Then, then I marked the chastened joy So soft (and yet it seemed to thrill), And e'en thy pause had music still. To gaze in silence on the tide, Wild, soothing, tender, undefined, Played lightly round the heart, and shed Delicious languor o'er the mind. So hours like moments winged their flight, Still followed by an age of care. The day we passed on Greenwich Hill. To a Tuft of Early Violets. Sweet flowers! that from your humble beds Are not the genial brood of May; Lo! while your buds prepare to blow, And nips your root, and lays you low. Alas, for such ungentle doom! But I will shield you, and supply A kindlier soil on which to bloom, A nobler bed on which to die. Come then, ere yet the morning ray Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, And drawn your balmiest sweets away; O come, and grace my Anna's breast. Ye droop, fond flowers! but, did ye know What worth, what goodness there reside, Your cups with liveliest tints would glow, And spread their leaves with conscious pride; For there has liberal nature joined Her riches to the stores of art, And added to the vigorous mind The soft, the sympathising heart. Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, By one short hour of transport there. While I, alas! no distant date, Without a stone to tell my name. We have alluded to the Anti-Jacobin weekly paper, of which Mr Gifford was editor. In this publication various copies of verses were inserted, chiefly of a satirical nature. The poetry, like the prose, of the Anti-Jacobin was designed to ridicule and discountenance the doctrines of the French Revolution; and as party spirit ran high, those effusions were marked occasionally by fierce personality and declamatory violence. Others, however, written in travesty, or contempt of the bad taste and affectation of some of the works of the day, contained well-directed and witty satire, aimed by no common hand, and pointed with irresistible keenness. Among those who mixed in this loyal warfare was the late English minister, the Right Honourable GEORGE CANNING (1770-1827), whose fame as an orator and statesman fills so large a space in the modern history of Britain. Canning was then young and ardent, full of hope and ambition. Without family distinction or influence, he relied on his talents for future advancement; and from interest, no less than feeling and principle, he exerted them in support of the existing administration. Previous to this he had distinguished himself at Eton school for his classical acquirements and literary talents. Entering parliament in 1793, he was, in 1796, appointed under secretary of state, and it was at the close of the following year that the Anti-Jacobin was commenced. The contributions of Mr Canning consist of parodies on Southey and Darwin, the greater part of The Rovers (a burlesque on the sentimental German drama), and New Morality, a spirited and caustic satire, directed against French principles and their supporters in England. As party effusions, these pieces were highly popular and effective; and that they are still read with pleasure on account of their wit and humour, is instanced by the fact that the Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin, collected and published in a separate form, has attained to a sixth edition. The genius of Canning found afterwards a more appropriate field in parliament. As a statesman, 'just alike to freedom and the throne,' and as an orator, eloquent, witty, and of consummate taste, his reputation is established. He had, however, a strong bias in favour of elegant literature, and would have become no mean poet and author, had he not embarked so early on public life, and been so incessantly occupied with its cares and duties. The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder. [In this piece Canning ridicules the youthful Jacobin effusions of Southey, in which, he says, it was sedulously inculcated that there was a natural and eternal warfare between the poor and the rich. The Sapphic rhymes of Southey afforded a tempting subject for ludicrous parody, and Canning quotes the following stanza, lest he should be suspected of painting from fancy, and not from life: Cold was the night wind: drifting fast the snows fell; FRIEND OF HUMANITY. Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going? Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives? Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or (Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, KNIFE-GRINDER, Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir; Constables came up for to take me into Stocks for a vagrant. I should be glad to drink your honour's health in With politics, sir. FRIEND OF HUMANITY. I give thee sixpence! I will see thee dd firstWretch whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded Spiritless outcast! [Kicks the Knife-Grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a This faded form! this pallid hue! niversity of Gottingen, There first for thee my passion grew, niversity of Gottingen, Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu, niversity of Gottingen, [During the last stanza Rogero dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and finally so hard as to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops, the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.] Lines on the Death of his Eldest Son. [By the Right Hon. George Canning.] Though short thy span, God's unimpeached decrees, And, since this world was not the world for thee, transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philan- By mortal sufferings now no more oppressed, thropy.] [Song by Rogero in The Rovers.'] niversity of Gottingen, [Weeps and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eycs; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds—] Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue, At least I thought so at the U niversity of Gottingen, niversity of Gottingen. [At the repetition of this line Rogero clanks his chains in cadence.] Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew niversity of Gottingen, Mount, sinless spirit, to thy destined rest! Another satirical poem, which attracted much attention in literary circles at the time of its publication, was The Pursuits of Literature, in four parts, the first of which appeared in 1794. Though published anonymously, this work was written by Mr THOMAS JAMES MATHIAS, a distinguished scholar, who died at Naples in 1835. Mr Mathias was sometime treasurer of the household to her majesty Queen Charlotte. He took his degree of B. A. in Trinity college, Cambridge, in 1774. Besides the 'Pursuits of Literature,' Mr Mathias was author of some Runic Odes, imitated from the Norse Tongue, The Imperial Epistle from Kien Long to George III. (1794), The Shade of Alexander Pope, a satirical poem (1798), and various other light evanescent pieces on the topics of the day. Mr Mathias also wrote some Latin odes, and translated into Italian several English poems. He wrote Italian with elegance and purity, and it has been said that no Eng lishman, since the days of Milton, has cultivated that language with so much success. The Pursuits of Literature' contains some pointed satire on the author's poetical contemporaries, and is enriched with a vast variety of notes, in which there is a 296 great display of learning. George Steevens said the poem was merely a peg to hang the notes on.' The want of true poetical genius to vivify this mass of erudition has been fatal to Mr Mathias. His works appear to be utterly forgotten. DR JOHN WOLCOT. DR JOHN WOLCOT was a coarse but lively satirist, who, under the name of 'Peter Pindar,' published a variety of effusions on the topics and public men of his times, which were eagerly read and widely circulated. Many of them were in ridicule of the reigning sovereign, George III., who was a good subject for the poet; though the latter, as he himself acknowledged, was a bad subject to the king. Wolcot was born at Dodbrooke, a village in Devonshire, in the year 1738. His uncle, a respectable surgeon and apothecary at Fowey, took the charge of his education, intending that he should become his own assistant and successor in business. Wolcot was instructed in medicine, and walked the hospitals' in London, after which he proceeded to Jamaica with Sir William Trelawney, governor of that island, who had engaged him as his medical attendant. The social habits of the doctor rendered him a favourite in Jamaica; but his time being only partly employed by his professional avocations, he solicited and obtained from his patron the gift of a living in the church, which happened to be then vacant. The bishop of London ordained the graceless neophyte, and Wolcot entered upon his sacred duties. His congregation consisted mostly of negroes, and Sunday being their principal holiday and market, the attendance at the church was very limited. Sometimes not a single person came, and Wolcot and his clerk (the latter being an excellent shot) used at such times, after waiting for ten minutes, to proceed to the sea-side, to enjoy the sport of shooting ring-tailed pigeons! The death of Sir William Trelawney cut off all further hopes of preferment, and every inducement to a longer residence in the island. Bidding adieu to Jamaica and the church, Wolcot accompanied Lady Trelawney to England, and established himself as a physician at Truro, in Cornwall. He inherited about £2000 by the death of his uncle. While resident at Truro, Wolcot discovered the talents of Opie O Boswell, Bozzy, Bruce, whate'er thy name, Close to the classic Rambler shalt thou cling, A president, on butterflies profound, Of whom all insect-mongers sing the praises, On violets, dunghills, violet-tops, and daisies, &c. He had also Instructions to a Celebrated Laureate, Peter's Pension; Peter's Prophecy; Epistle to a Fallen Minister; Epistle to James Bruce, Esq., the Abyssinian Traveller; Odes to Mr Paine; Odes to Kien Long, Emperor of China; Ode to the Livery of London, and brochures of a kindred description on most of the celebrated events of the day. From 1778 to 1808 above sixty of these poetical pamphlets were issued by Wolcot. So formidable was he considered, that the ministry, as he alleged, endeavoured to bribe him to silence. He also boasted that his writings had been translated into six different languages. In 1795 he obtained from his booksellers an annuity of £250, payable half-yearly, for the copyright of his works. This handsome allowance he enjoyed, to the heavy loss of the other parties, for upwards of twenty years. Neither old age nor blindness could repress his witty vituperative attacks. He had recourse to an amanuensis, in whose absence, however, he continued to write himself, till within a short The Cornish boy in tin mines bredperiod of his death. 'His method was to tear a sheet of paper into quarters, on each of which he whose genius as an artist afterwards became so dis- wrote a stanza of four or six lines, according to the tinguished. He also materially assisted to form his nature of the poem: the paper he placed on a book taste and procure him patronage; and when Opie's held in the left hand, and in this manner not only name was well established, the poet and his pro-wrote legibly, but with great ease and celerity.' In tegé, forsaking the country, repaired to London, as affording a wider field for the exertions of both. Wolcot had already acquired some distinction by his satirical efforts; and he now poured forth a series of odes and epistles, commencing with the royal academicians, whom he ridiculed with great success and some justice. In 1785 he produced no less than twenty-three odes. In 1786 he published The Lousiad, a Heroi-comic Poem, in five cantos, which had its foundation in the fact, that an obnoxious insect (either of the garden or the body) had been discovered on the king's plate among some green peas, which produced a solemn decree that all the servants in the royal kitchen were to have their heads shaved. In the hands of an unscrupulous satirist like Wolcot, this ridiculous incident was an admirable theme. The publication of Boswell's Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides afforded another tempting opportunity, and