1717, on his way to Ireland, aged thirty-eight years. His estates passed to his nephew, Sir John Parnell. He had, in the course of his life, composed a great deal of poetry; much of it, indeed, invita Minerva. After his death, Pope collected the best pieces, and published them, with a dedication to Lord Oxford. Goldsmith, in his edition, added two or three; and other editors, a good many poems, of which we have only inserted one, deeming the rest unworthy of his memory. In 1788 a volume was published, entitled, "The Posthumous Works of Dr T. Parnell, containing poems moral and divine." These, however, attracted little attention, being mostly rubbish. Johnson says of them, "I know not whence they came, nor have ever inquired whither they are going." It is said that the present representative of the Parnell family preserves a mass of unpublished poems from the pen of his relative. We trust that he will long and religiously refrain from disturbing their MS. slumbers.

The whole tenor of Parnell's history convinces us that he was an easy-tempered, kind-hearted, yet querulous and self-indulgent man, who had no higher motive or object than to gratify himself. His very ambition aspired not to very lofty altitudes. His utmost wish was to attain a metropolitan pulpit, where he could have added the reputation of a popular preacher to that of being the protégé of Swift, and the pet of the Scriblerus Club. The character of his poetry is in keeping with the temperament of the man. It is slipshod, easy, and pleasing. If the distinguishing quality of poetry be to give pleasure, then Parnell is a poet. You never thrill under his power, but you read him with a quiet, constant, subdued gratification. If never eminently original, he has the art of enunciating commonplaces with felicity and grace. The stories he relates are almost all old, but his manner of telling them is new. His thoughts and images are mostly selected from his commonplace book; but he utters them with such a natural ease of manner, that you are tempted to think them his own. He knows the compass of his poetical powers, and never attempts anything very lofty or arduous. His "Allegory on Man,'

pronounced by Johnson his best,-seems rather a laborious than a fortunate effusion. His "Hymn to Contentment" is animated, as the subject required, by a kind of sober rapture. His "Faery Tale" is a good imitation of that old style of composition. His "Hesiod" catches the classical tone and spirit with considerable success. His "Flies," and "Elegy to the Old Beauty," are ingenious trifles. His "Nightpiece on Death" has fine touches, but is slight for such a theme, and must not be named beside Blair's "Grave," and Gray's "Elegy written in a Country Churchyard." His translations we have, in accordance with the plan of this edition, omitted-and, indeed, they are little loss. His "Bookworm," &c., are adaptations from Beza and other foreign authors. By far his most popular poem is the "Hermit." In it he tells a tale that had been told in Arabic, French, and English, for the tenth time; and in that tenth edition tells it so well, that the public have thanked him for it as for an original work. Of course, the story not being Parnell's, it is not his fault that it casts no light upon the dread problems of Providence it professed to explain. But the incidents are recorded with ease and liveliness; the characters are rapidly depicted, and strikingly contrasted; and many touches of true poetry occur. How vivid this couplet, for instance-

"Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care,
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair!"

How picturesque the following—

"A fresher green the smiling leaves display,
And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day!

The description of the unveiled angel approaches the sublime

"Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair;
Celestial odours breathe through purpled air;
And wings, whose colours glitter'd on the day,
Wide at his back, their gradual plumes display.
The form ethereal bursts upon his sight,
And moves in all the majesty of light."

A passage of similar brilliance occurs in "Piety, or the Vision"

"A sudden splendour seem'd to kindle day;
A breeze came breathing in; a sweet perfume,
Blown from eternal gardens, fill'd the room,
And in a void of blue, that clouds invest,
Appear'd a daughter of the realms of rest."

Such passages themselves are enough to prove Parnell a true poet.

PARNELL'S POEMS.

HESIOD; OR, THE RISE OF WOMAN.

WHAT ancient times, those times we fancy wise,
Have left on long record of woman's rise,
What morals teach it, and what fables hide,
What author wrote it, how that author died,—

All these I sing, In Greece they framed the tale;
(In Greece, 'twas thought a woman might be frail);
Ye modern beauties! where the poet drew
His softest pencil, think he dreamt of you;
And warn'd by him, ye wanton pens, beware
How Heaven's concern'd to vindicate the fair.
The case was Hesiod's; he the fable writ-
Some think with meaning-some, with idle wit
Perhaps 'tis either, as the ladies please ;
I waive the contest, and commence the lays.

In days of yore, no matter where or when,
"Twas ere the low creation swarm'd with men,
That one Prometheus, sprung of heavenly birth
(Our author's song can witness), lived on earth.
He carved the turf to mould a manly frame,
And stole from Jove his animating flame.
The sly contrivance o'er Olympus ran,
When thus the Monarch of the Stars began:

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