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On a fan of the Author's design, in which was painted

the story of CEPHALUS and PROCRIS, with the Motto, AURA VENI.

COME, gentle Air ! th' Æolian shepherd said, While Procris panted in the secret shade ; Come, gentle Air ! the fairer Delia cries, While at her feet her swain expiring lies. Lo the glad gales o'er all her beauties stray, Breathe on her lips, and in her bosom play! In Delia's hand this toy is fatal found, Nor could that fabled dart more surely wound: Both gifts destructive to the givers prove; Alike both lovers fall by those they love. 10 Yet guiltless too this bright destroyer lives, At Random wounds, nor knows the wound she gives : She views the story with attentive eyes, And pities Procris, while her lover dies.

In the following love-verses is a strain of sensibility which the reader will be pleased, I suppose, to see, being now first published from a manuscript of Mr. Gray:

“ With beauty, with pleasure, surrounded, to languish,
To weep without knowing the cause of my anguish;
To start from short slumbers, and wish for the morning,
To close my dull eyes when I see it returning;
Sighs sudden and frequent, looks ever dejected,
Words that steal from my tongue by no meaning connected ;
Ah say, fellow swains, how these symptoms befel me?
They smile, but reply not; sure Delia will tell me."

IV.

COW LEY.

In the imitation of Cowley, in two pieces, on a Garden, and on Weeping, Pope has properly enough, in conformity to his original, extorted some moral, or darted forth some witticism on every object he mentions. It is not enough to say, that the laurels sheltered the fountain from the heat of the day; but this idea must be accompanied with a conceit:

"---Daphne, now a tree, as once a maid,

Still from Apollo vindicates her shade.” The flowers that grow on the water-side could not be sufficiently described without saying, that

“ The pale Narcissus on the bank, in vain

Transformed, gazes on himself again.” In the lines on a Lady Weeping, you might expect a touching picture of beauty in distress ; you will be disappointed. Wit, on the present occasion, is to be preferred to tenderness; the babe in her eye is said to resemble Phaeton so much,

“ That heav'n the threat'ned world to spare,
Thought fit to drown him in her tears ;
Else might th' ambitious nymph aspire

To set, like him, the world on fire.” Let not this strained affectation of striving to be witty upon all occasions be thought exaggerated, or a caricature of Cowley. It is painful to censure a writer of so amiable a mind, such integrity of manners, and such a sweetness of temper. His fancy was brilliant, strong, and sprightly; but his taste false and un classical, even though he had much learning. In his Latin compositions, his six books on plants, where the subject might have led him to a contrary practise, he imitates Martial rather than Virgil, and has given us more epigrams than descriptions. I do not remember to have seen it enough observed, that Cowley had a most happy talent of imitating the easy manner of Horace's epistolary writings ; I must therefore insert a specimen of this his excellence:

“ Ergo iterum versus ? dices. O Vane! quid ergo
Morbum ejurasti toties, tibi qui insidet altis,
Non evellendus, vi vel ratione, medullis?
Numne poetarum (merito dices) ut amantum
Derisum ridere deum perjuria censes ?
Parcius hæc, sodes, neve inclementibus urge
Infelicem hominem dictis ; nam fata trahunt me
Magna reluctantem, et nequicquam in vincla minacem.
Helleborum sumpsi, fateor, pulcreque videbar
Purgatus morbi ; sed Luna potentior herbis

Insanire iterum jubet, et sibi vendicat ægrum.”
There is another epistle also, well worthy perusal, to his friend,
Mat. Clifford, at the end of the same volume. Pope, in one of
his imitations of Horace, has exhibited the real character of
Cowley with delicacy and candour :

“Who now reads Cowley? If he pleases yet,
His moral pleases, not his pointed wit ;
Forgot his epic, nay Pindaric art,
But still I love the language of his heart."

His prose works give us the most amiable idea both of his abilities and his heart. His Pindaric odes cannot be perused with common patience by a lover of antiquity. He that would see Pindar's manner truly imitated, may read Masters's noble and

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“Open, oh! open wide the fountains of thine eyes,

And let them call
Their stock of moisture forth where e'er it lies,

For this will ask it all.
"Twould all, alas ! too little be,

Though thy salt tears came from a sea.” Cowley being early disgusted with the perplexities and vanities of a court life, had a strong desire to enjoy the milder pleasures of solitude and retirement; he therefore escaped from the tumults of London to a little house at Wandsworth ; but finding that place too near the metropolis, he left it for Richmond, and at last settled at Chertsey. He seems to have thought that the swains of Surrey had the innocence of those of Sydney's Arcadia ; but the perverseness and debauchery of his own workmen soon undeceived him, with whom, it is said, he was sometimes so provoked, as even to be betrayed into an oath. His income was about three hundred pounds a year. Towards the latter part of his life he shewed an aversion to the company of women, and would often leave the room if any happened to enter it whilst he was present, but still retained a sincere affection for Leonora. His death was occasioned by a singular accident; he paid a visit on foot with his friend Sprat to a gentleman in the neighbourhood of Chertsey, which they prolonged, and feasted too much, till midnight. On their return home they mistook their way, and were obliged to pass the whole night exposed under a hedge, where Cowley caught a severe cold, attended with a fever, that terminated in his death. All these particulars were communicated to me by Mr. Spence from his Anecdotes, who assured me he received them from Mr. Pope's own mouth.

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Fain would my Muse the flow ry Treasures sing,
And humble glories of the youthful Spring;
Where op’ning Roses breathing sweets diffuse,
And soft Carnations show'r their balmy dews;
Where Lilies smile in virgin robes of white,
The thin Undress of superficial Light,
And vary'd Tulips shew so dazzling gay,
Blushing in bright diversities of day,
Each painted flow'ret in the lake below
Surveys its beauties, whence its beauties grow; 10
And pale Narcissus on the bank, in vain
Transformed, gazes on himself again.
Here aged trees Cathedral Walks compose,
And mount the Hill in venerable rows :
There the green Infants in their beds are laid, 15
The Garden's Hope, and its expected shade.
Here Orange-trees with blooms and pendants shine,
And vernal honours to their autumn join ;
Exceed their promise in the ripen'd store,
Yet in the rising blossom promise more.

20
There in bright drops the crystal Fountains play ;
By Laurels shielded from the piercing day:
Where Daphne, now a tree as once a maid,
Still from Apollo vindicates her shade,

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