Chapter III: Part 3

The time is not remote when I Must by the course of nature die; When, I foresee, my special friends Will try to find their private ends: And, though 'tis hardly understood Which way my death can do them good, Yet thus, methinks, I hear them speak: 'See how the Dean begins to break! Poor gentleman, he droops apace! You plainly find it in his face. That old vertigo in his head Will never leave him, till he's dead. Besides, his memory decays: He recollects not what he says; He cannot call his friends to mind; Forgets the place where last he dined; Plies you with stories o'er and o'er; He told them fifty times before. How does he fancy we can sit To hear his out-of-fashion wit? But he takes up with younger folks, Who for his wine will bear his jokes. Faith! he must make his stories shorter, Or change his comrades once a quarter: In half the time he talks them round, There must another set be found.

'For poetry, he's past his prime: He takes an hour to find a rhyme; His fire is out, his wit decayed, His fancy sunk, his Muse a jade. I'd have him throw away his pen;-- But there's no talking to some men!'

And then their tenderness appears By adding largely to my years: 'He's older than he would be reckoned, And well remembers Charles the Second. He hardly drinks a pint of wine; And that, I doubt, is no good sign. His stomach too begins to fail: Last year we thought him strong and hale; But now he's quite another thing: I wish he may hold out till spring!' They hug themselves, and reason thus: 'It is not yet so bad with us!'

In such a case, they talk in tropes, And by their fears express their hopes. Some great misfortune to portend, No enemy can match a friend. With all the kindness they profess, The merit of a lucky guess (When daily how-d'ye's come of course, And servants answer, 'Worse and worse!') Would please them better, than to tell, That, 'God be praised, the Dean is well.' Then he who prophesied the best, Approves his foresight to the rest: 'You know I always feared the worst, And often told you so at first.' He'd rather choose that I should die, Than his predictions prove a lie. Not one foretells I shall recover; But all agree to give me over.

Yet, should some neighbour feel a pain Just in the parts where I complain; How many a message would he send! What hearty prayers that I should mend! Inquire what regimen I kept; What gave me ease, and how I slept; And more lament when I was dead, Than all the snivellers round my bed.

My good companions, never fear; For, though you may mistake a year, Though your prognostics run too fast, They must be verified at last.

Behold the fatal day arrive! 'How is the Dean?'--'He's just alive.' Now the departing prayer is read; He hardly breathes--The Dean is dead.

Before the passing-bell begun, The news through half the town is run. 'Oh! may we all for death prepare! What has he left? and who's his heir?' 'I know no more than what the news is; 'Tis all bequeathed to public uses.' 'To public uses! there's a whim! What had the public done for him? Mere envy, avarice, and pride: He gave it all--but first he died. And had the Dean, in all the nation, No worthy friend, no poor relation? So ready to do strangers good, Forgetting his own flesh and blood!'

Now Grub-Street wits are all employed; With elegies the town is cloyed: Some paragraph in every paper, To curse the Dean, or bless the Drapier. The doctors, tender of their fame, Wisely on me lay all the blame. 'We must confess, his case was nice; But he would never take advice. Had he been ruled, for aught appears, He might have lived these twenty years: For, when we opened him, we found That all his vital parts were sound.'

From Dublin soon to London spread, 'Tis told at court, 'The Dean is dead.' And Lady Suffolk, in the spleen, Runs laughing up to tell the queen. The queen, so gracious, mild, and good, Cries, 'Is he gone!'tis time he should. He's dead, you say; then let him rot. I'm glad the medals were forgot. I promised him, I own; but when? I only was the princess then; But now, as consort of the king, You know,'tis quite another thing.'

Now Chartres, at Sir Robert's levee, Tells with a sneer the tidings heavy: 'Why, if he died without his shoes,' Cries Bob, 'I'm sorry for the news: Oh, were the wretch but living still, And in his place my good friend Will! Or had a mitre on his head, Provided Bolingbroke were dead!'

Now Curll his shop from rubbish drains: Three genuine tomes of Swift's remains! And then, to make them pass the glibber, Revised by Tibbalds, Moore, and Cibber. He'll treat me as he does my betters, Publish my will, my life, my letters; Revive the libels born to die: Which Pope must bear, as well as I.

Here shift the scene, to represent How those I love my death lament. Poor Pope will grieve a month, and Gay A week, and Arbuthnot a day.

St John himself will scarce forbear To bite his pen, and drop a tear. The rest will give a shrug, and cry, 'I'm sorry--but we all must die!'

Indifference, clad in Wisdom's guise, All fortitude of mind supplies: For how can stony bowels melt In those who never pity felt! When we are lashed, they kiss the rod, Resigning to the will of God.

The fools, my juniors by a year, Are tortured with suspense and fear; Who wisely thought my age a screen, When death approached, to stand between: The screen removed, their hearts are trembling; They mourn for me without dissembling.

My female friends, whose tender hearts Have better learned to act their parts, Receive the news in doleful dumps: 'The Dean is dead: (Pray, what is trumps?) Then, Lord have mercy on his soul! (Ladies, I'll venture for the vole.) Six Deans, they say, must bear the pall: (I wish I knew what king to call.) Madam, your husband will attend The funeral of so good a friend.' 'No, madam, 'tis a shocking sight; And he's engaged to-morrow night: My Lady Club will take it ill, If he should fail her at quadrille. He loved the Dean--(I lead a heart)-- But dearest friends, they say, must part. His time was come; he ran his race; We hope he's in a better place.'

