wanted rather the gall than the ingenuity that is requisite for the character. If his heart had been full of spleen, he was not so wholly destitute of humour as not to have been able to deal some hard blows at Churchill, whose private character was a broad mark, and even whose writings had many vapid parts that were easily assailable. Had Whitehead done so, the world would probably have liked him the better for his pugnacity. As it was, his name sunk into such a by-word of contempt, that Garrick would not admit his "Trip to Scotland" on the stage, unless its author was concealed. He also found it convenient to publish his pleasing tale, entitled
"Variety," anonymously. The public applauded both his farce and his poem, because it was not known that they were Whitehead's.
In 1769 he obtained an unwilling permission from Lord Jersey to remove to private lodgings; though he was still a daily expected guest at his lordship's table in town; and he divided his summers between the country residences of the Jersey and Harcourt families. His health began to decline about his seventieth year, and in 1785 he was carried off by a complaint in his chest. His death was sudden, and his peaceable life was closed without a groan.
FROM HIS TRAGEDY OF "CREUSA."
What youth is this? There's something in his eyes,
His shape, his voice.-What may we call thee, youth?
Ilyssus. The servant of the god who guards this
Creusa. Bear'st thou no name?
[fane.
Ilyssus.
Ilyssus, gracious queen,
The priests and virgins call me.
Creusa.
That name's Athenian. Tell me, gentle youth,
Art thou of Athens then?
Nor know I whence I am. Creusa.
Thy father, mother?
Had they e'er felt the secret pangs of nature,
They had not left me to the desert world
So totally exposed. I rather fear
I am the child of lowliness and vice,
And happy only in my ignorance.
-Why should she weep? O if her tears can fall
For even a stranger's but suspected woes,
How is that people bless'd where she presides
As queen, and mother!-Please you, I retire?
Creusa. No, stay. Thy sentiments at least be-
A gen'rous education. Tell me, youth, [speak
How has thy mind been form'd?
In that, great queen, I never wanted parents. The good priests And pious priestess, who with care sustain'd I have no country; My helpless infancy, left not my youth
I never knew a mother's tender cares,
Nor heard the instructions of a father's tongue.
Creusa. How camest thou hither?
Ilyssus.
Eighteen years are past
Since in the temple's portal I was found
A sleeping infant.
Without instruction. But O, more than all,
The kindest, best good man, a neighbouring sage,
Who has known better days, though now, retired
To a small cottage on the mountain's brow,
He deals his blessings to the simple swains
In balms and powerful herbs. He taught me things
Which my soul treasures as its dearest wealth,
And will remember ever. The good priests,
'Tis true, had taught the same, but not with half
That force and energy; conviction's self
Dwelt on Aletes' tongue.
Aletes, said'st thou ! Was that the good man's name?
Ilyssus. It is, great queen, For yet he lives, and guides me by his counsels. Creusa. What did he teach thee? Ilyssus.
To adore high heaven, And venerate on earth heaven's image, truth! To feel for others' woes and bear my own With manly resignation.-Yet I own Some things he taught me, which but ill agree With my condition here.
Creusa. What things were those? Ilyssus. They were for exercise, and to confirm My growing strength. And yet I often told him The exercise he taught resembled much
What I had heard of war. He was himself
Creusa. And did those sports delight thee? Ilyssus. Great queen, I do confess, my soul mix'd with them.
Whene'er I grasp'd the osier-plaited shield,
Or sent the mimic javelin to its mark,
I felt I know not what of manhood in me.
But then I knew my duty, and repress'd
The swelling ardour. 'Tis to shades, I cried,
The servant of the temple must confine
His less ambitious, not less virtuous cares.
Creusa. Did the good man observe, and blame
Ilyssus. He only smiled at my too forward zeal; Nay, seemed to think such sports were necessary To soften, what he call'd, more rigorous studies. Creusa. Suppose when I return to Athens, youth,
Thou should'st attend me thither! wouldst thou To me thy future fortunes! [trust
Ilyssus.
O most gladly!
