'Twas transport not to be exprest;
'Twas Paradise !- But mark the rest.

Two smiling springs had waked the flow'rs
That paint the meads, or fringe the bow'rs,
(Ye lovers, lend your wond'ring ears,
Who count by months, and not by years),
Two smiling springs had chaplets wove
To crown their solitude, and love :
When lo, they find, they can't tell how,
Their walks are not so pleasant now.
The seasons sure were changed; the place
Had, somehow, got a diff'rent face.
Some blast had struck the cheerful scene;
The lawns, the woods, were not so green.
The purling rill, which murmur'd by,
And once was liquid harmony,
Became a sluggish, reedy pool:

The days grew hot, the ev`nings cool.
The moon, with all the starry reign,
Were melancholy's silent train.
And then the tedious winter night-
They could not read by candle-light.
Full oft, unknowing why they did,
They call'd in adventitious aid.
A faithful, fav'rite dog ('twas thus
With Tobit and Telemachus)
Amused their steps; and for a while
They view'd his gambols with a smile.
The kitten too was comical,
She play'd so oddly with her tail,
Or in the glass was pleased to find
Another cat, and peep'd behind.

A courteous neighbour at the door
Was deem'd intrusive noise no more.
For rural visits, now and then,
Are right, as men must live with men.
Then cousin Jenny, fresh from town,
A new recruit, a dear delight!
Made many a heavy hour go down,

At morn, at noon, at eve, at night:
Sure they could hear her jokes for ever,
She was so sprightly, and so clever!

Yet neighbours were not quite the thing; What joy, alas! could converse bring With awkward creatures bred at homeThe dog grew dull, or troublesome. The cat had spoil'd the kitten's merit, And, with her youth, had lost her spirit. And jokes repeated o'er and o'er, Had quite exhausted Jenny's store.

-“And then, my dear, I can't abide This always sauntering side by side." "Enough!" he cries, "the reason's plain : For causes never rack your brain. Our neighbours are like other folks, Skip's playful tricks, and Jenny's jokes, Are still delightful, still would please, Were we, my dear, ourselves at ease. Look round, with an impartial eye, On yonder fields, on yonder sky; The azure cope, the flow'rs below, With all their wonted colours glow.

The rill still murmurs; and the moon
Shines, as she did, a softer sun.

No change has made the seasons fail,
No comet brush'd us with his tail.

The scene's the same, the same the weather-
We live, my dear, too much together."

Agreed. A rich old uncle dies,
And added wealth the means supplies.
With eager haste to town they flew,
Where all must please, for all was new.
But here, by strict poetic laws,
Description claims its proper pause.

The rosy morn had raised her head
From old Tithonus' saffron bed;
And embryo sunbeams from the east,
Half-choked, were struggling through the mist,
When forth advanced the gilded chaise ;
The village crowded round to gaze.
The pert postilion, now promoted
From driving plough, and neatly booted,
His jacket, cap, and baldric on,

(As greater folks than he have done),
Look'd round; and, with a coxcomb air,
Smack'd loud his lash. The happy pair
Bow'd graceful, from a sep'rate door,
And Jenny, from the stool before.

Roll swift, ye wheels! to willing eyes
New objects ev'ry moment rise.
Each carriage passing on the road,
From the broad waggon's pond'rous load
To the light car, where mounted high
The giddy driver seems to fly,
Were themes for harmless satire fit,
And gave fresh force to Jenny's wit.
Whate'er occurr'd, 'twas all delightful,
No noise was harsh, no danger frightful.
The dash and splash through thick and thin,
The hair-breadth 'scapes, the bustling inn,
(Where well-bred landlords were so ready
To welcome in the 'squire and lady),
Dirt, dust, and sun, they bore with ease,
Determined to be pleased, and please.

Now nearer town, and all agog, They know dear London by its fog. Bridges they cross, through lanes they wind Leave Hounslow's dang'rous heath behind, Through Brentford win a passage free By roaring, "Wilkes and Liberty !” At Knightsbridge bless the short'ning way, (Where Bays's troops in ambush lay), O'er Piccadilly's pavement glide, (With palaces to grace its side), Till Bond-street with its lamps a-blaze Concludes the journey of three days.

