ev'ry nation's cares.
The world by them is parcell'd out in shares,
When in the hall of smoke they congress hold,
And the sage berry sun-burnt Mocha bears [roll'd,
Has clear'd their inward eye then, smoke-en-
Their oracles break forth mysterious as of old.

Here languid beauty kept her pale-faced court:
Bevies of dainty dames, of high degree,
From every quarter hither made resort;
Where, from gross mortal care and business free,
They lay, pour'd out in ease and luxury.
Or should they a vain show of work assume,
Alas! and well-a-day! what can it be?
To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom;
But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel, and
[loom.

Their only labour was to kill the time;
And labour dire it is, and weary woe.
They sit, they loll, turn o'er some idle rhyme;
Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go,
Or saunter forth, with tottering step and slow.
This soon too rude an exercise they find;
Straight on the couch their limbs again they throw.
Where hours and hours they sighing lie reclined,
And court the vapoury god soft-breathing in the
[wind.

Now must I mark the villany we found,
But ah! too late, as shall eftsoons be shown.
A place here was, deep, dreary, under ground;
Where still our inmates, when unpleasing grown,
Diseased, and loathsome, privily were thrown ;
Far from the light of heaven, they languish'd there,
Unpity'd, uttering many a bitter groan ;
For of these wretches taken was no care:
Fierce fiends, and hags of hell, their only nurses were.
[§ Thomson himself. This stanza was written by Lord
Lyttelton.]

[The Rev. Patrick Murdoch, the poet's friend and biographer. His sleek, rosy visage, and roguish eye, are preserved on canvas at Culloden.]

Alas! the change! from scenes of joy and rest*, To this dark den, where sickness toss'd alway. Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep oppress'd, Stretch'd on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay, Heaving his sides, and snored night and day; To stir him from his traunce it was not eath, And his half-open'd eyne he shut straightway: He led, I wot, the softest way to death, And taught withouten pain and strife to yield the breath.

Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound,
Soft, swoln and pale, here lay the Hydropsy:
Unwieldy man; with belly monstrous round,
For ever fed with watery supply;

For still he drank, and yet he still was dry.
And moping here did Hypochondria sit†,
Mother of spleen, in robes of various dye,
Who vexed was full oft with ugly fit ;

And some her frantic deem'd, and some her deem'd a wit.

A lady proud she was, of ancient blood,
Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low;
She felt, or fancy'd in her fluttering mood,
All the diseases which the spittles know,
And sought all physic which the shops bestow,
And still new leeches and new drugs would try,
Her humour ever wavering to and fro;

For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry, Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why.

Fast by her side a listless maiden pined, With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings; Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind, Yet loved in secret all forbidden things. And here the tertian shakes his chilling wings; The sleepless gout here counts the crowing cocks, A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings; Whilst apoplexy cramm'd intemperance knocks Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox.

TO FORTUNE.

FOR ever, Fortune, wilt thou prove
An unrelenting foe to love,
And when we meet a mutual heart,
Come in between, and bid us part.

[* The four last verses were written by Armstrong at Thomson's desire. Thomson, however, made a few verbal alterations.]

[t In Armstrong and in the first edition of the poem : And here a moping mystery did sit.]

Bid us sigh on from day to day,
And wish, and wish the soul away;
Till youth and genial years are flown,
And all the life of love is gone!

But busy, busy still art thou,
To bind the loveless, joyless vow,
The heart from pleasure to delude,
And join the gentle to the rude.

For pomp and noise, and senseless show,
To make us Nature's joys forego,
Beneath a gay dominion groan,
And put the golden fetter on!

For once, O Fortune, hear my prayer,
And I absolve thy future care;
All other blessings I resign,
Make but the dear Amanda mine.

RULE, BRITANNIA !

WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of her land,

And guardian angels sung this strain : "Rule, Britannia, rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves!"

The nations, not so bless'd as thee,
Must, in their turns, to tyrants fall;
While thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies,

Serves but to root thy native oak.

These haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame: All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame; But work their woe and thy renown.

To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main:
And every shore it circles thine.

The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair:
Bless'd isle! with matchless beauty crown'd,
And manly hearts to guard the fair:
"Rule, Britannia, rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves!"

DR. WATTS's devotional poetry was for the most part intentionally lowered to the understanding of children. If this was a sacrifice of taste, it was at least made to the best of intentions. The sense and sincerity of his prose writings, the excellent method in which he attempted to connect the study of ancient logic with common sense, and the conciliatory manner in which he allures the youthful mind to habits of study and reflection, are probably remembered with gratitude by nine men out of ten, who have had proper books put into their hands at an early period of their education. Of this description was not poor old Percival Stockdale,

who in one of his lucubrations gives our author the appellation of " Mother Watts." The nickname would not be worth mentioning if it did not suggest a compassionate reflection on the difference between the useful life and labours of Dr. Watts, and the utterly useless and wasted existence of Percival Stockdale. It might have been happy for the frail intellects of that unfortunate man, if they had been braced and rectified in his youth by such works as Watts's Logic and Improvement of the Mind. The study of them might possibly have saved even him from a life of vanity, vexation, and oblivion*.

Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
That thoughtless fly into thy chains,

As custom leads the way:
If there be bliss without design,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,
And be as blest as they.

Not sordid souls of earthly mould
Who drawn by kindred charms of gold
To dull embraces move;
So two rich mountains of Peru
May rush to wealthy marriage too,
And make a world of love.