Why do we grieve that friends should die? No loss more easy to supply. One year is past; a different scene! No further mention of the Dean, Who now, alas! no more is missed, Than if he never did exist. Where's now the favourite of Apollo? Departed:--and his works must follow; Must undergo the common fate; His kind of wit is out of date.

Some country squire to Lintot goes, Inquires for Swift in verse and prose. Says Lintot, 'I have heard the name; He died a year ago.'--'The same.' He searches all the shop in vain. 'Sir, you may find them in Duck Lane: I sent them, with a load of books, Last Monday, to the pastry-cook's. To fancy they could live a year! I find you're but a stranger here. The Dean was famous in his time, And had a kind of knack at rhyme. His way of writing now is past: The town has got a better taste. I keep no antiquated stuff; But spick and span I have enough. Pray, do but give me leave to show 'em: Here's Colley Cibber's birthday poem. This ode you never yet have seen, By Stephen Duck, upon the queen. Then here's a letter finely penned Against the Craftsman and his friend: It clearly shows that all reflection On ministers is disaffection. Next, here's Sir Robert's vindication, And Mr Henley's last oration. The hawkers have not got them yet; Your honour please to buy a set?

'Here's Wolston's tracts, the twelfth edition; 'Tis read by every politician: The country-members, when in town, To all their boroughs send them down: You never met a thing so smart; The courtiers have them all by heart: Those maids of honour who can read, Are taught to use them for their creed. The reverend author's good intention Hath been rewarded with a pension: He doth an honour to his gown, By bravely running priestcraft down: He shows, as sure as God's in Gloucester, That Moses was a grand impostor; That all his miracles were cheats, Performed as jugglers do their feats: The church had never such a writer; A shame he hath not got a mitre!'

Suppose me dead; and then suppose A club assembled at the Rose; Where, from discourse of this and that, I grow the subject of their chat. And while they toss my name about, With favour some, and some without; One, quite indifferent in the cause, My character impartial draws:

'The Dean, if we believe report, Was never ill received at court, Although, ironically grave, He shamed the fool, and lashed the knave; To steal a hint was never known, But what he writ was all his own.'

'Sir, I have heard another story; He was a most confounded Tory, And grew, or he is much belied, Extremely dull, before he died.'

'Can we the Drapier then forget? Is not our nation in his debt? 'Twas he that writ the Drapier's letters!'--

'He should have left them for his betters; We had a hundred abler men, Nor need depend upon his pen.-- Say what you will about his reading, You never can defend his breeding; Who, in his satires running riot, Could never leave the world in quiet; Attacking, when he took the whim, Court, city, camp,--all one to him.-- But why would he, except he slobbered, Offend our patriot, great Sir Robert, Whose counsels aid the sovereign power To save the nation every hour! What scenes of evil he unravels In satires, libels, lying travels, Not sparing his own clergy cloth, But eats into it, like a moth!'

'Perhaps I may allow the Dean Had too much satire in his vein, And seemed determined not to starve it, Because no age could more deserve it. Yet malice never was his aim; He lashed the vice, but spared the name.

No individual could resent, Where thousands equally were meant: His satire points at no defect, But what all mortals may correct; For he abhorred the senseless tribe Who call it humour when they gibe: He spared a hump or crooked nose, Whose owners set not up for beaux. True genuine dulness moved his pity, Unless it offered to be witty. Those who their ignorance confessed He ne'er offended with a jest; But laughed to hear an idiot quote A verse from Horace learned by rote. Vice, if it e'er can be abashed, Must be or ridiculed, or lashed. If you resent it, who's to blame? He neither knows you, nor your name. Should vice expect to 'scape rebuke, Because its owner is a dukel? His friendships, still to few confined, Were always of the middling kind; No fools of rank, or mongrel breed, Who fain would pass for lords indeed: Where titles give no right or power, And peerage is a withered flower; He would have deemed it a disgrace, If such a wretch had known his face. On rural squires, that kingdom's bane, He vented oft his wrath in vain: * * * * * * * squires to market brought, Who sell their souls and * * * * for nought. The * * * * * * * * go joyful back, To rob the church, their tenants rack; Go snacks with * * * * * justices, And keep the peace to pick up fees; In every job to have a share, A gaol or turnpike to repair; And turn * * * * * * * to public roads Commodious to their own abodes.

'He never thought an honour done him, Because a peer was proud to own him; Would rather slip aside, and choose To talk with wits in dirty shoes; And scorn the tools with stars and garters, So often seen caressing Chartres. He never courted men in station, Nor persons held in admiration; Of no man's greatness was afraid, Because he sought for no man's aid. Though trusted long in great affairs, He gave himself no haughty airs: Without regarding private ends, Spent all his credit for his friends; And only chose the wise and good; No flatterers; no allies in blood: But succoured virtue in distress, And seldom failed of good success; As numbers in their hearts must own, Who, but for him, had been unknown.

