Chapter XXXI: Prologue (4)

As, by some tyrant's stern command, A wretch forsakes his native land, In foreign climes condemned to roam An endless exile from his home; Pensive he treads the destined way, And dreads to go, nor dares to stay; Till on some neighbouring mountain's brow He stops, and turns his eyes below; There, melting at the well-known view, Drops a last tear, and bids adieu: So I, thus doomed from thee to part, Gay queen of Fancy, and of Art, Reluctant move, with doubtful mind Oft stop, and often look behind.

Companion of my tender age, Serenely gay, and sweetly sage, How blithesome were we wont to rove By verdant hill, or shady grove, Where fervent bees, with humming voice, Around the honeyed oak rejoice, And aged elms with awful bend In long cathedral walks extend! Lulled by the lapse of gliding floods, Cheered by the warbling of the woods, How blessed my days, my thoughts how free, In sweet society with thee! Then all was joyous, all was young, And years unheeded rolled along: But now the pleasing dream is o'er, These scenes must charm me now no more. Lost to the fields, and torn from you,-- Farewell!--a long, a last adieu. Me wrangling courts, and stubborn law, To smoke, and crowds, and cities draw: There selfish faction rules the day, And pride and avarice throng the way; Diseases taint the murky air, And midnight conflagrations glare; Loose Revelry and Riot bold In frighted streets their orgies hold; Or, where in silence all is drowned, Fell Murder walks his lonely round; No room for peace, no room for you, Adieu, celestial nymph, adieu!

Shakspeare no more, thy sylvan son, Nor all the art of Addison, Pope's heaven-strung lyre, nor Waller's ease, Nor Milton's mighty self, must please: Instead of these a formal band, In furs and coifs, around me stand; With sounds uncouth and accents dry, That grate the soul of harmony, Each pedant sage unlocks his store Of mystic, dark, discordant lore; And points with tottering hand the ways That lead me to the thorny maze.

There, in a winding close retreat, Is Justice doomed to fix her seat; There, fenced by bulwarks of the law, She keeps the wondering world in awe; And there, from vulgar sight retired, Like eastern queens, is more admired.

Oh, let me pierce the sacred shade Where dwells the venerable maid! There humbly mark, with reverent awe, The guardian of Britannia's law; Unfold with joy her sacred page, The united boast of many an age; Where mixed, yet uniform, appears The wisdom of a thousand years. In that pure spring the bottom view, Clear, deep, and regularly true; And other doctrines thence imbibe Than lurk within the sordid scribe; Observe how parts with parts unite In one harmonious rule of right; See countless wheels distinctly tend By various laws to one great end: While mighty Alfred's piercing soul Pervades, and regulates the whole.

Then welcome business, welcome strife, Welcome the cares, the thorns of life, The visage wan, the poreblind sight, The toil by day, the lamp at night, The tedious forms, the solemn prate, The pert dispute, the dull debate, The drowsy bench, the babbling Hall, For thee, fair Justice, welcome all! Thus though my noon of life be passed, Yet let my setting sun, at last, Find out the still, the rural cell, Where sage Retirement loves to dwell! There let me taste the homefelt bliss. Of innocence and inward peace; Untainted by the guilty bribe; Uncursed amid the harpy tribe; No orphan's cry to wound my ear; My honour and my conscience clear; Thus may I calmly meet my end, Thus to the grave in peace descend.

JOHN SCOTT.

This poet is generally known as 'Scott of Amwell.' This arises from the fact that his father, a draper in Southwark, where John was born in 1730, retired ten years afterwards to Amwell. He had never been inoculated with the small-pox, and such was his dread of the disease, and that of his family, that for twenty years, although within twenty miles of London, he never visited it. His parents, who belonged to the amiable sect of Quakers, sent him to a day-school at Ware, but that too he left upon the first alarm of infection. At seventeen, although his education was much neglected, he began to relish reading, and was materially assisted in his studies by a neighbour of the name of Frogley, a master bricklayer, who, though somewhat illiterate, admired poetry. Scott sent his first essays to the _Gentleman's Magazine_, and in his thirtieth year published four elegies, which met with a kind reception, although Dr Johnson said only of them, 'They are very well, but such as twenty people might write.' He produced afterwards 'The Garden,' 'Amwell,' and other poems, besides some rather narrow 'Critical Essays on the English Poets.' When thirty-six years of age, he submitted to inoculation, and henceforward visited London frequently, and became acquainted with Dr Johnson, Sir William Jones, Mrs Montague, and other eminent characters. He was a very active promoter of local improvements, and diligent in cultivating his grounds and garden. He was twice married, his first wife being a daughter of his friend Frogley. He died in 1783, not of that disease which he so 'greatly feared,' but of a putrid fever, at Radcliff. One note of his, entitled 'Ode on Hearing the Drum,' still reverberates on the ear of poetic readers. Wordsworth has imitated it in his 'Andrew Jones.' Sir Walter makes Rachel Geddes say, in 'Redgauntlet,' alluding to books of verse, 'Some of our people do indeed hold that every writer who is not with us is against us, but brother Joshua is mitigated in his opinions, and correspondeth with our friend John Scott of Amwell, who hath himself constructed verses well approved of even in the world.'