Not the mad tribe that hell inspires
With wanton flames; those raging fires
The purer bliss destroy;
On Ætna's top let furies wed,
And sheets of lightning dress the bed
T'improve the burning joy.

Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms
None of the melting passions warms,
Can mingle hearts and hands:
Logs of green wood that quench the coals
Are married just like Stoic souls,
With osiers for their bands.

Not minds of melancholy strain,
Still silent, or that still complain,
Can the dear bondage bless :
As well may heavenly concerts spring
From two old lutes with ne'er a string,
Or none besides the bass.

Nor can the soft enchantments hold Two jarring souls of angry mould, The rugged and the keen: Samson's young foxes might as well In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell, With firebrands tied between.

Nor let the cruel fetters bind
A gentle to a savage mind;

For Love abhors the sight:
Loose the fierce tiger from the deer,
For native rage and native fear

Rise and forbid delight.

Two kindest souls alone must meet,
'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet,
And feeds their mutual loves:
Bright Venus on her rolling throne
Is drawn by gentlest birds alone,
And Cupids yoke the doves.

[* Of Watts's poetry one can praise the design, but not the execution, though Cowper professed to find excellent poetry in his verse. The author of the Olney Hymns, which are about the level of Watts's, may be pardoned for such natural blindness.]

TO THE EARL OF DORSET †.

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 flowery plains, and silver-streaming floods, By snow disguised, in bright confusion lie, And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye. No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring, No birds within the desert region sing. The ships, unmoved, 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, even here,
The winter in a lovely dress appear.

Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured snow,
Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow,
At evening a keen eastern breeze arose,
And the descending rain unsullied froze.
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclosed at once to view
The face of nature in a rich disguise,
And brighten'd every object to my eyes:

The Freethinker, in which A. Philips wrote, began its career on Monday, March 24, 1718, was published twice a week, and terminated with the 159th paper, Monday, September 28th, 1719. Dr. Drake speaks in praise of its easy and perspicuous diction, and thinks a very interesting selection might be made from it.-Essay on Periodical Papers.

[ The opening of this poem is incomparably fine. The latter part is tedious and trifling.-GOLDSMITH.]

elected member for Armagh in the Irish Commons. He returned to England in the year 1748, and died in the following year, at his lodgings near Vauxhall. The best of his dramatic writings is the Distrest Mother, a translation of Racine's Andromache. His two other tragedies, the Briton, and Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, are not much better than his pastorals.

For every shrub, and every blade of grass,
And every 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-sprung 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,
Glazed over, in the freezing ether shine.
The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,
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 shower the prospect ends:
Or, if a southern gale the region warm,
And by degrees unbind the wintry charm,
The traveller a miry country sees,
And journeys sad beneath the drooping trees:
Like some deluded peasant, Merlin leads
Through fragrant bowers, and through 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.

A HYMN TO VENUS.
FROM THE GREEK OF SAPPHO.

O VENUS, Beauty of the skies,
To whom a thousand temples rise,
Gaily false in gentle smiles,
Full of love-perplexing wiles,
O, goddess! from my heart remove
The wasting cares and pains of love.

If ever thou hast kindly heard
A song in soft distress preferr'd,
Propitious to my tuneful vow,
O, gentle goddess hear me now.
Descend, thou bright immortal guest,
In all thy radiant charms confess'd.

Thou once didst leave almighty Jove,
And all the golden roofs above:
The car thy wanton sparrows drew;
Hovering in air they lightly flew ;
As to my bower they wing'd their way,
I saw their quivering pinions play.

The birds dismiss'd (while you remain)
Bore back their empty car again :
Then you, with looks divinely mild,
In every heavenly feature smiled,
And ask'd what new complaints I made,
And why I call'd you to my aid?

What frenzy in my bosom raged,
And by what care to be assuaged?
What gentle youth I would allure,
Whom in my artful toils secure?
Who does thy tender heart subdue,
Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who?

Though now he shuns thy longing arms,
He soon shall court thy slighted charms;
Though now thy offerings he despise,
He soon to thee shall sacrifice;

Though now he freeze, he soon shall burn,
And be thy victim in his turn.

Celestial visitant, once more,

Thy needful presence I implore?
In pity come and ease my grief,
Bring my distemper'd soul relief:
Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires,
And give me all my heart desires.

A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO.

BLESS'D as the immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak, and sweetly smile.

'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, And raised such tumults in my breast; For while I gazed, in transport toss'd, My breath was gone, my voice was lost.

My bosom glow'd: the subtle flame Ran quickly through my vital frame; O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung, My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd, My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd ; My feeble pulse forgot to play,

I fainted, sunk, and died away *.

[* Joseph Warton thinks that Addison lent a helping hand to Philips in these translations. He was fond of rendering such assistance, and may have done so; but it is idle to indulge in conjectures and plausible perhapses.]

This not disturbs you, nor your bliss alloys, Then why should fortune's sports and human toys? | What is 't to us if Clod the self-same day Trolls in the gilded car and drives the dray? If Richvil for a Roman patriot pass, And half the Livery vote for Isinglass? With grateful mind let's use the given hour, And what's our own enjoy and in our power. To his great chiefs the conqueror Pyrrhus spoke, Two moons shall wane, and Greece shall own our 'Tis well, replied the friend; admit it so, [yoke. What next? Why next to Italy I'll go, And Rome in ashes lay.-What after that? Waste India's realms.-What then? Then sit and

chat;