'He kept with princes due decorum; Yet never stood in awe before 'em. He followed David's lesson just, In princes never put his trust: And, would you make him truly sour, Provoke him with a slave in power. The Irish senate if you named, With what impatience he declaimed! Fair LIBERTY was all his cry; For her he stood prepared to die; For her he boldly stood alone; For her he oft exposed his own. Two kingdoms, just as faction led, Had set a price upon his head; But not a traitor could be found, To sell him for six hundred pound.

'Had he but spared his tongue and pen, He might have rose like other men: But power was never in his thought, And wealth he valued not a groat: Ingratitude he often found, And pitied those who meant to wound; But kept the tenor of his mind, To merit well of human-kind; Nor made a sacrifice of those Who still were true, to please his foes. He laboured many a fruitless hour, To reconcile his friends in power; Saw mischief by a faction brewing, While they pursued each other's ruin. But, finding vain was all his care, He left the court in mere despair.

'And, oh! how short are human schemes! Here ended all our golden dreams. What St John's skill in state affairs, What Ormond's valour, Oxford's cares, To save their sinking country lent, Was all destroyed by one event. Too soon that precious life was ended, On which alone our weal depended. When up a dangerous faction starts, With wrath and vengeance in their hearts; By solemn league and covenant bound, To ruin, slaughter, and confound; To turn religion to a fable, And make the government a Babel; Pervert the laws, disgrace the gown, Corrupt the senate, rob the crown; To sacrifice old England's glory, And make her infamous in story: When such a tempest shook the land, How could unguarded virtue stand!

'With horror, grief, despair, the Dean Beheld the dire destructive scene: His friends in exile, or the Tower, Himself within the frown of power; Pursued by base envenomed pens, Far to the land of S---- and fens; A servile race in folly nursed, Who truckle most, when treated worst.

'By innocence and resolution, He bore continual persecution; While numbers to preferment rose, Whose merit was to be his foes; When even his own familiar friends, Intent upon their private ends, Like renegadoes now he feels, Against him lifting up their heels.

'The Dean did, by his pen, defeat An infamous destructive cheat; Taught fools their interest how to know, And gave them arms to ward the blow. Envy hath owned it was his doing, To save that hapless land from ruin; While they who at the steerage stood, And reaped the profit, sought his blood.

'To save them from their evil fate, In him was held a crime of state. A wicked monster on the bench, Whose fury blood could never quench; As vile and profligate a villain, As modern Scroggs, or old Tressilian; Who long all justice had discarded, Nor feared he God, nor man regarded; Vowed on the Dean his rage to vent, And make him of his zeal repent: But Heaven his innocence defends, The grateful people stand his friends; Not strains of law, nor judges' frown, Nor topics brought to please the crown, Nor witness hired, nor jury picked, Prevail to bring him in convict.

'In exile, with a steady heart, He spent his life's declining part; Where folly, pride, and faction sway, Remote from St John, Pope, and Gay.'

'Alas, poor Dean! his only scope Was to be held a misanthrope. This into general odium drew him, Which if he liked, much good may't do him. His zeal was not to lash our crimes, But discontent against the times: For, had we made him timely offers To raise his post, or fill his coffers, Perhaps he might have truckled down, Like other brethren of his gown; For party he would scarce have bled:-- I say no more--because he's dead.-- What writings has he left behind?'

'I hear they're of a different kind: A few in verse; but most in prose--'

'Some high-flown pamphlets, I suppose:-- All scribbled in the worst of times, To palliate his friend Oxford's crimes; To praise Queen Anne, nay more, defend her, As never favouring the Pretender: Or libels yet concealed from sight, Against the court to show his spite: Perhaps his travels, part the third; A lie at every second word-- Offensive to a loyal ear:-- But--not one sermon, you may swear.'

'He knew an hundred pleasing stories, With all the turns of Whigs and Tories: Was cheerful to his dying-day; And friends would let him have his way.

'As for his works in verse or prose, I own myself no judge of those. Nor can I tell what critics thought them; But this I know, all people bought them, As with a moral view designed, To please and to reform mankind: And, if he often missed his aim, The world must own it to their shame, The praise is his, and theirs the blame. He gave the little wealth he had To build a house for fools and mad; To show, by one satiric touch, No nation wanted it so much. That kingdom he hath left his debtor, I wish it soon may have a better. And, since you dread no further lashes, Methinks you may forgive his ashes.'

A CHARACTER, PANEGYRIC, AND DESCRIPTION OF THE LEGION-CLUB. 1736.

As I stroll the city, oft I See a building large and lofty, Not a bow-shot from the college; Half the globe from sense and knowledge: By the prudent architect, Placed against the church direct, Making good thy grandame's jest, 'Near the church'--you know the rest.

Tell us what the pile contains? Many a head that holds no brains. These demoniacs let me dub With the name of Legion-Club. Such assemblies, you might swear, Meet when butchers bait a bear; Such a noise, and such haranguing, When a brother thief is hanging: Such a rout and such a rabble Run to hear Jack-pudden gabble; Such a crowd their ordure throws On a far less villain's nose.

Could I from the building's top Hear the rattling thunder drop, While the devil upon the roof (If the devil be thunder-proof) Should with poker fiery red Crack the stones, and melt the lead; Drive them down on every skull, While the den of thieves is full; Quite destroy the harpies' nest; How might then our isle be blest! For divines allow that God Sometimes makes the devil his rod; And the gospel will inform us, He can punish sins enormous.