ODE ON HEARING THE DRUM.

1 I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms;
And when ambition's voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall, in foreign lands.

2 I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravaged plains,
And burning towns, and ruined swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widows' tears, and orphans' moans;
And all that misery's hand bestows,
To fill the catalogue of human woes.

THE TEMPESTUOUS EVENING.

AN ODE.

1 There's grandeur in this sounding storm,
That drives the hurrying clouds along,
That on each other seem to throng,
And mix in many a varied form;
While, bursting now and then between,
The moon's dim misty orb is seen,
And casts faint glimpses on the green.

2 Beneath the blast the forests bend,
And thick the branchy ruin lies,
And wide the shower of foliage flies;
The lake's black waves in tumult blend,
Revolving o'er and o'er and o'er,
And foaming on the rocky shore,
Whose caverns echo to their roar.

3 The sight sublime enrapts my thought,
And swift along the past it strays,
And much of strange event surveys,
What history's faithful tongue has taught,
Or fancy formed, whose plastic skill
The page with fabled change can fill
Of ill to good, or good to ill.

4 But can my soul the scene enjoy,
That rends another's breast with pain?
O hapless he, who, near the main,
Now sees its billowy rage destroy!
Beholds the foundering bark descend,
Nor knows but what its fate may end
The moments of his dearest friend!

ALEXANDER ROSS.

Of this fine old Scottish poet we regret that we can tell our readers so little. He was born in 1698, became parish schoolmaster at Lochlee in Angusshire, and published, by the advice of Dr Beattie, in 1768, a volume entitled 'Helenore; or, The Fortunate Shepherdess: a Pastoral Tale in the Scottish Dialect; along with a few Songs.' Some of these latter, such as 'Woo'd, and Married, and a',' became very popular. Beattie loved the 'good-humoured, social, happy old man,' who was 'passing rich' on twenty pounds a-year, and wrote in the _Aberdeen Journal_ a poetical letter in the Scotch language to promote the sale of his poem. Ross died in 1784, about eighty-six years old, and is buried in a churchyard at the east end of the loch.

Lochlee is a very solitary and romantic spot. The road to it from the low country, or Howe of the Mearns, conducts us through a winding, unequal, but very interesting glen, which, after bearing at its foot many patches of corn, yellowing amidst thick green copsewood and birch trees, fades and darkens gradually into a stern, woodless, and rocky defile, which emerges on a solitary loch, lying 'dern and dreary' amidst silent hills. It is one of those lakes which divide the distance between the loch and the tarn, being two miles in length and one in breadth. The hills, which are stony and savage, sink directly down upon its brink. A house or two are all the dwellings in view. The celebrated Thomas Guthrie dearly loves this lake, lives beside it for months at a time, and is often seen rowing his lonely boat in the midst of it, by sunlight and by moonlight too. On the west, one bold, sword-like summit, Craig Macskeldie by name, cuts the air, and relieves the monotony of the other mountains. Fit rest has Ross found in that calm, rural burying-place, beside 'the rude forefathers of the hamlet,' with short, sweet, flower- sprinkled grass covering his dust, the low voice of the lake sounding a few yards from his cold ear, and a plain gravestone uniting with his native mountains to form his memorial. 'Fortunate Shepherd,' (shall we call him?) to have obtained a grave so intensely characteristic of a Scottish poet!

WOO'D, AND MARRIED, AND A'.

1 The bride cam' out o' the byre,
And, O, as she dighted her cheeks!
'Sirs, I'm to be married the night,
And have neither blankets nor sheets;
Have neither blankets nor sheets,
Nor scarce a coverlet too;
The bride that has a' thing to borrow,
Has e'en right muckle ado.'
Woo'd, and married, and a',
Married, and woo'd, and a'!
And was she nae very weel off,
That was woo'd, and married, and a'?

2 Out spake the bride's father,
As he cam' in frae the pleugh:
'O, haud your tongue my dochter,
And ye'se get gear eneugh;
The stirk stands i' the tether,
And our braw bawsint yade,
Will carry ye hame your corn--
What wad ye be at, ye jade?'

