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Of praise a mere glutton, he swallowed what came,
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who peppered the highest was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, ye Woodfalls so grave,
What a commerce was yours while you got and
you gave,

How did Grub Street re-echo the shouts that you raised,

While he was be- Rosciused, and you were bepraised!

But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,

To act as an angel, and mix with the skies: Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill, Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;

Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love,

And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature,

And slander itself must allow him good-nature;
He cherished his friend, and he relished a bumper;
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper.
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser?
I answer, No, no-for he always was wiser.
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that.
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest? Ah no!
Then what was his failing? come, tell it, and
burn ye!

He was-could he help it?-a special attorney.
Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind,

He has not left a wiser or better behind:
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart.
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judged without skill he was still hard

of hearing;

When they talked of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,

He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.
By flattery unspoiled-

POSTSCRIPT.

Here Whitefoord reclines, and, deny it who can,
Though he merrily lived, he is now a grave man.
Rare compound of oddity, frolic, and fun!
Who relished a joke, and rejoiced in a pun;

Whose temper was generous, open, sincere ;

A stranger to flattery, a stranger to fear;
Who scattered around wit and humor at will;
Whose daily bons-mots half a column might fill;
A Scotchman, from pride and from prejudice free;
A scholar, yet surely no pedant was he.

What pity, alas! that so liberal a mind
Should so long be to newspaper essays confined;
Who perhaps to the summit of science could soar,
Yet content "if the table he set on a roar ;"
Whose talents to fill any station were fit,
Yet happy if Woodfall confessed him a wit.

Ye newspaper witlings! ye pert scribbling folks! Who copied his squibs, and re-echoed his jokes! Ye tame imitators! ye servile herd! come, Still follow your master, and visit his tomb. To deck it bring with you festoons of the vine, And copious libations bestow on his shrine; Then strew all around it-you can do no lessCross-readings, ship-news, and mistakes of the press.

Merry Whitefoord, farewell! for thy sake I admit That a Scot may have humor; I had almost said wit: This debt to thy memory I cannot refuse, "Thou best-humored man, with the worst-humored

muse."

Thomas Percy.

He

Percy, bishop of Dromore (1728-1811), was the son of a grocer, and a native of Bridgnorth, in Shropshire. was educated at Oxford, and having taken holy orders, became successively chaplain to the king, a dean, and then a bishop. In 1765 he published his "Reliques of English Poetry," the work by which he is chiefly known. It was largely influential in awakening a taste for natural descriptions, simplicity, and true passion, in opposition to the coldly correct and falsely sentimental style which was then predominant in English literature. Percy altered and supplemented many of these old pieces, copied as they were mostly from illiterate transcripts or the imperfect recitation of itinerant ballad-singers.

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.?

It was a friar of orders gray

Walked forth to tell his beads,

And he met with a lady fair,

Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.

"Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I pray thee tell to me,

1 Caleb Whitefoord, a writer for the Advertiser.

2 Composed mostly of fragments of ancient ballads.

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No drizzly rain that falls on me Can wash my fault away."

"Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,

And dry those pearly tears; For see, beneath this gown of gray Thy own true love appears.

"Here, forced by grief and hopeless love, These holy weeds I sought,

And here amid these lonely walls
To end my days I thought.

"But haply, for my year of grace

Is not yet passed away,

Might I still hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay.”

"Now farewell grief, and welcome joy
Once more unto my heart!
For since I've found thee, lovely youth,
We never more will part."

Thomas Warton.

Thomas Warton, the historian of English poetry (17281790), was the second son of Dr. Warton, of Magdalen College, Oxford, who was twice chosen Professor of Poetry by his university, and who himself wrote verses now happily consigned to oblivion. Joseph (1722-1800), the elder brother of Thomas, was also a poet in a small way, and wrote an "Ode to Fancy," hardly up to the standard of a modern school-boy. Thomas began early to write verses. His "Progress of Discontent," written before he was twenty, and in the style of Swift, is a remarkably clever production. It gave promise of achievements which he never fulfilled. He was made poetryprofessor at Oxford in 1757, and, on the death of Whitehead in 1785, was appointed poet-laureate. His "History of English Poetry" (1774-1778) forms the basis of his reputation, and is a valuable storehouse of facts and criticisms. Hazlitt considered some of Warton's sonnets "the finest in the language;" but this is wholly unmerited praise. Coleridge and Bowles also commended them. We select out of his nine sonnets the two best.