Yet should Swift endow the schools, For his lunatics and fools, With a rood or two of land, I allow the pile may stand. You perhaps will ask me, Why so? But it is with this proviso: Since the house is like to last, Let the royal grant be passed, That the club have right to dwell Each within his proper cell, With a passage left to creep in, And a hole above for peeping. Let them when they once get in, Sell the nation for a pin; While they sit a-picking straws, Let them rave at making laws; While they never hold their tongue, Let them dabble in their dung; Let them form a grand committee, How to plague and starve the city; Let them stare, and storm, and frown, When they see a clergy gown; Let them, ere they crack a louse, Call for the orders of the house; Let them, with their gosling quills, Scribble senseless heads of bills. We may, while they strain their throats, Wipe our a--s with their votes. Let Sir Tom[1] that rampant ass, Stuff his guts with flax and grass; But, before the priest he fleeces, Tear the Bible all to pieces: At the parsons, Tom, halloo, boy, Worthy offspring of a shoe-boy, Footman, traitor, vile seducer, Perjured rebel, bribed accuser, Lay thy privilege aside, Sprung from Papist regicide; Fall a-working like a mole, Raise the dirt about your hole.

Come, assist me, muse obedient! Let us try some new expedient; Shift the scene for half an hour, Time and place are in thy power. Thither, gentle muse, conduct me; I shall ask, and you instruct me.

See the muse unbars the gate! Hark, the monkeys, how they prate!

All ye gods who rule the soul! Styx, through hell whose waters roll! Let me be allowed to tell What I heard in yonder cell.

Near the door an entrance gapes, Crowded round with antic shapes, Poverty, and Grief, and Care, Causeless Joy, and true Despair; Discord periwigged with snakes, See the dreadful strides she takes!

By this odious crew beset, I began to rage and fret, And resolved to break their pates, Ere we entered at the gates; Had not Clio in the nick Whispered me, 'Lay down your stick.' What, said I, is this the mad-house? These, she answered, are but shadows, Phantoms bodiless and vain, Empty visions of the brain.'

In the porch Briareus stands, Shows a bribe in all his hands; Briareus, the secretary, But we mortals call him Carey. When the rogues their country fleece, They may hope for pence a-piece.

Clio, who had been so wise To put on a fool's disguise, To bespeak some approbation, And be thought a near relation, When she saw three hundred brutes All involved in wild disputes, Roaring till their lungs were spent, 'Privilege of Parliament.' Now a new misfortune feels, Dreading to be laid by the heels. Never durst the muse before Enter that infernal door; Clio, stifled with the smell, Into spleen and vapours fell, By the Stygian steams that flew From the dire infectious crew. Not the stench of Lake Avernus Could have more offended her nose; Had she flown but o'er the top, She had felt her pinions drop, And by exhalations dire, Though a goddess, must expire. In a fright she crept away; Bravely I resolved to stay.

When I saw the keeper frown, Tipping him with half-a-crown, Now, said I, we are alone, Name your heroes one by one.

Who is that hell-featured brawler? Is it Satan? No,'tis Waller. In what figure can a bard dress Jack the grandson of Sir Hardress? Honest keeper, drive him further, In his looks are hell and murther; See the scowling visage drop, Just as when he murdered T----p. Keeper, show me where to fix On the puppy pair of Dicks; By their lantern jaws and leathern, You might swear they both are brethren: Dick Fitzbaker, Dick the player, Old acquaintance, are you there? Dear companions, hug and kiss, Toast Old Glorious in your piss: Tie them, keeper, in a tether, Let them starve and stink together; Both are apt to be unruly, Lash them daily, lash them duly; Though 'tis hopeless to reclaim them, Scorpion rods perhaps may tame them.

Keeper, yon old dotard smoke, Sweetly snoring in his cloak; Who is he? 'Tis humdrum Wynne, Half encompassed by his kin: There observe the tribe of Bingham, For he never fails to bring 'em; While he sleeps the whole debate, They submissive round him wait; Yet would gladly see the hunks In his grave, and search his trunks. See, they gently twitch his coat, Just to yawn and give his vote, Always firm in his vocation, For the court, against the nation.

Those are A----s Jack and Bob, First in every wicked job, Son and brother to a queer Brain-sick brute, they call a peer. We must give them better quarter, For their ancestor trod mortar, And at H----th, to boast his fame, On a chimney cut his name.

There sit Clements, D----ks, and Harrison, How they swagger from their garrison! Such a triplet could you tell Where to find on this side hell? Harrison, D----ks, and Clements, Keeper, see they have their payments; Every mischief's in their hearts; If they fail, 'tis want of parts.