3 Out spake the bride's mither:
'What deil needs a' this pride?
I had nae a plack in my pouch
That night I was a bride;
My gown was linsey-woolsey,
And ne'er a sark ava;
And ye hae ribbons and buskins,
Mae than ane or twa.'
* * * * *

4 Out spake the bride's brither,
As he cam' in wi' the kye:
'Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye,
Had he kent ye as weel as I;
For ye're baith proud and saucy,
And no for a poor man's wife;
Gin I canna get a better,
I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.'
* * * * *

THE ROCK AN' THE WEE PICKLE TOW.

1 There was an auld wife had a wee pickle tow,
And she wad gae try the spinnin' o't;
But lootin' her doun, her rock took a-lowe,
And that was an ill beginnin' o't.
She spat on 't, she flat on 't, and tramped on its pate,
But a' she could do it wad ha'e its ain gate;
At last she sat down on't and bitterly grat,
For e'er ha'in' tried the spinnin' o't.

2 Foul fa' them that ever advised me to spin,
It minds me o' the beginnin' o't;
I weel might ha'e ended as I had begun,
And never ha'e tried the spinnin' o't.
But she's a wise wife wha kens her ain weird,
I thought ance a day it wad never be spier'd,
How let ye the lowe tak' the rock by the beard,
When ye gaed to try the spinnin' o't?

3 The spinnin', the spinnin', it gars my heart sab
To think on the ill beginnin' o't;
I took't in my head to mak' me a wab,
And that was the first beginnin' o't.
But had I nine daughters, as I ha'e but three,
The safest and soundest advice I wad gi'e,
That they wad frae spinnin' aye keep their heads free,
For fear o' an ill beginnin' o't.

4 But if they, in spite o' my counsel, wad run
The dreary, sad task o' the spinnin' o't;
Let them find a lown seat by the light o' the sun,
And syne venture on the beginnin' o't.
For wha's done as I've done, alake and awowe!
To busk up a rock at the cheek o' a lowe;
They'll say that I had little wit in my pow--
O the muckle black deil tak' the spinnin' o't.

RICHARD GLOVER.

Glover was a man so remarkable as to be thought capable of having written the letters of Junius, although no one now almost names his name or reads his poetry. He was the son of a Hamburgh merchant in London, and born (1712) in St Martin's Lane, Cannon Street. He was educated at a private school in Surrey, but being designed for trade, was never sent to a university, yet by his own exertions he became an excellent classical scholar. At sixteen he wrote a poem to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton, and at twenty-five produced nine books of his 'Leonidas.' Partly through its own merits, partly through its liberal political sentiments, and partly through the influence of Lord Cobham, to whom it was inscribed, and the praise of Fielding and Chatham, it became very popular. In 1739, he produced a poem entitled 'London; or, The Progress of Commerce,' and a spirited ballad entitled 'Admiral Hosier's Ghost,' which we have given, both designed to rouse the national spirit against the Spaniards.

Glover was a merchant, and very highly esteemed among his commercial brethren, although at one time unfortunate in business. When forced by his failure to seek retirement, he produced a tragedy on the subject of Boadicea, which ran the usual nine nights, although it has long since ceased to be acted or read. In his later years his affairs improved; he returned again to public life, was elected to Parliament, and approved himself a painstaking and popular M.P. In 1770, he enlarged his 'Leonidas' from nine books to twelve, and afterwards wrote a sequel to it, entitled 'The Athenais.' Glover spent his closing years in opulent retirement, enjoying the intimacy and respect of the most eminent men of the day, and died in 1785.

'Leonidas' may be called the epic of the eighteenth century, and betrays the artificial genius of its age. The poet rises to his flight like a heavy heron--not a hawk or eagle. Passages in it are good, but the effect of the whole is dulness. It reminds you of Cowper's 'Homer,' in which all is accurate, but all is cold, and where even the sound of battle lulls to slumber--or of Edwin Atherstone's 'Fall of Nineveh,' where you are fatigued with uniform pomp, and the story struggles and staggers under a load of words. Thomson exclaimed when he heard of the work of Glover, 'He write an epic, who never saw a mountain!' And there was justice in the remark. The success of 'Leonidas' was probably one cause of the swarm of epics which appeared in the close of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century.--Cottle himself being, according to De Quincey, 'the author of four epic poems, _and_ a new kind of blacking.' Their day seems now for ever at an end.

FROM BOOK XII

Song of the Priestess of the Muses to the chosen band after their
return from the inroad into the Persian camp, on the night before
the Battle of Thermopylae.