TO MR. GRAY.

Not that her blooms are marked with beauty's hue,
My rustic Muse her votive chaplet brings;
Unseen, unheard, O Gray, to thee she sings!-
While slowly pacing through the church-yard dew,
At curfew-time, beneath the dark-green yew,
Thy pensive genius strikes the moral strings;
Or borne sublime on Inspiration's wings,

Hears Cambria's bards devote the dreadful clew
Of Edward's race, with murders foul defiled;
Can aught my pipe to reach thine ear essay?
No, bard divine! For many a care beguiled
By the sweet magic of thy soothing lay,
For many a raptured thought, and vision wild,
To thee this strain of gratitude I pay.

TO THE RIVER LODON.

Miss Mitford, in "Our Village," says of the Lodon: "Is it not a beautiful river? rising level with its banks, so clear, and smooth, and peaceful, giving back the verdant landscape and the bright blue sky, and bearing on its pellucid stream the snowy water-lily, the purest of flowers, which sits enthroned on its own cool leaves, looking chastity itself, like the lady in 'Comus.'"

Ah! what a weary race my feet have run,
Since first I trod thy banks with alders crowned,
And thought my way was all through fairy ground,
Beneath thy azure sky, and golden sun:
Where first my Muse to lisp her notes begun!
While pensive Memory traces back the round,
Which fills the varied interval between;

Much pleasure, more of sorrow, marks the scene.
Sweet native stream! those skies and suns so pure
No more return, to cheer my evening road!
Yet still one joy remains, that not obscure,
Nor useless all my vacant days have flowed,
From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime mature;
Nor with the Muse's laurel unbestowed.

John Cunningham.

Cunningham (1729-1773), the son of a wine-cooper in Dublin, was an actor by profession. "His pieces," says Chambers, "are full of pastoral simplicity and lyrical melody. He aimed at nothing high, and seldom failed.”

MAY-EVE; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN.
The silver moon's enamored beam
Steals softly through the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,
And kiss reflected light.

To beds of state, go, balmy sleep

'Tis where you've seldom beeuMay's vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen.

Upon the green the virgins wait, In rosy chaplets gay,

Till morn uubars her golden gate,

And gives the promised May. Methinks I hear the maids declare The promised May, when seen, Not half so fragrant, half so fair, As Kate of Aberdeen.

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,
We'll rouse the nodding grove ;

The nested birds shall raise their throats
And hail the maid I love.
And see the matin lark mistakes,

He quits the tufted green:

Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight fairies rove,

Like them the jocund dance we'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love:

For see, the rosy May draws nigh;
She claims a virgin queen ;
And hark! the happy shepherds cry,--
"Tis Kate of Aberdeen !"

John Scott.

Scott (1730-1783), of Quaker descent, was the son of a draper in London, who retired to Amwell, where the poet spent his days in literary ease. He fondly hoped to immortalize his native village, on which he wrote a poem, “Amwell" (1776); but of all his works only the subjoined lines are remembered.

ODE ON HEARING THE DRUM.
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.

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.

William Falconer.

Falconer (1732-1769), a native of Edinburgh, was the son of a poor barber, who had two other children, both of whom were deaf and dumb. When very young, William was apprenticed to the merchant-service, and afterward went as second mate in a vessel which was wrecked on the coast of Africa; he and two others being the sole survivors. This led to his famous poem of "The Shipwreck," which he published in 1762. The Duke of York, to whom it was dedicated, procured for him the following year the appointment of midshipman on board the Royal George. He eventually became purser in the frigate Aurora, and was lost in her, on the outward voyage to India, in 1769. "The Shipwreck" has the rare merit of being a pleasing and interesting poem, and approved by all experienced mariners for the accuracy of its nautical rules and descriptions.

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In vain the cords and axes were prepared,
For now the audacions seas insult the yard;
High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade,
And o'er her burst, in terrible cascade.
Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies,
Her shattered top half buried in the skies,
Then headlong plunging, thunders on the ground;
Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps resound!
Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels,
And quivering with the wound, in torment reels;
So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes,
The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's blows;-
Again she plunges! hark! a second shock
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock:
Down on the vale of Death, with dismal cries,
The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes
In wild despair; while yet another stroke,
With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak:
Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell
The lurking demons of destruction dwell,
At length asunder torn, her frame divides,
And crashing spreads in ruin o'er the tides.

Erasmus Darwin.