Why should we paint, in tedious song, How ev'ry day, and all day long,

They drove at first with curious haste Through Lud's vast town; or, as they pass'd 'Midst risings, fallings, and repairs

Of streets on streets, and squares on squares,
Describe how strong their wonder grew
At buildings-and at builders too!

Scarce less astonishment arose

At architects more fair than those---
Who built as high, as widely spread
Th' enormous loads that cloth'd their head.
For British dames new follies love,
And, if they can't invent, improve.
Some with erect pagodas vie,
Some nod, like Pisa's tower, awry,
Medusa's snakes, with Pallas' crest,
Convolved, contorted, and compress'd;
With intermingling trees, and flowers,

And corn, and grass, and shepherd's bowers,
Stage above stage the turrets run,
Like pendent groves of Babylon,
Till nodding from the topmost wall
Otranto's plumes envelop all !

Whilst the black ewes, who own'd the hair,
Feed harmless on, in pastures fair,
Unconscious that their tails perfume,
In scented curls, the drawing-room.
When Night her murky pinions spread,
And sober folks retire to bed,
To ev'ry public place they flew,
Where Jenny told them who was who.
Money was always at command,
And tripp'd with pleasure hand in hand.
Mon ey was equipage, was show,
Gallini's, Almack's, and Soho ;
The passe-partout through every vein
Of dissipation's hydra reign.

O London, thou prolific source,
Parent of vice, and folly's nurse!
Fruitful as Nile thy copious springs
Spawn hourly births,-and all with stings:
But happiest far the he, or she,

I know not which, that livelier dunce
Who first contrived the coterie,

To crush domestic bliss at once.
Then grinn'd, no doubt, amidst the dames,
As Nero fiddled to the flames.

Of thee, Pantheon, let me speak
With reverence, though in numbers weak ;
Thy beauties satire's frown beguile,
We spare the follies for the pile.
Flounced, furbelow'd, and trick'd for show,
With lamps above, and lamps below,
Thy charms even modern taste defied,
They could not spoil thee, though they tried.
Ah, pity that Time's hasty wings
Must sweep thee off with vulgar things!
Let architects of humbler name
On frail materials build their fame,
Their noblest works the world might want,
Wyatt should build in adamant.

But what are these to scenes which lie Secreted from the vulgar eye, And battle all the powers of song?-A brazen throat, an iron tongue, (Which poets wish for, when at length Their subject soars above their strength,) Would shun the task. Our humbler Muse, (Who only reads the public news,

They reach'd all heights, and rose with ease;
(For beauty wins its way, uncall'd,
And ready dupes are ne'er black-ball'd.)
Each gambling dame she knew, and he
Knew every shark of quality;
From the grave cautious few who live
On thoughtless youth, and living thrive,
To the light train who mimic France,
And the soft sons of nonchalance.
While Jenny, now no more of use,
Excuse succeeding to excuse,
Grew piqued, and prudently withdrew
To shilling whist, and chicken loo.

Advanced to fashion's wavering head,
They now, where once they follow'd, led.
Devised new systems of delight,
A-bed all day, and up all night,
In different circles reign'd supreme.
Wives copied her, and husbands him;
Till so divinely life ran on,

So separate, so quite bon-ton,
That meeting in a public place,
They scarcely knew each other's face.
At last they met, by his desire,
A tête-à-tête across the fire;
Look'd in each other's face awhile,
With half a tear, and half a smile.
The ruddy health, which wont to grace
With manly glow his rural face,
Now scarce retain'd its faintest streak;
So sallow was his leathern cheek.
She lank, and pale, and hollow-eyed,
With rouge had striven in vain to hide
What once was beauty, and repair
The rapine of the midnight air.

Silence is eloquence, 'tis said.
Both wish'd to speak, both hung the head.
At length it burst.-"'Tis time," he cries,
"When tired of folly, to be wise.

Are you too tired?"—then check'd a groan.
She wept consent, and he went on.

"How delicate the married life!
You love your husband, I my wife!
Not even satiety could tame,
Nor dissipation quench the flame.

"True to the bias of our kind,
'Tis happiness we wish to find.
In rural scenes retired we sought
In vain the dear, delicious draught,
Though blest with love's indulgent store,
We found we wanted something more.
'Twas company, 'twas friends to share
The bliss we languish'd to declare.

"Twas social converse, change of scene,
To soothe the sullen hour of spleen;
Short absences to wake desire,
And sweet regrets to fan the fire.