Back to the pass in gentle march he leads The embattled warriors. They, behind the shrubs, Where Medon sent such numbers to the shades, In ambush lie. The tempest is o'erblown. Soft breezes only from the Malian wave O'er each grim face, besmeared with smoke and gore, Their cool refreshment breathe. The healing gale, A crystal rill near Oeta's verdant feet, Dispel the languor from their harassed nerves, Fresh braced by strength returning. O'er their heads Lo! in full blaze of majesty appears Melissa, bearing in her hand divine The eternal guardian of illustrious deeds, The sweet Phoebean lyre. Her graceful train Of white-robed virgins, seated on a range Half down the cliff, o'ershadowing the Greeks, All with concordant strings, and accents clear, A torrent pour of melody, and swell A high, triumphal, solemn dirge of praise, Anticipating fame. Of endless joys In blessed Elysium was the song. Go, meet Lycurgus, Solon, and Zaleucus sage, Let them salute the children of their laws. Meet Homer, Orpheus, and the Ascraean bard, Who with a spirit, by ambrosial food Refined, and more exalted, shall contend Your splendid fate to warble through the bowers Of amaranth and myrtle ever young, Like your renown. Your ashes we will cull. In yonder fane deposited, your urns, Dear to the Muses, shall our lays inspire. Whatever offerings, genius, science, art Can dedicate to virtue, shall be yours, The gifts of all the Muses, to transmit You on the enlivened canvas, marble, brass, In wisdom's volume, in the poet's song, In every tongue, through every age and clime, You of this earth the brightest flowers, not cropt, Transplanted only to immortal bloom Of praise with men, of happiness with gods.

ADMIRAL HOSIER'S GHOST.

ON THE TAKING OF PORTO-BELLO FROM THE SPANIARDS BY ADMIRAL VERNON--Nov. 22, 1739.

1 As near Porto-Bello lying
On the gently swelling flood,
At midnight with streamers flying,
Our triumphant navy rode:
There while Vernon sat all-glorious
From the Spaniards' late defeat;
And his crews, with shouts victorious,
Drank success to England's fleet:

2 On a sudden shrilly sounding,
Hideous yells and shrieks were heard;
Then each heart with fear confounding,
A sad troop of ghosts appeared,
All in dreary hammocks shrouded,
Which for winding-sheets they wore,
And with looks by sorrow clouded,
Frowning on that hostile shore.

3 On them gleamed the moon's wan lustre,
When the shade of Hosier brave
His pale bands was seen to muster,
Rising from their watery grave:
O'er the glimmering wave he hied him,
Where the Burford[1] reared her sail,
With three thousand ghosts beside him,
And in groans did Vernon hail:

4 'Heed, O heed, our fatal story,
I am Hosier's injured ghost,
You, who now have purchased glory
At this place where I was lost;
Though in Porto-Bello's ruin
You now triumph free from fears,
When you think on our undoing,
You will mix your joy with tears.

5 'See these mournful spectres, sweeping
Ghastly o'er this hated wave,
Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping;
These were English captains brave:
Mark those numbers pale and horrid,
Those were once my sailors bold,
Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead,
While his dismal tale is told.

6 'I, by twenty sail attended,
Did this Spanish town affright:
Nothing then its wealth defended
But my orders not to fight:
Oh! that in this rolling ocean
I had cast them with disdain,
And obeyed my heart's warm motion,
To have quelled the pride of Spain.

7 'For resistance I could fear none,
But with twenty ships had done
What thou, brave and happy Vernon,
Hast achieved with six alone.
Then the Bastimentos never
Had our foul dishonour seen,
Nor the sea the sad receiver
Of this gallant train had been.

8 'Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,
And her galleons leading home,
Though condemned for disobeying,
I had met a traitor's doom;
To have fallen, my country crying,
He has played an English part,
Had been better far than dying
Of a grieved and broken heart.

9 'Unrepining at thy glory,
Thy successful arms we hail;
But remember our sad story,
And let Hosier's wrongs prevail.
Sent in this foul clime to languish,
Think what thousands fell in vain,
Wasted with disease and anguish,
Not in glorious battle slain.

10 'Hence, with all my train attending
From their oozy tombs below,
Through the hoary foam ascending,
Here I feed my constant woe:
Here the Bastimentos viewing,
We recall our shameful doom,
And our plaintive cries renewing,
Wander through the midnight gloom.

11 'O'er these waves for ever mourning
Shall we roam deprived of rest,
If to Britain's shores returning,
You neglect my just request.
After this proud foe subduing,
When your patriot friends you see,
Think on vengeance for my ruin,
And for England shamed in me.'

[1] 'The Burford:' Admiral Vernon's ship.

WILLIAM WHITEHEAD.

There was also a Paul Whitehead, who wrote a satire entitled 'Manners,' which is highly praised by Boswell, and mentioned contemptuously by Campbell, and who lives in the couplet of Churchill--

'May I (can worse disgrace on manhood fall?)
Be born a Whitehead, and baptized a Paul.'