Bless us, Morgan! art thou there, man! Bless mine eyes! art thou the chairman! Chairman to yon damned committee! Yet I look on thee with pity. Dreadful sight! what! learned Morgan Metamorphosed to a Gorgon? For thy horrid looks I own, Half convert me to a stone, Hast thou been so long at school, Now to turn a factious tool? Alma Mater was thy mother, Every young divine thy brother. Thou a disobedient varlet, Treat thy mother like a harlot! Thou ungrateful to thy teachers, Who are all grown reverend preachers! Morgan, would it not surprise one! Turn thy nourishment to poison! When you walk among your books, They reproach you with your looks. Bind them fast, or from their shelves They will come and right themselves; Homer, Plutarch, Virgil, Flaccus, All in arms prepare to back us. Soon repent, or put to slaughter Every Greek and Roman author. Will you, in your faction's phrase, Send the clergy all to graze, And, to make your project pass, Leave them not a blade of grass? How I want thee, humorous Hogarth! Thou, I hear, a pleasing rogue art, Were but you and I acquainted, Every monster should be painted: You should try your graving-tools On this odious group of fools: Draw the beasts as I describe them From their features, while I gibe them; Draw them like; for I assure you, You will need no _car'catura;_ Draw them so, that we may trace All the soul in every face. Keeper, I must now retire, You have done what I desire: But I feel my spirits spent With the noise, the sight, the scent.

'Pray be patient; you shall find Half the best are still behind: You have hardly seen a score; I can show two hundred more.' Keeper, I have seen enough.-- Taking then a pinch of snuff, I concluded, looking round them, 'May their god, the devil, confound them. Take them, Satan, as your due, All except the Fifty-two.'

[1] 'Sir Tom:' Sir Thomas Prendergrast, a privy councillor.

ISAAC WATTS.

We feel relieved, and so doubtless do our readers, in passing from the dark tragic story of Swift, and his dubious and unhappy character, to contemplate the useful career of a much smaller, but a much better man, Isaac Watts. This admirable person was born at Southampton on the 17th of July 1674. His father, of the same name, kept a boarding-school for young gentlemen, and was a man of intelligence and piety. Isaac was the eldest of nine children, and began early to display precocity of genius. At four he commenced to study Latin at home, and afterwards, under one Pinhorn, a clergyman, who kept the free-school at Southampton, he learned Latin, Hebrew, and Greek. A subscription was proposed for sending him to one of the great universities, but he preferred casting in his lot with the Dissenters. He repaired accordingly, in 1690, to an academy kept by the Rev. Thomas Rowe, whose son, we believe, became the husband of the celebrated Elizabeth Rowe, the once popular author of 'Letters from the Dead to the Living.' The Rowes belonged to the Independent body. At this academy Watts began to write poetry, chiefly in the Latin language, and in the then popular Pindaric measure. At the age of twenty, he returned to his father's house, and spent two quiet years in devotion, meditation, and study. He became next a tutor in the family of Sir John Hartopp for five years. He was afterwards chosen assistant to Dr Chauncey, and, after the Doctor's death, became his successor. His health, however, failed, and, after getting an assistant for a while, he was compelled to resign. In 1712, Sir Thomas Abney, a benevolent gentleman of the neighbourhood, received Watts into his house, where he continued during the rest of his life--all his wants attended to, and his feeble frame so tenderly cared for that he lived to the age of seventy-five. Sir Thomas died eight years after Dr Watts entered his establishment, but the widow and daughters continued unwearied in their attentions. Abney House was a mansion surrounded by fine gardens and pleasure-grounds, where the Doctor became thoroughly at home, and was wont to refresh his body and mind in the intervals of study. He preached regularly to a congregation, and in the pulpit, although his stature was low, not exceeding five feet, the excellence of his matter, the easy flow of his language, and the propriety of his pronunciation, rendered him very popular. In private he was exceedingly kind to the poor and to children, giving to the former a third part of his small income of L100 a-year, and writing for the other his inimitable hymns. Besides these, he published a well-known treatise on Logic, another on 'The Improvement of the Mind,' besides various theological productions, amongst which his 'World to Come' has been preeminently popular. In 1728, he received from Edinburgh and Aberdeen an unsolicited diploma of Doctor of Divinity. As age advanced, he found himself unable to discharge his ministerial duties, and offered to remit his salary, but his congregation refused to accept his demission. On the 25th November 1748, quite worn out, but without suffering, this able and worthy man expired.

If to be eminently useful is to fulfil the highest purpose of humanity, it was certainly fulfilled by Isaac Watts. His logical and other treatises have served to brace the intellects, methodise the studies, and concentrate the activities of thousands--we had nearly said of millions of minds. This has given him an enviable distinction, but he shone still more in that other province he so felicitously chose and so successfully occupied--that of the hearts of the young. One of his detractors called him 'Mother Watts.' He might have taken up this epithet, and bound it as a crown unto him. We have heard of a pious foreigner, possessed of imperfect English, who, in an agony of supplication to God for some sick friend, said, 'O Fader, hear me! O Mudder, hear me!' It struck us as one of the finest of stories, and containing one of the most beautiful tributes to the Deity we ever heard, recognising in Him a pity which not even a father, which only a mother can feel. Like a tender mother does good Watts bend over the little children, and secure that their first words of song shall be those of simple, heartfelt trust in God, and of faith in their Elder Brother. To create a little heaven in the nursery by hymns, and these not mawkish or twaddling, but beautifully natural and exquisitely simple breathings of piety and praise, was the high task to which Watts consecrated, and by which he has immortalised, his genius.

FEW HAPPY MATCHES.

1 Stay, mighty Love, and teach my song,
To whom thy sweetest joys belong,
And who the happy pairs,
Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands,
Find blessings twisted with their bands,
To soften all their cares.