Darwin, the grandsire of the more renowned Charles Darwin, identified with what is known as the Darwinian theory of natural selection in biology, was born in Elton,

England, in 1731, and died in 1802. He studied at Cambridge and Edinburgh, and established himself as a physician at Lichfield. He was an early advocate of the temperance cause. As the author of "The Botanic Garden," a poem in two parts-Part I., The Economy of Vegetation; Part II., The Loves of the Plants-also of "The Temple of Nature," a poem, he obtained distinction in literature. Of an original turn of mind, he seems to have had glimpses of the theories afterward expanded and illustrated by the labor and learning of his grandson. Byron speaks of Darwin's "pompous rhyme." His poems were very popular in their day, and he received £900 for his "Botanic Garden." In it he predicts the triumphs of steam in these prescient lines:

"Soon shall thy arm, unconquered Steam! afar
Drag the slow barge, or drive the rapid car;
Or on wide waving wings expanded bear
The flying chariot through the field of air."

By his command of poetical diction and sonorous versification, he gave an imposing effect to much that he wrote, and his verses found enthusiastic admirers. The effect of the whole, however, is artificial, and his verses, though metrically correct and often beautiful in construction, fatigue by the monotony of the cadence.

"There is a fashion in poetry," says Sir Walter Scott, "which, without increasing or diminishing the real value of the materials moulded upon it, does wonders in facilitating its currency while it has novelty, and is often found to impede its reception when the mode has passed away." The transitoriness of fashion seems to account for the fate of Darwin's poetry. The form was novel, the substance ephemeral. As a philosopher, he was charged with being too fond of tracing analogies between dissimilar objects, and of too readily adopting the ingenious views of others without sufficient inquiry. He was married twice, and had three sons by his first wife. A biography of Darwin, from the German of Ernst Krause, was published, 1880, in New York. Darwin was on the side of the American colonists in their war for independence.

THE GODDESS OF BOTANY.

FROM "THE BOTANIC GARDEN."

"Winds of the north! restrain your icy gales,
Nor chill the bosom of these happy vales!
Hence in dark heaps, ye gathering clouds, revolve!
Disperse, ye lightnings, and ye mists, dissolve!
Hither, emerging from yon orient skies,
Botanic goddess, bend thy radiant eyes;
O'er these soft scenes assume thy gentle reign,
Pomona, Ceres, Flora, in thy train;
O'er the still dawn thy placid smile effuse,
And with thy silver sandals print the dews;
In noon's bright blaze thy vermeil vest unfold,
And wave thy emerald banner starred with gold."
Thus spoke the Genius as he stepped along,
And bade these lawns to peace and truth belong;|

Down the steep slopes he led with modest skill
The willing pathway and the truant rill;
Stretched o'er the marshy vale yon willowy mound,
Where shines the lake amid the tufted ground;
Raised the young woodland, smoothed the wavy
green,

And gave to beauty all the quiet scene.
She comes! the goddess! through the whispering
air,

Bright as the morn descends her blushing car;
Each circling wheel a wreath of flowers entwines,
And, gemmed with flowers, the silken harness
shines;

The golden bits with flowery studs are decked,
And knots of flowers the crimson reins connect.
And now on earth the silver axle rings,
And the shell sinks upon its slender springs;
Light from her airy seat the goddess bounds,
And steps celestial press the pansied grounds.
Fair Spring advancing, calls her feathered quire,
And tunes to softer notes her laughing lyre;
Bids her gay hours on purple pinions move,
And arms her zephyrs with the shafts of love.

ELIZA AT THE BATTLE OF MINDEN.

FROM "THE BOTANIC GARDEN."

Now stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height,
O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight;
Sought with bold eye amid the bloody strife
Her dearer self, the partner of her life;
From hill to hill the rushing host pursued,
And viewed his banner, or believed she viewed.
Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread,
Fast by his hand oue lisping boy she led ;
And one fair girl amid the loud alarm
Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm;
While round her brows bright beams of houor dart,
And love's warm eddies circle round her heart.
-Near and more near the intrepid beauty pressed,
Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest;
Saw on his helm, her virgin hands inwove,

Bright stars of gold, and mystic knots of love;
Heard the exulting shout, "They run!-they run!"
"He's safe!" she cried, "he's safe! the battle's won!"
-A ball now hisses through the airy tides
(Some Fury wings it, and some demon guides),
Parts the fine locks her graceful head that deck,
Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck:
The red stream issuing from her azure veins,
Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains.

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