William Whitehead was the son of a baker in Cambridge, was born in 1715, and studied first at Winchester, and then in Clare Hall, in his own city. He became tutor to the son of the Earl of Jersey, wrote one or two poor plays, and in 1757, on the death of Colley Cibber, was appointed Poet-Laureate--the office having previously been refused by Gray. This roused against him a large class of those 'beings capable of envying even a poet-laureate,' to use Gray's expression, and especially the wrath of Churchill, then the man-mountain of satiric literature, who, in his 'Ghost,' says--

'But he who in the laureate chair,
By grace, not merit, planted there,
In awkward pomp is seen to sit,
And by his patent proves his wit,' &c.

To these attacks Whitehead, who was a good-natured and modest man, made no reply. In his latter years the Laureate resided in the family of Lord Jersey, and died in 1785. His poem called 'Variety' is light and pleasant, and deserves a niche in our 'Specimens.'

VARIETY.

A TALE FOR MARRIED PEOPLE.

A gentle maid, of rural breeding, By Nature first, and then by reading, Was filled 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 called each clown she saw, a faun! Then, scudding homeward, locked her door, And turned 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 tinselled 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 wished 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 simpering, mild, and innocent, As angels on a monument.

Fate heard her prayer: a lover came, Who felt, like her, the innoxious flame; One who had trod, as well as she, The flowery paths of poesy; Had warmed himself with Milton's heat, Could every 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 sauntered 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 looked, she blushed consent; He grasped her hand, to church they went; And every matron that was there, With tongue so voluble and supple, Said for her part, she must declare, She never saw a finer couple. halcyon days! 'Twas Nature's reign, 'Twas Tempe's vale, and Enna's plain, The fields assumed unusual bloom, And every zephyr breathed perfume, The laughing sun with genial beams Danced lightly on the exulting streams; And the pale regent of the night In dewy softness shed delight. 'Twas transport not to be expressed; 'Twas Paradise!--But mark the rest.

Two smiling springs had waked the flowers That paint the meads, or fringe the bowers, (Ye lovers, lend your wondering 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 different face. Some blast had struck the cheerful scene; The lawns, the woods, were not so green. The purling rill, which murmured by, And once was liquid harmony, Became a sluggish, reedy pool: The days grew hot, the evenings 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 called in adventitious aid. A faithful, favourite dog ('twas thus With Tobit and Telemachus) Amused their steps; and for a while They viewed his gambols with a smile. The kitten too was comical, She played so oddly with her tail, Or in the glass was pleased to find Another cat, and peeped behind.

A courteous neighbour at the door Was deemed 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 home?-- The dog grew dull, or troublesome. The cat had spoiled 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 flowers 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 brushed 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 baldric on, (As greater folks than he have done,) Looked round; and, with a coxcomb air, Smacked loud his lash. The happy pair Bowed graceful, from a separate door, And Jenny, from the stool before.

Roll swift, ye wheels! to willing eyes New objects every moment rise. Each carriage passing on the road, From the broad waggon's ponderous 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 occurred, 'twas all delightful, No noise was harsh, no danger frightful. The dash and splash through thick and thin, The hairbreadth '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 dangerous heath behind, Through Brentford win a passage free By roaring, 'Wilkes and Liberty!' At Knightsbridge bless the shortening 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 every day, and all day long, They drove at first with curious haste Through Lud's vast town; or, as they passed '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 The enormous loads that clothed 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 compressed; 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 owned 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 every public place they flew, Where Jenny told them who was who. Money was always at command, And tripped 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 grinned, 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, furbelowed, and tricked 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 reached all heights, and rose with ease; (For beauty wins its way, uncalled, And ready dupes are ne'er black-balled.) 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 followed, led. Devised new systems of delight, A-bed all day, and up all night, In different circles reigned 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 _tete-a-tete_ across the fire; Looked 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 retained 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 wished 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 checked 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 languished 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 feathered 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 bless; 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.

WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.

This poet was born in Langholm, Dumfriesshire, in 1734. His father was minister of the parish, but removed to Edinburgh, where William, after attending the High School, became clerk to a brewery, and ultimately a partner in the concern. In this he failed, however; and in 1764 he repaired to London to prosecute literature. Lord Lyttelton became his patron, although he did him so little service in a secular point of view, that Mickle was fain to accept the situation of corrector to the Clarendon Press at Oxford. Here he published his 'Pollio,' his 'Concubine,' --a poem in the manner of Spenser, very sweetly and musically written, which became popular,--and in 1771 the first canto of a translation of the 'Lusiad' of Camoens. This translation, which he completed in 1775, was published by subscription, and at once increased his fortune and established his fame. He had resigned his office of corrector of the press, and was residing with Mr Tomkins, a farmer at Foresthill, near Oxford. In 1779, he went out to Portugal as secretary to Commodore Johnstone, and, as the translator of Camoens, was received with much distinction. On his return with a little money, he married Mr Tomkins' daughter, who had a little more, and took up his permanent residence at Foresthill, where he died of a short illness in 1788.