2 Not the wild herds 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.

3 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.

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

5 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.

6 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.

7 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.

8 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.

9 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.

THE SLUGGARD.

1 'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain,
'You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.'
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,
Turns his sides, and his shoulders, and his heavy head.

2 'A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;'
Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number;
And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.

3 I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier,
The thorn and thistle grew broader and higher;
The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags,
And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.

4 I made him a visit, still hoping to find
He had took better care for improving his mind;
He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking,
But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

5 Said I then to my heart, 'Here's a lesson for me:
That man's but a picture of what I might be;
But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,
Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.'

THE ROSE.

1 How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower!
The glory of April and May!
But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour,
And they wither and die in a day.

2 Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast,
Above all the flowers of the field:
When its leaves are all dead, and fine colours are lost,
Still how sweet a perfume it will yield!

3 So frail is the youth and the beauty of men,
Though they bloom and look gay like the rose:
But all our fond care to preserve them is vain;
Time kills them as fast as he goes.

4 Then I'll not be proud of my youth or my beauty,
Since both of them wither and fade:
But gain a good name by well doing my duty;
This will scent, like a rose, when I'm dead.

A CRADLE HYMN.

1 Hush! my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed!
Heavenly blessings without number
Gently falling on thy head.

2 Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment,
House and home, thy friends provide;
All without thy care or payment,
All thy wants are well supplied.

3 How much better thou'rt attended
Than the Son of God could be,
When from heaven he descended,
And became a child like thee!

4 Soft and easy in thy cradle:
Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay,
When his birthplace was a stable,
And his softest bed was hay.

5 Blessed babe! what glorious features,
Spotless fair, divinely bright!
Must he dwell with brutal creatures?
How could angels bear the sight?

6 Was there nothing but a manger
Cursed sinners could afford,
To receive the heavenly Stranger!
Did they thus affront their Lord?

7 Soft, my child, I did not chide thee,
Though my song might sound too hard;
This thy { mother[1] } sits beside thee,
{ nurse that }
And her arms shall be thy guard.

8 Yet to read the shameful story,
How the Jews abused their King,
How they served the Lord of glory,
Makes me angry while I sing.

9 See the kinder shepherds round him,
Telling wonders from the sky!
Where they sought him, where they found him,
With his virgin mother by.

10 See the lovely babe a-dressing;
Lovely infant, how he smiled!
When he wept, the mother's blessing
Soothed and hushed the holy child.

11 Lo! he slumbers in his manger,
Where the horned oxen fed:
Peace, my darling, here's no danger,
Here's no ox a-near thy bed.

12 'Twas to save thee, child, from dying,
Save my dear from burning flame,
Bitter groans, and endless crying,
That thy blest Redeemer came.

13 Mayst thou live to know and fear him,
Trust and love him, all thy days;
Then go dwell for ever near him,
See his face, and sing his praise!

14 I could give thee thousand kisses,
Hoping what I most desire;
Not a mother's fondest wishes
Can to greater joys aspire.

[1] Here you may use the words, brother, sister, neighbour, friend.

BREATHING TOWARD THE HEAVENLY COUNTRY.

The beauty of my native land
Immortal love inspires;
I burn, I burn with strong desires,
And sigh and wait the high command.
There glides the moon her shining way,
And shoots my heart through with a silver ray.
Upward my heart aspires:
A thousand lamps of golden light,
Hung high in vaulted azure, charm my sight,
And wink and beckon with their amorous fires.
O ye fair glories of my heavenly home,
Bright sentinels who guard my Father's court,
Where all the happy minds resort!
When will my Father's chariot come?
Must ye for ever walk the ethereal round,
For ever see the mourner lie
An exile of the sky,
A prisoner of the ground?
Descend, some shining servants from on high,
Build me a hasty tomb;
A grassy turf will raise my head;
The neighbouring lilies dress my bed,
And shed a sweet perfume.
Here I put off the chains of death,
My soul too long has worn:
Friends, I forbid one groaning breath,
Or tear to wet my urn.
Raphael, behold me all undressed;
Here gently lay this flesh to rest,
Then mount and lead the path unknown.
Swift I pursue thee, flaming guide, on pinions of my own.

TO THE REV. MR JOHN HOWE.

Great man, permit the muse to climb,
And seat her at thy feet;
Bid her attempt a thought sublime,
And consecrate her wit.
I feel, I feel the attractive force
Of thy superior soul:
My chariot flies her upward course,
The wheels divinely roll.
Now let me chide the mean affairs
And mighty toil of men:
How they grow gray in trifling cares,
Or waste the motion of the spheres
Upon delights as vain!
A puff of honour fills the mind,
And yellow dust is solid good;

Thus, like the ass of savage kind,
We snuff the breezes of the wind,
Or steal the serpent's food.
Could all the choirs
That charm the poles
But strike one doleful sound,
'Twould be employed to mourn our souls,
Souls that were framed of sprightly fires,
In floods of folly drowned.
Souls made for glory seek a brutal joy;
How they disclaim their heavenly birth,
Melt their bright substance down to drossy earth,
And hate to be refined from that impure alloy.