-But then to leave these shades where I was nursed
The servant of the god, how might that seem?
And good Aletes too, the kind old man
Of whom I spake ?-But wherefore talk I thus,
You only throw these tempting lures to try
Th' ambition of my youth.-Please you, retire.
Creusa. Ilyssus, we will find a time to speak
More largely on this subject; for the present
Let all withdraw and leave us. Youth, farewell,
I see the place, and will retire at leisure.
Lycea, Phorbas, stay.
A GENTLE maid, of rural breeding,
By Nature first, and then by reading,
Was fill'd with all those soft sensations
Which we restrain in near relations,
Lest future husbands should be jealous,
And think their wives too fond of fellows.
The morning sun beheld her rove
A nymph, or goddess of the grove !
At eve she paced the dewy lawn,
And call'd each clown she saw, a faun!
Then, scudding homeward, lock'd her door,
And turn'd some copious volume o'er.
For much she read; and chiefly those
Great authors, who in verse, or prose,
Or something betwixt both, unwind
The secret springs which move the mind.
These much she read; and thought she knew
The human heart's minutest clue ;
Yet shrewd observers still declare
(To show how shrewd observers are),
Though plays, which breathed heroic flame,
And novels, in profusion, came,
Imported fresh-and-fresh from France,
She only read the heart's romance.
The world, no doubt, was well enough
To smooth the manners of the rough;
Might please the giddy and the vain,
Those tinsel'd slaves of folly's train :
But, for her part, the truest taste
She found was in retirement placed,
Where, as in verse it sweetly flows,
"On every thorn instruction grows."
Not that she wish'd to "be alone,"
As some affected prudes have done;
She knew it was decreed on high
We should "increase and multiply;"
And therefore, if kind Fate would grant
Her fondest wish, her only want,
A cottage with the man she loved
Was what her gentle heart approved ;
In some delightful solitude
Where step profane might ne'er intrude;
But Hymen guard the sacred ground,
And virtuous Cupids hover round.
Not such as flutter on a fan
Round Crete's vile bull, or Leda's swan,
(Who scatter myrtles, scatter roses,
And hold their fingers to their noses),
But simp'ring, mild, and innocent,
As angels on a monument.
Fate heard her pray'r a lover came,
Who felt, like her, th' innoxious flame;
One who had trod, as well as she,
The flow'ry paths of poesy;
Had warm'd himself with Milton's heat,
Could ev'ry line of Pope repeat,
Or chant in Shenstone's tender strains,
"The lover's hopes," "the lover's pains."
Attentive to the charmer's tongue,
With him she thought no evening long;
With him she saunter'd half the day;
And sometimes, in a laughing way,
Ran o'er the catalogue by rote
Of who might marry, and who not;
"Consider, sir, we're near relations--"
"I hope so in our inclinations."—
In short, she look'd, she blush'd consent;
He grasp'd her hand, to church they went;
And ev'ry matron that was there,
With tongue so voluble and supple,
Said for her part, she must declare,
She never saw a finer couple.
O Halcyon days! "Twas Nature's reign,
'Twas Tempe's vale, and Enna's plain,
The fields assumed unusual bloom,
And ev'ry zephyr breathed perfume,
The laughing sun with genial beams
Danced lightly on th' exulting streams;
And the pale regent of the night,
In dewy softness shed delight.
"Twas transport not to be exprest;
'Twas Paradise!But mark the rest.
Two smiling springs had waked the flow'rs
That paint the meads, or fringe the bow'rs,
(Ye lovers, lend your wond'ring ears,
Who count by months, and not by years),
Two smiling springs had chaplets wove
To crown their solitude, and love:
When lo, they find, they can't tell how,
Their walks are not so pleasant now.
The seasons sure were changed; the place
Had, somehow, got a diff'rent face.
Some blast had struck the cheerful scene;
The lawns, the woods, were not so green.
The purling rill, which murmur'd by,
And once was liquid harmony,
Became a sluggish, reedy pool:
The days grew hot, the ev'nings cool.