His translation of the 'Lusiad' is understood to be too free and flowery, and the translator stands in the relation to Camoens which Pope does to Homer. 'Cumnor Hall' has suggested to Scott his brilliant romance of 'Kenilworth,' and is a garland worthy of being bound up in the beautiful locks of Amy Robsart for evermore. 'Are ye sure the news is true?' is a song true to the very soul of Scottish and of general nature, and worthy, as Burns says, of 'the first poet.'

CUMNOR HALL.

1 The dews of summer night did fall,
The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,
And many an oak that grew thereby.

2 Now nought was heard beneath the skies,
The sounds of busy life were still,
Save an unhappy lady's sighs,
That issued from that lonely pile.

3 'Leicester,' she cried, 'is this thy love
That thou so oft hast sworn to me,
To leave me in this lonely grove,
Immured in shameful privity?

4 'No more thou com'st, with lover's speed,
Thy once beloved bride to see;
But be she alive, or be she dead,
I fear, stern Earl,'s the same to thee.

5 'Not so the usage I received
When happy in my father's hall;
No faithless husband then me grieved,
No chilling fears did me appal.

6 'I rose up with the cheerful morn,
No lark so blithe, no flower more gay;
And, like the bird that haunts the thorn,
So merrily sung the livelong day.

7 'If that my beauty is but small,
Among court ladies all despised,
Why didst thou rend it from that hall,
Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized?

8 'And when you first to me made suit,
How fair I was, you oft would say!
And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit,
Then left the blossom to decay.

9 'Yes! now neglected and despised,
The rose is pale, the lily's dead;
But he that once their charms so prized,
Is sure the cause those charms are fled.

10 'For know, when sickening grief doth prey,
And tender love's repaid with scorn,
The sweetest beauty will decay:
What floweret can endure the storm?

11 'At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne,
Where every lady's passing rare,
That eastern flowers, that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing, not so fair.

12 'Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds
Where roses and where lilies vie,
To seek a primrose, whose pale shades
Must sicken when those gauds are by?

13 ''Mong rural beauties I was one;
Among the fields wild-flowers are fair;
Some country swain might me have won,
And thought my passing beauty rare.

14 'But, Leicester, or I much am wrong,
It is not beauty lures thy vows;
Rather ambition's gilded crown
Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

15 'Then, Leicester, why, again I plead,
The injured surely may repine,
Why didst thou wed a country maid,
When some fair princess might be thine?

16 'Why didst thou praise my humble charms,
And, oh! then leave them to decay?
Why didst thou win me to thy arms,
Then leave me to mourn the livelong day?

17 'The village maidens of the plain
Salute me lowly as they go:
Envious they mark my silken train,
Nor think a countess can have woe.

18 'The simple nymphs! they little know
How far more happy's their estate;
To smile for joy, than sigh for woe;
To be content, than to be great.

19 'How far less blessed am I than them,
Daily to pine and waste with care!
Like the poor plant, that, from its stem
Divided, feels the chilling air.

20 'Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy
The humble charms of solitude;
Your minions proud my peace destroy,
By sullen frowns, or pratings rude.

21 'Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,
The village death-bell smote my ear;
They winked aside, and seemed to say,
"Countess, prepare--thy end is near."

22 'And now, while happy peasants sleep,
Here I sit lonely and forlorn;
No one to soothe me as I weep,
Save Philomel on yonder thorn.

23 'My spirits flag, my hopes decay;
Still that dread death-bell smites my ear;
And many a body seems to say,
"Countess, prepare--thy end is near."'

24 Thus sore and sad that lady grieved
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear;
And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,
And let fall many a bitter tear.

25 And ere the dawn of day appeared,
In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,
Full many a piercing scream was heard,
And many a cry of mortal fear.

26 The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,
An aerial voice was heard to call,
And thrice the raven flapped his wing
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.

27 The mastiff howled at village door,
The oaks were shattered on the green;
Woe was the hour, for never more
That hapless Countess e'er was seen.

28 And in that manor, now no more
Is cheerful feast or sprightly ball;
For ever since that dreary hour
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.

29 The village maids, with fearful glance,
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall;
Nor never lead the merry dance
Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.

30 Full many a traveller has sighed,
And pensive wept the Countess' fall,
As wandering onwards they've espied
The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.

THE MARINER'S WIFE.