he indited a humorous poetical epistle to the biographer, commencing 1796 his poetical effusions were collected and published in four volumes 8vo., and subsequent editions have been issued; but most of the poems have sunk into oblivion. Few satirists can reckon on permanent popularity, and the poems of Wolcot were in their nature of an ephemeral description; while the recklessness of his censure and ridicule, and the want of decency, of principle, and moral feeling, that characterises nearly the whole, precipitated their downfall. He died at his house in Somers' Town on the 14th January 1819, and was buried in a vault in the churchyard of St Paul's, Covent Garden, close to the grave of Butler. Wolcot was equal to Churchill as a satirist, as ready and versatile in his powers, and possessed of a quick sense of the ludicrous, as well as a rich vein of fancy and humour. Some of his songs and serious effusions are tender and pleasing; but he could not write long without sliding into the ludicrous and burlesque. His critical acuteness is evinced in his Odes to the Royal Acade micians, and in various passages scattered throughout his works; while his ease and felicity, both of expression and illustration, are remarkable. In the following terse and lively lines, we have a good caricature portrait of Dr Johnson's style : I own I like not Johnson's turgid style, Sets wheels on wheels in motion-such a clatter [Advice to Landscape Painters.] There's very little landscape in a garret. A rushlight in a bottle's neck, or stick, I think, too, that a man would be a fool, Or even by them to represent a stump: Must make a very poor autumnal clump. You'll say, 'Yet such ones oft a person sees And in some paintings we have all beheld All this, my lads, I freely grant; Claude painted in the open air! Where scenes of true magnificence you'll find; So leave the bull-dog bailiffs all behind; Who, hunt you with what noise they may, Must hunt for needles in a stack of hay. The Pilgrims and the Peas. A brace of sinners, for no good, Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt in wax, stone, wood, And in a curled white wig looked wondrous fine. Fifty long miles had these sad rogues to travel, A nostrum famous in old popish times That popish parsons for its powers exalt, The knaves set off on the same day, But very different was their speed, I wot: The other limped as if he had been shot. One saw the Virgin, soon peccari cried; Had his soul whitewashed all so clever, When home again he nimbly hied, Made fit with saints above to live for ever. In coming back, however, let me say, How now!' the light-toed whitewashed pilgrim broke, You lazy lubber!' 'Confound it!' cried the t'other, ''tis no joke; My feet, once hard as any rock, Are now as soft as blubber. Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear: But, brother sinner, do explain What power hath worked a wonder for your toes-- Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes! How is't that you can like a greyhound go, Merry as if nought had happened, burn ye?' "Why,' cried the other, grinning, 'you must know, That just before I ventured on my journey, To walk a little more at ease, I took the liberty to boil my peas.' The Apple Dumplings and a King. Once on a time, a monarch, tired with whooping, Whipping and spurring, Happy in worrying A poor defenceless harmless buck Where sat a poor old woman and her pot. The wrinkled, blear-eyed, good old granny, In this same cot, illumed by many a cranny, Had finished apple dumplings for her pot: In tempting row the naked dumplings lay, Then taking up a dumpling in his hand, And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple: he cried, · 'Very astonishing indeed! strange thing!' On which the dame the curious scheme revealed Which made the Solomon of Britain start; The palace seemed the lodging of a baker! Whitbread's Brewery visited by their Majesties. Full of the art of brewing beer, The monarch heard of Whitbread's fame; Quoth he unto the queen, 'My dear, my dear, Whitbread hath got a marvellous great name. Charly, we must, must, must see Whitbread brewRich as us, Charly, richer than a Jew. Shame, shame we have not yet his brewhouse seen!' Red hot with novelty's delightful rage, Of such undreamt-of honour proud, So humbly (so the humble story goes), He touched e'en terra firma with his nose; Then said unto the page, hight Billy Ramus, 'Happy are we that our great king should name us Away sprung Billy Ramus quick as thought: Indeed in a most humble light, God knows! The people walking on the strand like crows. Muse, sing the stir that happy Whitbread made: Poor gentleman! most terribly afraid He should not charm enough his guests divine, He gave his maids new aprons, gowns, and smocks; And lo! two hundred pounds were spent in frocks, To make the apprentices and draymen fine: Busy as horses in a field of clover, Now moved king, queen, and princesses so grand, Lord Aylesbury, and Denbigh's lord also, And fixed all Smithfield's wond'ring eyes: Thus was the brewhouse filled with gabbling noise, Devoured the questions that the king did ask; In different parties were they staring seen, Wond'ring to think they saw a king and queen! Behind a tub were some, and some behind a cask. Some draymen forced themselves (a pretty luncheon) For whose most lofty station thousands sigh! Now majesty into a pump so deep Thus have I seen a magpie in the street, And cunning eye, Peep knowingly into a marrow-bone. And now his curious majesty did stoop And lo! no single thing came in his way, So quick the words too, when he deigned to speak, Thus, to the world of great whilst others crawl, Things that too oft the public scorn; By finding systems in a peppercorn. Now boasting Whitbread serious did declare, Almost to Windsor that they would extend: Now did the king for other beers inquire, Dogs, cats, and chairs, and stools, were tumbled over, For Calvert's, Jordan's, Thrale's entire ; Amidst the Whitbread rout of preparation, To treat the lofty ruler of the nation. And after talking of these different beers, Asked Whitbread if his porter equalled theirs. |