The moon, with all the starry reign,
Were melancholy's silent train.
And then the tedious winter night-
They could not read by candle-light.
Full oft, unknowing why they did,
They call'd in adventitious aid.
A faithful, fav'rite dog ('twas thus
With Tobit and Telemachus)
Amused their steps; and for a while
They view'd his gambols with a smile.
The kitten too was comical,
She play'd so oddly with her tail,
Or in the glass was pleased to find
Another cat, and peep'd behind.
A courteous neighbour at the door
Was deem'd intrusive noise no more.
For rural visits, now and then,
Are right, as men must live with men.
Then cousin Jenny, fresh from town,
A new recruit, a dear delight!
Made many a heavy hour go down,
At morn, at noon, at eve, at night:
Sure they could hear her jokes for ever,
She was so sprightly, and so clever!
Yet neighbours were not quite the thing; What joy, alas! could converse bring With awkward creatures bred at homeThe dog grew dull, or troublesome. The cat had spoil'd the kitten's merit, And, with her youth, had lost her spirit. And jokes repeated o'er and o'er, Had quite exhausted, Jenny's store. -"And then, my dear, I can't abide This always sauntering side by side." "Enough!" he cries, "the reason's plain : For causes never rack your brain. Our neighbours are like other folks, Skip's playful tricks, and Jenny's jokes, Are still delightful, still would please, Were we, my dear, ourselves at ease. Look round, with an impartial eye, On yonder fields, on yonder sky; The azure cope, the flow'rs below, With all their wonted colours glow.
The rill still murmurs; and the moon
Shines, as she did, a softer sun.
No change has made the seasons fail,
No comet brush'd us with his tail.
The scene's the same, the same the weather-
We live, my dear, too much together."
Agreed. A rich old uncle dies,
And added wealth the means supplies.
With eager haste to town they flew,
Where all must please, for all was new.
But here, by strict poetic laws,
Description claims its proper pause.
The rosy morn had raised her head
From old Tithonus' saffron bed;
And embryo sunbeams from the east,
Half-choked, were struggling through the mist,
When forth advanced the gilded chaise ;
The village crowded round to gaze.
The pert postilion, now promoted
From driving plough, and neatly booted,
His jacket, cap, and baldrie on,
(As greater folks than he have done),
Look'd round; and, with a coxcomb air,
Smack'd loud his lash. The happy pair
Bow'd graceful, from a sep'rate door,
And Jenny, from the stool before.
Roll swift, ye wheels! to willing eyes
New objects ev'ry moment rise.
Each carriage passing on the road,
From the broad waggon's pond'rous load
To the light car, where mounted high
The giddy driver seems to fly,
Were themes for harmless satire fit,
And gave fresh force to Jenny's wit.
Whate'er occurr'd, 'twas all delightful,
No noise was harsh, no danger frightful.
The dash and splash through thick and thin,
The hair-breadth 'scapes, the bustling inn,
(Where well-bred landlords were so ready
To welcome in the 'squire and lady),
Dirt, dust, and sun, they bore with ease,
Determined to be pleased, and please.
Now nearer town, and all agog,
They know dear London by its fog.
Bridges they cross, through lanes they wind,
Leave Hounslow's dang'rous heath behind,
Through Brentford win a passage free
By roaring," Wilkes and Liberty !"
At Knightsbridge bless the short'ning way,
(Where Bays's troops in ambush lay),
O'er Piccadilly's pavement glide,
(With palaces to grace its side),
Till Bond-street with its lamps a-blaze
Concludes the journey of three days.
Why should we paint, in tedious song,
How ev'ry day, and all day long,
They drove at first with curious haste Through Lud's vast town; or, as they pass'd 'Midst risings, fallings, and repairs
Of streets on streets, and squares on squares,
Describe how strong their wonder grew
At buildings-and at builders too!
Scarce less astonishment arose
At architects more fair than those-
Who built as high, as widely spread
Th' enormous loads that cloth'd their head.
For British dames new follies love,
And, if they can't invent, improve.
