Did not the acid vigour of the mine, While yet you breathe, away; the rural wilds Invite; the mountains call you, and the vales; The woods, the streams, and each ambrosial breeze That fans the ever-undulating sky; A kindly sky whose fost'ring power regales Find then some woodland scene where nature smiles Benign, where all her honest children thrive. FROM THE SAME. Recommendation of a High Situation on the Sea-coast. MEANTIME, the moist malignity to shun Of burthen'd skies; mark where the dry cham- Your airy seat, and uninfected gods. FROM BOOK II. ENTITLED "DIET." Now come, ye Naiads, to the fountains lead; And more gigantic still th' impending trees O comfortable streams! with eager lips And trembling hand the languid thirsty quaff Long centuries they lived; their only fate How would they scorn the joys of modern time, Erewhile when, brooding o'er my soul, Frown'd the black demons of despair, Did not thy voice that power control, And oft suppress the rising tear? If Fortune should be kind, If e'er with affluence I'm blest, And when the weeping wretch I find, JOHN LANGHORNE. [Born, 1735. Died, 1779.] JOHN LANGHORNE was the son of a beneficed clergyman in Lincolnshire. He was born at Kirkby Steven, in Westmoreland. His father dying when he was only four years old, the charge of giving him his earliest instruction devolved upon his mother, and she fulfilled the task with so much tenderness and care, as to leave an indelible impression of gratitude upon his memory. He recorded the virtues of this parent on her tomb, as well as in an affectionate monody. Having finished his classical education at the school of Appleby, in his eighteenth year, he engaged himself as private tutor in a family near Rippon. His next employment was that of assistant to the free-school of Wakefield. While in that situation he took deacon's orders; and, though he was still very young, gave indications of popular attraction as a preacher. He soon afterwards went as preceptor into the family of Mr. Cracroft, of Hackthorn, where he remained for a couple of years, and during that time entered his name at Clare-hall, Cambridge, though he never resided at his college, and consequently never obtained any degree. He had at Hackthorn a numerous charge of pupils, and as he has not been accused of neglecting them, his time must have been pretty well occupied in tuition; but he found leisure enough to write and publish a great many pieces of verse, and, to devote so much of his attention to a fair daughter of the family, Miss Anne Cracroft, as to obtain the young lady's partiality, and ultimately her hand. He had given her some instructions in the Italian, and probably trusting that she was sufficiently a convert to the sentiment of that language, which pronounces that "all time is lost which is not spent in love," he proposed immediate marriage to her. She had the prudence, however, though secretly attached to him, to give him a firm refusal for the present; and our poet, struck with despondency at the disappointment, felt it necessary to quit the scene, and accepted of a curacy in the parish of Dagenham. The cares of love, it appeared, had no bad effect on his diligence as an author. He allayed his despair by an apposite ode to Hope; and continued to pour out numerous productions in verse and prose, with that florid facility which always distinguished his pen. Among these, his "Letters of Theodosius and Constantia" made him, perhaps, best known as a prose writer. His "Letters on Religious Retirement" were dedicated to Bishop Warburton, who returned him a most encouraging letter on his just sentiments in matters of religion; and, what was coming nearer to the author's purpose, took an interest in his worldly concerns. He was much less fortunate in addressing a poem, entitled "The Viceroy," to the Earl of Halifax, who was then lord-lieutenant of Ireland. This heartless piece of adulation was written with the view of obtaining his lordship's patronage; but the viceroy was either too busy, or too insensible to praise, to take any notice of Langhorne. In his poetry of this period, we find his "Visions of Fancy;" his first part of the "Enlargement of the Mind;" and his pastoral "Valour and Genius," written in answer to Churchill's "Prophecy of Famine." In consequence of the gratitude of the Scotch for this last poem, he was presented with the diploma of doctor in divinity by the university of Edinburgh. His profession and religious writings gave an appearance of propriety to this compliment, which otherwise would not have been discoverable, from any striking connexion of ideas between a doctorship of divinity and an eclogue on Valour and Genius. He came to reside permanently in London in 1764, having obtained the curacy and lectureship of St. John's, Clerkenwell. Being soon afterwards called to be assistant-preacher at Lincoln'sinn chapel, he had there to preach before an audience, which comprehended a much greater number of learned and intelligent