Oft has thy genius roused us hence
With elevated song,
Bid us renounce this world of sense,
Bid us divide the immortal prize
With the seraphic throng:
'Knowledge and love make spirits blest,
Knowledge their food, and love their rest;'
But flesh, the unmanageable beast,
Resists the pity of thine eyes,
And music of thy tongue.
Then let the worms of grovelling mind
Round the short joys of earthly kind
In restless windings roam;
Howe hath an ample orb of soul,
Where shining worlds of knowledge roll,
Where love, the centre and the pole,
Completes the heaven at home.

AMBROSE PHILIPS.

This gentleman--remembered now chiefly as Pope's temporary rival--was born in 1671, in Leicestershire; studied at Cambridge; and, being a great Whig, was appointed by the government of George I. to be Commissioner of the Collieries, and afterwards to some lucrative appointments in Ireland. He was also made one of the Commissioners of the Lottery. He was elected member for Armagh in the Irish House of Commons. He returned home in 1748, and died the next year in his lodgings at Vauxhall.

His works are 'The Distressed Mother,' a tragedy translated from Racine, and greatly praised in the _Spectator_; two deservedly forgotten plays, 'The Briton,' and 'Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester;' some miscellaneous pieces, of which an epistle to the Earl of Dorset, dated Copenhagen, has some very vivid lines; his Pastorals, which were commended by Tickell at the expense of those of Pope, who took his revenge by damning them, not with 'faint' but with fulsome and ironical praise, in the _Guardian_; and the subjoined fragment from Sappho, which is, particularly in the first stanza, melody itself. Some conjecture that it was touched up by Addison.

A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO.

1 Blessed 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.

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

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

4 In dewy damps my limbs were chilled,
My blood with gentle horrors thrilled;
My feeble pulse forgot to play,
I fainted, sunk, and died away.

WILLIAM HAMILTON.

William Hamilton, of Bangour, was born in Ayrshire in 1704. He was of an ancient family, and mingled from the first in the most fashionable circles. Ere he was twenty he wrote verses in Ramsay's 'Tea-Table Miscellany.' In 1745, to the surprise of many, he joined the standard of Prince Charles, and wrote a poem on the battle of Gladsmuir, or Prestonpans. When the reverse of his party came, after many wanderings and hair's-breadth escapes in the Highlands, he found refuge in France. As he was a general favourite, and as much allowance was made for his poetical temperament, a pardon was soon procured for him by his friends, and he returned to his native country. His health, however, originally delicate, had suffered by his Highland privations, and he was compelled to seek the milder clime of Lyons, where he died in 1754.

Hamilton was what is called a ladies'-man, but his attachments were not deep, and he rather flirted than loved. A Scotch lady, who was annoyed at his addresses, asked John Home how she could get rid of them. He, knowing Hamilton well, advised her to appear to favour him. She acted on the advice, and he immediately withdrew his suit. And yet his best poem is a tale of love, and a tale, too, told with great simplicity and pathos. We refer to his 'Braes of Yarrow,' the beauty of which we never felt fully till we saw some time ago that lovely region, with its 'dowie dens,'--its clear living stream,--Newark Castle, with its woods and memories,--and the green wildernesses of silent hills which stretch on all sides around; saw it, too, in that aspect of which Wordsworth sung in the words--

'The grace of forest charms decayed
And pastoral melancholy.'

It is the highest praise we can bestow upon Hamilton's ballad that it ranks in merit near Wordsworth's fine trinity of poems, 'Yarrow Unvisited,' 'Yarrow Visited,' and 'Yarrow Revisited.'

THE BRAES OF YARROW.

1 A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow!
Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

2 B. Where gat ye that bonny bonny bride?
Where gat ye that winsome marrow?
A. I gat her where I darena weil be seen,
Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

3 Weep not, weep not, my bonny bonny bride,
Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow!
Nor let thy heart lament to leave
Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

4 B. Why does she weep, thy bonny bonny bride?
Why does she weep, thy winsome marrow?
And why dare ye nae mair weil be seen,
Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow?

5 A. Lang maun she weep, lang maun she, maun she weep,
Lang maun she weep with dule and sorrow,
And lang maun I nae mair weil be seen
Pouing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

6 For she has tint her lover lover dear,
Her lover dear, the cause of sorrow,
And I hae slain the comeliest swain
That e'er poued birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

7 Why runs thy stream, O Yarrow, Yarrow, red?
Why on thy braes heard the voice of sorrow?
And why yon melancholious weeds
Hung on the bonny birks of Yarrow?

8 What's yonder floats on the rueful rueful flude?
What's yonder floats? O dule and sorrow!
Tis he, the comely swain I slew
Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow.

9 Wash, oh wash his wounds his wounds in tears,
His wounds in tears with dule and sorrow,
And wrap his limbs in mourning weeds,
And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.

10 Then build, then build, ye sisters sisters sad,
Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow,
And weep around in waeful wise,
His helpless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.

11 Curse ye, curse ye, his useless useless shield,
My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow,
The fatal spear that pierced his breast,
His comely breast, on the Braes of Yarrow.

12 Did I not warn thee not to lue,
And warn from fight, but to my sorrow;
O'er rashly bauld a stronger arm
Thou met'st, and fell on the Braes of Yarrow.

13 Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass,
Yellow on Yarrow bank the gowan,
Fair hangs the apple frae the rock,
Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan.