"We left the lonesome place; and found, In dissipation's giddy round,

A thousand novelties to wake
The springs of life and not to break.
As, from the nest not wandering far,
In light excursions through the air,
The feather'd tenants of the grove
Around in mazy circles move

(Sip the cool springs that murmuring flow,
Or taste the blossom on the bough).
We sported freely with the rest ;
And still, returning to the nest,
In easy mirth we chatted o'er
The trifles of the day before.

"Behold us now, dissolving quite
In the full ocean of delight;
In pleasures every hour employ,
Immersed in all the world calls joy ;
Our affluence easing the expense
Of splendour and magnificence;

Our company, the exalted set

Of all that's gay, and all that's great :
Nor happy yet !-and where's the wonder!-
We live, my dear, too much asunder."
The moral of my tale is this,
Variety's the soul of bliss;
But such variety alone

As makes our home the more our own.
As from the heart's impelling power
The life-blood pours its genial store;
Though taking each a various way,
The active streams meandering play
Through every artery, every vein,
All to the heart return again;
From thence resume their new career,
But still return and centre there:
So real happiness below

Must from the heart sincerely flow;
Nor, listening to the syren's song,
Must stray too far, or rest too long.
All human pleasures thither tend;
Must there begin, and there must end;
Must there recruit their languid force,
And gain fresh vigour from their source.

RICHARD GLOVER was the son of a Hamburgh merchant in London, and was born in St. Martin's-lane, Cannon-street. He was educated at the school of Cheam, in Surrey; but, being intended for trade, was never sent to the university. This circumstance did not prevent him from applying assiduously to classical learning; and he was, in the competent opinion of Dr. Warton, one of the best Greek scholars of his time. This fact is worth mentioning, as it exhibits how far a determined mind may connect the pursuits, and even distinctions of literature, with an active employment. His first poetical effort was a poem to the memory of Sir Isaac Newton, which was written at the age of sixteen; and which his friend, Dr. Pemberton, thought fit to prefix to a "View of the Newtonian Philosophy," which he published. Dr. Pemberton, who was a man of more science than taste, on this and on some other occasions, addressed the public with critical eulogies, on the genius of Glover, written with an excess of admiration, which could be pardoned only for its sincerity. It gives us a higher idea of the youthful promises of his mind, to find that the intelligent poet Green had the same prepossession in his favour. Green says of him in the "Spleen,"

"But there's a youth, that you can name,
Who needs no leading-strings to fame;
Whose quick maturity of brain,

The birth of Pallas may explain."

At the age of twenty-five he published nine books of his " "Leonidas." The poem was immediately taken up with ardour by Lord Cobham, to whom it was inscribed, and by all the readers of verse, and leaders of politics, who professed the strongest attachment to liberty. It ran rapidly through three editions, and was publicly extolled by the pen of Fielding, and by the lips of Chatham. Even Swift in one of his letters from Ireland, drily inquires of Pope, "who is this Mr. Glover, who writ' Leonidas, which is reprinting here, and hath great vogue* ?” Overrated as "Leonidas" might be, Glover stands acquitted of all attempts or artifice to promote its popularity by false means. He betrayed no irritation in the disputes which were raised about its merit; and his personal character appears as respectable in the ebb as in the flow of his poetical reputation.

In the year 1739 he published his poem "London; or the Progress of Commerce," in which, instead of selecting some of those interesting views of the progress of social life and civilisation, which the subject might have afforded, he confined himself to exciting the national spirit against the Spaniards. This purpose was better

[* Pope's answer does not appear: "it would have been curious," says Dr. Warton, "to have known his opinio concerning a poem that is written in a taste and manner so different from his own, in a style formed on the Grecian school, and with the simplicity of the ancient."]