1 But are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Ye jauds, fling by your wheel.
For there's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's nae luck about the house,
When our gudeman's awa.

2 Is this a time to think o' wark,
When Colin's at the door?
Rax down my cloak--I'll to the quay,
And see him come ashore.

3 Rise up and mak a clean fireside,
Put on the mickle pat;
Gie little Kate her cotton goun,
And Jock his Sunday's coat.

4 And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their stocking white as snaw;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman--
He likes to see them braw.

5 There are twa hens into the crib,
Hae fed this month and mair;
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare.

6 My Turkey slippers I'll put on,
My stocking pearl blue--
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he's baith leal and true.

7 Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue;
His breath's like caller air;
His very fit has music in't,
As he comes up the stair.

8 And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?
I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought:
In troth I'm like to greet.

LORD NUGENT.

Robert Craggs, afterwards created Lord Nugent, was an Irishman, a younger son of Michael Nugent, by the daughter of Robert, Lord Trimlestown, and born in 1709. He was in 1741 elected M.P. for St Mawes, in Cornwall, and became in 1747 comptroller to the Prince of Wales' household. He after- wards made peace with the Court, and received various promotions and marks of favour besides the peerage. In 1739, he published anonymously a volume of poems possessing considerable merit. He was converted from Popery, and wrote some vigorous verses on the occasion. Unfortunately, however, he relapsed, and again celebrated the event in a very weak poem, entitled 'Faith.' He died in 1788. Although a man of decided talent, as his 'Ode to Mankind' proves, Nugent does not stand very high either in the catalogue of Irish patriots or of 'royal and noble authors.'

ODE TO MANKIND.

1 Is there, or do the schoolmen dream?
Is there on earth a power supreme,
The delegate of Heaven,
To whom an uncontrolled command,
In every realm o'er sea and land,
By special grace is given?

2 Then say, what signs this god proclaim?
Dwells he amidst the diamond's flame,
A throne his hallowed shrine?
The borrowed pomp, the armed array,
Want, fear, and impotence, betray
Strange proofs of power divine!

3 If service due from human kind,
To men in slothful ease reclined,
Can form a sovereign's claim:
Hail, monarchs! ye, whom Heaven ordains,
Our toils unshared, to share our gains,
Ye idiots, blind and lame!

4 Superior virtue, wisdom, might,
Create and mark the ruler's right,
So reason must conclude:
Then thine it is, to whom belong
The wise, the virtuous, and the strong,
Thrice sacred multitude!

5 In thee, vast All! are these contained,
For thee are those, thy parts ordained,
So nature's systems roll:
The sceptre's thine, if such there be;
If none there is, then thou art free,
Great monarch! mighty whole!

6 Let the proud tyrant rest his cause
On faith, prescription, force, or laws,
An host's or senate's voice!
His voice affirms thy stronger due,
Who for the many made the few,
And gave the species choice.

7 Unsanctified by thy command,
Unowned by thee, the sceptred hand
The trembling slave may bind;
But loose from nature's moral ties,
The oath by force imposed belies
The unassenting mind.

8 Thy will's thy rule, thy good its end;
You punish only to defend
What parent nature gave:
And he who dares her gifts invade,
By nature's oldest law is made
Thy victim or thy slave.

9 Thus reason founds the just degree
On universal liberty,
Not private rights resigned:
Through various nature's wide extent,
No private beings e'er were meant
To hurt the general kind.

10 Thee justice guides, thee right maintains,
The oppressor's wrongs, the pilferer's gains,
Thy injured weal impair.
Thy warmest passions soon subside,
Nor partial envy, hate, nor pride,
Thy tempered counsels share.

11 Each instance of thy vengeful rage,
Collected from each clime and age,
Though malice swell the sum,
Would seem a spotless scanty scroll,
Compared with Marius' bloody roll,
Or Sylla's hippodrome.

12 But thine has been imputed blame,
The unworthy few assume thy name,
The rabble weak and loud;
Or those who on thy ruins feast,
The lord, the lawyer, and the priest;
A more ignoble crowd.

13 Avails it thee, if one devours,
Or lesser spoilers share his powers,
While both thy claim oppose?
Monsters who wore thy sullied crown,
Tyrants who pulled those monsters down,
Alike to thee were foes.

14 Far other shone fair Freedom's band,
Far other was the immortal stand,
When Hampden fought for thee:
They snatched from rapine's gripe thy spoils,
The fruits and prize of glorious toils,
Of arts and industry.

15 On thee yet foams the preacher's rage,
On thee fierce frowns the historian's page,
A false apostate train:
Tears stream adown the martyr's tomb;
Unpitied in their harder doom,
Thy thousands strow the plain.