Some with erect pagodas vie,
Some nod, like Pisa's tower, awry,
Medusa's snakes, with Pallas' crest,
Convolved, contorted, and compress'd ;
With intermingling trees, and flowers,
And corn, and grass, and shepherd's bowers,
Stage above stage the turrets run,
Like pendent groves of Babylon,
Till nodding from the topmost wall
Otranto's plumes envelop all !
Whilst the black ewes, who own'd the hair,
Feed harmless on, in pastures fair,
Unconscious that their tails perfume,
In scented curls, the drawing-room.
When Night her murky pinions spread,
And sober folks retire to bed,
To ev'ry public place they flew,
Where Jenny told them who was who.
Money was always at command,
And tripp'd with pleasure hand in hand.
Money was equipage, was show,
Gallini's, Almack's, and Soho ;
The passe-partout through every vein
Of dissipation's hydra reign.
O London, thou prolific source,
Parent of vice, and folly's nurse!
Fruitful as Nile thy copious springs
Spawn hourly births,-and all with stings:
But happiest far the he, or she,
I know not which, that livelier dunce
Who first contrived the coterie,
To crush domestic bliss at once.
Then grinn'd, no doubt, amidst the dames,
As Nero fiddled to the flames.
Of thee, Pantheon, let me speak
With reverence, though in numbers weak;
Thy beauties satire's frown beguile,
We spare the follies for the pile.
Flounced, furbelow'd, and trick'd for show,
With lamps above, and lamps below,
Thy charms even modern taste defied,
They could not spoil thee, though they tried.
Ah, pity that Time's hasty wings
Must sweep thee off with vulgar things!
Let architects of humbler name
On frail materials build their fame,
Their noblest works the world might want,
Wyatt should build in adamant.
But what are these to scenes which lie Secreted from the vulgar eye, And baffle all the powers of song?— A brazen throat, an iron tongue, (Which poets wish for, when at length Their subject soars above their strength,) Would shun the task. Our humbler Muse, (Who only reads the public news,
And idly utters what she gleans
From chronicles and magazines)
Recoiling feels her feeble fires,
And blushing to her shades retires.
Alas! she knows not how to treat
The finer follies of the great,
Where even Democritus, thy sneer
Were vain as Heraclitus' tear.
Suffice it that by just degrees
They reach'd all heights, and rose with ease;
(For beauty wins its way, uncall'd,
And ready dupes are ne'er black-ball'd.)
Each gambling dame she knew, and he
Knew every shark of quality;
From the grave cautious few who live
On thoughtless youth, and living thrive,
To the light train who mimic France,
And the soft sons of nonchalance.
While Jenny, now no more of use,
Excuse succeeding to excuse,
Grew piqued, and prudently withdrew
To shilling whist, and chicken loo.
Advanced to fashion's wavering head,
They now, where once they follow'd, led.
Devised new systems of delight,
A-bed all day, and up all night,
In different circles reign'd supreme.
Wives copied her, and husbands him;
Till so divinely life ran on,
So separate, so quite bon-ton,
That meeting in a public place,
They scarcely knew each other's face.
At last they met, by his desire,
A tête-à-tête across the fire;
Look'd in each other's face awhile,
With half a tear, and half a smile.
The ruddy health, which wont to grace
With manly glow his rural face,
Now scarce retain'd its faintest streak;
So sallow was his leathern cheek.
She lank, and pale, and hollow-eyed,
With rouge had striven in vain to hide
What once was beauty, and repair
The rapine of the midnight air.
Silence is eloquence, 'tis said.
Both wish'd to speak, both hung the head.
At length it burst.- ""Tis time," he cries,
"When tired of folly, to be wise.
Are you too tired?"-then check'd a groan.
She wept consent, and he went on.
"How delicate the married life!
You love your husband, I my wife!
Not even satiety could tame,
Nor dissipation quench the flame.
"True to the bias of our kind,
'Tis happiness we wish to find.
In rural scenes retired we sought
In vain the dear, delicious draught,
Though blest with love's indulgent store;
We found we wanted something more.