His talents and politics introduced him to the notice and favour of Frederick, Prince of Wales, whilst he maintained an intimate friendship with the chiefs of the opposition. In the mean time, he pursued the business of a merchant in the city, and was an able auxiliary to his party, by his eloquence at public meetings, and by his influence with the mercantile body. Such was the confidence in his knowledge and talents, that in 1743 the merchants of London deputed him to plead, in behalf of their neglected rights, at the bar of the house of commons, a duty which he fulfilled with great ability. In 1744, he was offered an employment of a very different kind, being left a bequest of 5007. by the Duchess of Marlborough, on condition of his writing the duke's life, in conjunction with Mallet. He renounced this legacy, while Mallet accepted it, but never fulfilled the terms. Glover's rejection of the offer was the more honourable, as it came at a time when his own affairs were so embarrassed as to oblige him to retire from business for several years, and to lead a life of the strictest economy. During his distresses, he is said to have received from the Prince of Wales a present of 5007. In the year 1751, his friends in the city made an attempt to obtain for him the office of city chamberlain; but he was unfortunately not named as a candidate, till the majority of votes had been engaged to Sir Thomas Harrison. The speech which he made to the livery on this occasion did him much honour, both for the liberality with which he spoke of his successful opponent, and for the manly but unassuming manner in which he expressed the consciousness of his own integrity, amidst his private misfortunes, and asserted the merit of his public conduct as a citizen. The name of Guildhall is certainly not apt to inspire us with high ideas either of oratory or of personal sympathy; yet there is something in the history of this transaction which increases our respect, not only for Glover, but for the scene itself, in which his eloquence is said to have warmly touched his audience with a feeling of his worth as an individual, of his spirit as a politician, and of his powers as an accomplished speaker. He carried the sentiments and endowments of a polished scholar into the most popular meeting of trading life, and showed that they could be welcomed there. Such men elevate the character of a mercantile country.

During his retirement from business, he finished his tragedy of "Boadicea," which was brought out at Drury Lane in 1753, and was acted for nine nights, it is said "successfully," perhaps a misprint for successively. Boadicea is certainly not a contemptible drama: it has some scenes of tender interest between Venusia and Dumnorix; but the defectiveness of its incidents, and the frenzied character of the British queen

mont and Fletcher, in their play on the same subject, have left Boadicea, with all her rashness and revengeful disposition, still a heroine; but Glover makes her a beldam and a fury, whom we could scarcely condemn the Romans for having carted. The disgusting novelty of this impression is at variance with the traditionary regard for her name, from which the mind is unwilling to part. It is told of an eminent portrait-painter, that the picture of each individual which he took had some resemblance to the last sitter: when he painted a comic actress, she resembled a doctor of divinity, because his imagination had not yet been delivered of the doctor. The converse of this seems to have happened to Glover. He anticipated the hideous traits of Medea, when he produced the British queen. With a singular degree of poetical injustice, he leans to the side of compassion in delineating Medea, a monster of infanticide, and prepossesses us against a high-spirited woman, who avenged the wrongs of her country, and the violation of her daughters. His tragedy of "Medea" appeared in 1761; and the spirited acting of Mrs. Yates gave it considerable effect.

In his later years, his circumstances were greatly improved, though we are not informed from what causes. He returned again to public life; was elected to parliament; and there distinguished himself, whenever mercantile prosperity was concerned, by his knowledge of commerce, and his attention to its interests. In 1770 he enlarged his "Leonidas" from nine to twelve books, and afterwards wrote its sequel, the "Athenaid," and a sequel to "Medea.” The latter was never acted, and the former seldom read. The close of his life was spent in retirement from business, but amidst the intimacy of the most eminent scholars of his time.

Some contemporary writers, calling themselves critics, preferred "Leonidas" in its day to "Paradise Lost;" because it had smoother versification, and fewer hard words of learning. The re-action of popular opinion, against a work that has been once over-rated, is apt to depress it beneath its just estimation. It is due to "Leonidas" to say, that its narrative, descriptions, and imagery, have a general and chaste congruity with the Grecism of its subject. It is far, indeed, from being a vivid or arresting picture of antiquity; but it has an air of classical taste and propriety in its design; and it sometimes places the religion and manners of Greece in a pleasing and impressive light. The poet's description of Dithyrambus making his way from the cave of Eta, by a secret ascent, to the temple of the Muses, and bursting, unexpectedly, into the hallowed presence of their priestess Melissa, is a passage fraught with a considerable degree of the fanciful and beautiful in superstition. The abode of Oïleus is also traced with a suavity

of local description, which is not unusual to Glover; and the speech of Melissa, when she first receives the tidings of her venerable father's death, supports a fine consistency with the august and poetical character which is ascribed to her.