16 These had no charms to please the sense,
No graceful port, no eloquence,
To win the Muse's throng:
Unknown, unsung, unmarked they lie;
But Caesar's fate o'ercasts the sky,
And Nature mourns his wrong.

17 Thy foes, a frontless band, invade;
Thy friends afford a timid aid,
And yield up half the right.
Even Locke beams forth a mingled ray,
Afraid to pour the flood of day
On man's too feeble sight.

18 Hence are the motley systems framed,
Of right transferred, of power reclaimed;
Distinctions weak and vain.
Wise nature mocks the wrangling herd;
For unreclaimed, and untransferred,
Her powers and rights remain.

19 While law the royal agent moves,
The instrument thy choice approves,
We bow through him to you.
But change, or cease the inspiring choice,
The sovereign sinks a private voice,
Alike in one, or few!

20 Shall then the wretch, whose dastard heart
Shrinks at a tyrant's nobler part,
And only dares betray;
With reptile wiles, alas! prevail,
Where force, and rage, and priestcraft fail,
To pilfer power away?

21 Oh! shall the bought, and buying tribe,
The slaves who take, and deal the bribe,
A people's claims enjoy!
So Indian murderers hope to gain
The powers and virtues of the slain,
Of wretches they destroy.

22 'Avert it, Heaven! you love the brave,
You hate the treacherous, willing slave,
The self-devoted head;
Nor shall an hireling's voice convey
That sacred prize to lawless sway,
For which a nation bled.'

23 Vain prayer, the coward's weak resource!
Directing reason, active force,
Propitious Heaven bestows.
But ne'er shall flame the thundering sky,
To aid the trembling herd that fly
Before their weaker foes.

24 In names there dwell no magic charms,
The British virtues, British arms
Unloosed our fathers' band:
Say, Greece and Rome! if these should fail,
What names, what ancestors avail,
To save a sinking land?

25 Far, far from us such ills shall be,
Mankind shall boast one nation free,
One monarch truly great:
Whose title speaks a people's choice,
Whose sovereign will a people's voice,
Whose strength a prosperous state.

JOHN LOGAN.

John Logan was born in the year 1748. He was the son of a farmer at Soutra, in the parish of Fala, Mid-Lothian. He was educated for the church at Edinburgh, where he became intimate with Robertson, afterwards the historian. So, at least, Campbell asserts; but he strangely calls him a student of the same standing, whereas, in fact, Robertson saw light in 1721, and had been a settled minister five years before Logan was born. After finishing his studies, he became tutor in the family of Mr Sinclair of Ulbster, and the late well-known Sir John Sinclair was one of his pupils. When licensed to preach, Logan became popular, and was in his twenty-fifth year appointed one of the ministers of South Leith. In 1781, he read in Edinburgh a course of lectures on the Philosophy of History, and in 1782, he printed one of them, on the Government of Asia. In the same year he published a volume of poems, which were well received. In 1783, he wrote a tragedy called 'Runnymede,' which was, owing to some imagined incendiary matter, prohibited from being acted on the London boards, but which was produced on the Edinburgh stage, and afterwards published. This, along with some alleged irregularities of conduct on the part of Logan, tended to alienate his flock, and he was induced to retire on a small annuity. He betook himself to London, where, in conjunction with the Rev. Mr Thomson,--who had left the parish of Monzievaird, in Perthshire, owing to a scandal,--he wrote for the _English Review_, and was employed to defend Warren Hastings. This he did in an able manner, although a well-known story describes him as listening to Sheridan, on the Oude case, with intense interest, and exclaiming, after the first hour, 'This is mere declamation without proof'--after the next two, 'This is a man of extraordinary powers'--and ere the close of the matchless oration, 'Of all the monsters in history, Warren Hastings is the vilest.' Logan died in the year 1788, in his lodgings, Marlborough Street. His sermons were published shortly after his death, and if parts of them are, as is alleged, pilfered from a Swiss divine, (George Joachim Zollikofer,) they have not remained exclusively with the thief, since no sermons have been so often reproduced in Scottish pulpits as the elegant orations issued under the name of Logan.

We have already declined to enter on the controversy about 'The Cuckoo,' intimating, however, our belief, founded partly upon Logan's unscrupulous character and partly on internal evidence, that it was originally written by Bruce, but probably polished to its present perfection by Logan, whose other writings give us rather the impression of a man of varied accomplishments and excellent taste, than of deep feeling or original genius. If Logan were not the author of 'The Cuckoo,' there was a special baseness connected with the fact, that when Burke sought him out in Edinburgh, solely from his admiration of that poem, he owned the soft and false impeachment, and rolled as a sweet morsel praise from the greatest man of the age, which he knew was the rightful due of another.

THE LOVERS.