14 Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed,
As green its grass, its gowan as yellow,
As sweet smells on its braes the birk,
The apple frae the rock as mellow.

15 Fair was thy love, fair fair indeed thy love
In flowery bands thou him didst fetter;
Though he was fair and weil beloved again,
Than me he never lued thee better.

16 Busk ye then, busk, my bonny bonny bride,
Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow,
Busk ye, and lue me on the banks of Tweed,
And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

17 C. How can I busk a bonny bonny bride,
How can I busk a winsome marrow,
How lue him on the banks of Tweed,
That slew my love on the Braes of Yarrow?

18 O Yarrow fields! may never never rain
Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover,
For there was basely slain my love,
My love, as he had not been a lover.

19 The boy put on his robes, his robes of green,
His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewin',
Ah! wretched me! I little little kenned
He was in these to meet his ruin.

20 The boy took out his milk-white milk-white steed,
Unheedful of my dule and sorrow,
But e'er the to-fall of the night
He lay a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

21 Much I rejoiced that waeful waeful day;
I sang, my voice the woods returning,
But lang ere night the spear was flown
That slew my love, and left me mourning.

22 What can my barbarous barbarous father do,
But with his cruel rage pursue me?
My lover's blood is on thy spear,
How canst thou, barbarous man, then woo me?

23 My happy sisters may be may be proud;
With cruel and ungentle scoffin',
May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes
My lover nailed in his coffin.

24 My brother Douglas may upbraid, upbraid,
And strive with threatening words to move me;
My lover's blood is on thy spear,
How canst thou ever bid me love thee?

25 Yes, yes, prepare the bed, the bed of love,
With bridal sheets my body cover,
Unbar, ye bridal maids, the door,
Let in the expected husband lover.

26 But who the expected husband husband is?
His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter.
Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon,
Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after?

27 Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down,
Oh, lay his cold head on my pillow!
Take aff take aff these bridal weeds,
And crown my careful head with willow.

28 Pale though thou art, yet best yet best beloved;
Oh, could my warmth to life restore thee,
Ye'd lie all night between my breasts!
No youth lay ever there before thee.

29 Pale pale, indeed, O lovely lovely youth;
Forgive, forgive so foul a slaughter,
And lie all night between my breasts;
No youth shall ever lie there after.

30 A. Return, return, O mournful mournful bride,
Return and dry thy useless sorrow:
Thy lover heeds nought of thy sighs,
He lies a corpse on the Braes of Yarrow.

ALLAN RAMSAY.

Crawford Muir, in Lanarkshire, was the birthplace of this true poet. His father was manager of the Earl of Hopetoun's lead-mines. Allan was born in 1686. His mother was Alice Bower, the daughter of an Englishman who had emigrated from Derbyshire. His father died while his son was yet in infancy; his mother married again in the same district; and young Allan was educated at the parish school of Leadhills. At the age of fifteen, he was sent to Edinburgh, and bound apprentice to a wig-maker there. This trade, however, he left after finishing his term. He displayed rather early a passion for literature, and made a little reputation by some pieces of verse,--such as 'An Address to the Easy Club,' a convivial society with which he was connected,--and a considerable time after by a capital continuation of King James' 'Christis Kirk on the Green.' In 1712, he married a writer's daughter, Christiana Ross, who was his affectionate companion for thirty years. Soon after, he set up a bookseller's shop opposite Niddry's Wynd, and in this capacity edited and published two collections,--the one of songs, some of them his own, entitled 'The Tea-Table Miscellany,' and the other of early Scottish poems, entitled 'The Evergreen.' In 1725, he published 'The Gentle Shepherd.' It was the expansion of one or two pastoral scenes which he ad shewn to his delighted friends. The poem became instantly popular, and was republished in London and Dublin, and widely circulated in the colonies. Pope admired it. Gay, then in Scotland with his patrons the Queensberry family, used to lounge into Ramsay's shop to get explanations of its Scotch phrases to transmit to Twickenham, and to watch from the window the notable characters whom Allan pointed out to him in the Edinburgh Exchange. He now removed to a better shop, and set up for his sign the heads of Ben Jonson and Drummond, who agreed better in figure than they had done in reality at Hawthornden. He established the first circulating library in Scotland. His shop became a centre of intelligence, and Ramsay sat a Triton among the minnows of that rather mediocre day --giving his little senate laws, and inditing verses, songs, and fables. At forty-five--an age when Sir Walter Scott had scarcely commenced his Waverley novels, and Dryden had by far his greatest works to produce --honest Allan imagined his vein exhausted, and ceased to write, although he lived and enjoyed life for nearly thirty years more. At last, after having lost money and gained obloquy, in a vain attempt to found the first theatre in Edinburgh, and after building for himself a curious octagon-shaped house on the north side of the Castle Hill, which, while he called it Ramsay Lodge, his enemies nicknamed 'The Goose-pie,' and which, though altered, still, we believe, stands, under the name of Ramsay Garden, the author of 'The Gentle Shepherd' breathed his last on the 7th of January 1758. He died of a scurvy in the gums. His son became a distinguished painter, intimate with Johnson, Burke, and the rest of that splendid set, although now chiefly remembered from his connexion with them and with his father.