"A sigh

Broke from her heart, these accents from her lips.
The full of days and honours through the gate
Of painless slumber is retired. His tomb
Shall stand among his fathers, in the shade
Of his own trophies. Placid were his days,
Which flow'd through blessings. As a river pure,
Whose sides are flow'ry, and whose meadows fair,
Meets in his course a subterranean void;
There dips his silver head, again to rise,
And, rising, glide through flowers and meadows new;
So shall Ofleus in those happier fields,
Where never gloom of trouble shades the mind."

The undeniable fault of the entire poem is, that it wants impetuosity of progress, and that its characters are without warm and interesting individuality. What a great genius might have made of the subject, it may be difficult to pronounce by supposition; for it is the very character of genius to produce effects which cannot be calculated. But imposing as the names of Leonidas and Thermopyla may appear, the subject which they formed for an epic poem was such, that we cannot wonder at its baffling the powers of Glover. A poet, with such a theme, was furnished indeed with a grand outline of actions and sentiments; but how difficult was it, after all that books could teach him, to give the

close and veracious appearance of life to characters and manners beheld so remotely on the verge of the horizon of history! What difficulty to avoid coldness and generality, on the one hand, if he delineated his human beings only with the manners which history could authenticate; and to shun grotesqueness and inconsistency on the other, if he filled up the vague outline of the antique with the particular and familiar traits of modern life! Neither Fenelon, with all his genius, nor Barthelemy, with all his learning, have kept entirely free of this latter fault of incongruity, in modernising the aspect of ancient manners. The characters of Barthelemy, in par. ticular, often remind us of statues in modern clothes. Glover has not fallen into this impurity; but his purity is cold: his heroes are like outlines of Grecian faces, with no distinct er minute physiognomy. They are not so much poetical characters, as historical recollections. There are, indeed, some touches of spirit in Artemisia's character, and of pathos in the episode of Teribazus; but Leonidas is too good a Spartan, and Xerxes too bad a Persian, to be pitied; and most of the subordinate agents, that fall or triumph in battle, only load our memories with their names. The local descriptions of "Leonidas," however, its pure sentiments, and the classical images which it recals, render it interesting, as the monument of an accomplished and amiable mind ".

THE virtuous Spartan, who resign'd his life
To save his country at the Etaan straits,
Thermopyla, when all the peopled East
In arms with Xerxes fill'd the Grecian plains,
O Muse, record! The Hellespont they pass'd,
O'erpow'ring Thrace. The dreadful tidings swift

To Corinth flew. Her Isthmus was the seat
Of Grecian council. Alpheus thence returns
To Lacedemon. In assembly full

He finds the Spartan people with their kings ;
Their kings, who boast an origin divine,
From Hercules descended. They the sons
Of Lacedemon had convened, to learn
The sacred mandates of th' immortal gods,
That morn expected from the Delphian dome.
But Alpheus sudden their attention drew,
And thus address'd them: For immediate war,
My countrymen, prepare. Barbarian tents
Already fill the trembling bounds of Thrace.
The Isthmian council hath decreed to guard
Thermopyla, the Locrian gate of Greece.

Here Alpheus paused. Leutychides, who shared
With great Leonidas the sway, uprose
And spake. Ye citizens of Sparta, hear.
Why from her bosom should Laconia send

Her valiant race to wage a distant war
Beyond the Isthmus? There the gods have placed
Our native barrier. In this favour'd land,
Which Pelops govern'd, us of Doric blood
That Isthmus inaccessible secures.

There let our standards rest. Your solid strength,
If once you scatter in defence of states
Remote and feeble, you betray your own,
And merit Jove's derision. With assent
The Spartans heard. Leonidas replied:

O most ungen'rous counsel! Most unwise!
Shall we, confining to that Isthmian fence
Our efforts, leave beyond it every state
Disown'd, exposed? Shall Athens, while her fleets
Unceasing watch th' innumerable foes,

[* Glover's Leonidas, though only party spirit could have extolled it as a work of genius, obtained no incon siderable sale, and a reputation which flourished for half a century. It has now a place in the two great generd collections, and deserves to hold it. The author has the merit of having departed from bad models, rejected ail false ornaments and tricks of style, and trusted to the dignity of his subject. And though the poem is cold and bald, stately rather than strong in its best parts, and in general rather stiff than stately, there is in its very nakedness a sort of Spartan severity that commands respect.-SOUTHEY, Life of Cowper, vol. ii, p. 176.]