'Twas company, 'twas friends to share
The bliss we languish'd to declare.
"Twas social converse, change of scene,
To soothe the sullen hour of spleen;
Short absences to wake desire,
And sweet regrets to fan the fire.
"We left the lonesome place; and found, In dissipation's giddy round,
A thousand novelties to wake
The springs of life and not to break.
As, from the nest not wandering far,
In light excursions through the air,
The feather'd tenants of the grove
Around in mazy circles move
(Sip the cool springs that murmuring flow,
Or taste the blossom on the bough).
We sported freely with the rest;
And still, returning to the nest,
In easy mirth we chatted o'er
The trifles of the day before.
"Behold us now, dissolving quite
In the full ocean of delight;
In pleasures every hour employ,
Immersed in all the world calls joy;
Our affluence easing the expense
Of splendour and magnificence;
Our company, the exalted set
Of all that's gay, and all that's great :
Nor happy yet!—and where's the wonder!—
We live, my dear, too much asunder."
The moral of my tale is this,
Variety's the soul of bliss;
But such variety alone
As makes our home the more our own.
As from the heart's impelling power
The life-blood pours its genial store;
Though taking each a various way,
The active streams meandering play
Through every artery, every vein,
All to the heart return again;
From thence resume their new career,
But still return and centre there:
So real happiness below
Must from the heart sincerely flow;
Nor, listening to the syren's song,
Must stray too far, or rest too long.
All human pleasures thither tend;
Must there begin, and there must end;
Must there recruit their languid force,
And gain fresh vigour from their source.
RICHARD GLOVER.
[Born, 1712. Died, 1785.]
RICHARD GLOVER was the son of a Hamburgh merchant in London, and was born in St. Martin's-lane, Cannon-street. He was educated at the school of Cheam, in Surrey; but, being intended for trade, was never sent to the university. This circumstance did not prevent him from applying assiduously to classical learning; and he was, in the competent opinion of Dr. Warton, one of the best Greek scholars of his time. This fact is worth mentioning, as it exhibits how far a determined mind may connect the pursuits, and even distinctions of literature, with an active employment. His first poetical effort was a poem to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton, which was written at the age of sixteen; and which his friend, Dr. Pemberton, thought fit to prefix to a "View of the Newtonian Philosophy," which he published. Dr. Pemberton, who was a man of more science than taste, on this and on some other occasions, addressed the public with critical eulogies, on the genius of Glover, written with an excess of admiration, which could be pardoned only for its sincerity. It gives us a higher idea of the youthful promises of his mind, to find that the intelligent poet Green had the same prepossession in his favour. Green says of him in the "Spleen,"
"But there's a youth, that you can name,
Who needs no leading-strings to fame;
Whose quick maturity of brain,
The birth of Pallas may explain."
At the age of twenty-five he published nine books of his "Leonidas." The poem was immediately taken up with ardour by Lord Cobham, to whom it was inscribed, and by all the readers of verse, and leaders of politics, who professed the strongest attachment to liberty. It ran rapidly through three editions, and was publicly extolled by the pen of Fielding, and by the lips of Chatham. Even Swift in one of his letters from Ireland, drily inquires of Pope, "who is this Mr. Glover, who writ Leonidas,' which is reprinting here, and hath great vogue ?" Overrated as "Leonidas" might be, Glover stands acquitted of all attempts or artifice to promote its popularity by false means. He betrayed no irritation in the disputes which were raised about its merit; and his personal character appears as respectable in the ebb as in the flow of his poetical reputation.
In the year 1739 he published his poem “London; or the Progress of Commerce,” in which, instead of selecting some of those interesting views of the progress of social life and civilisation, which the subject might have afforded, he confined himself to exciting the national spirit against the Spaniards. This purpose was better
[* Pope's answer does not appear: “it would have been curious," says Dr. Warton, "to have known his opini concerning a poem that is written in a taste and manner so different from his own, in a style formed on the Grecun school, and with the simplicity of the ancient."]
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