persons than are collected in ordinary congregations; and his pulpit oratory was put to, what is commonly reckoned, a severe test. It proved to be also an honourable test. He continued in London for many years, with the reputation of a popular preacher and a ready writer. His productions in prose, besides those already named, were his "Sermons," "Effusions of Fancy and Friendship," " Frederick and Pharamond, or the Consolations of Human Life," "Letters between St. Evremond and Waller," " A Translation of Plutarch's Lives," written in conjunction with his brother, which might be reckoned a real service to the bulk of the reading community," " Memoirs of Collins," and "A Translation of Denina's Dissertation on the Ancient Republics of Italy." He also wrote for several years in the Monthly Review. An attempt which he made in tragedy, entitled "The Fatal Prophecy," proved completely unsuccessful; and he so far acquiesced in the public decision, as never to print it more than once. In an humbler walk of poetry he composed "The Country Justice," and the "Fables of Flora." The Fables are very garish. The Country Justice was written from observations on the miseries of the poor, which came home to his own heart; and it has, at least, the merit of drawing our attention to the substantial interests of humanity. In 1767, after a courtship of several years, he obtained Miss Cracroft in marriage, having corresponded with her from the time he had left her father's house; and her family procured for him the living of Blagden, in Somersetshire; but his domestic happiness with her was of short continuance, as she died of her first child-the son who lived to publish Dr. Langhorne's works. In 1772 he married another lady of the name of Thomson, the daughter of a country gentleman, near Brough, in Westmoreland; and shortly after their marriage, he made a tour with his bride through some part of France and Flanders. At the end of a few years he had the misfortune to lose her, by the same fatal cause which had deprived him of his former partner. Otherwise his prosperity increased. In 1777 he was promoted to a prebend in the cathedral of Wells; and in the same year was enabled to extend his practical usefulness and humanity by being put in the commission of the peace, in his own parish of Blagden. From his insight into the abuses of parochial office, he was led at this time to compose the poem of "The Country Justice," already mentioned. The tale of " Owen of Carron" was the last of his works. It will not be much to the advantage of this story to compare it with thei simple and affecting ballad of "Gill Morrice," from which it was drawn. Yet having read "Owen of Carron" with delight when I was a boy, I am still so far a slave to early associations as to retain some predilection for it. The particular cause of Dr. Langhorne's death, at the age of forty-four, is not mentioned by his biographers, further than by a surmise that it was accelerated by intemperance. From the general decency of his character, it may be presumed that his indulgencies were neither gruss nor notorious, though habits short of such excess might undermine his constitution. It is but a cheerless task of criticism, to pass with a cold look and irreverent step, over the literary memories of men, who, though they may rank low in the roll of absolute genius, have yet possessed refinement, information, and powers of amusement, above the level of their species, and such as would interest and attach us in private life. Of this description was Langhorne ; an elegant scholar, and an amiable man. He gave delight to thousands, from the press and the pulpit; and had sufficient attraction, in his day, to sustain his spirit and credit as a writer, in the face of even Churchill's envenomed satire. Yet, as a prose writer, it is impossible to deny that his rapidity was the effect of lightness more than vigour; and, as a poet, there is no ascribing to him either fervour or simplicity. His Muse is elegantly languid. She is a fine lady, whose complexion is rather indebted to art than to the healthful bloom of nature. It would be unfair not to except from this observation several plain and manly sentiments, which are expressed in his poem "On the Enlargement of the Mind," and some passages in his "Country Justice,” which are written with genuine feeling. FROM "THE COUNTRY JUSTICE." PART I Duties of a Country Justice-The venerable mansions of ancient Magistrates contrasted with the fopperies of modern architecture-Appeal in behalf of Vagrants. THE Social laws from insult to protect, The rich from wanton cruelty restrain, *The translation of Plutarch has been since corrected and improved by Mr. Wrangham. Wrest from revenge the meditated harm, Unseen beneath their ancient world of shade; Ye reptile cits, that oft have moved my spleen Ye royal architects, whose antic taste For though no sight your childish fancy meets, Of Thibet's dogs, or China's paroquets; Though apes, asps, lizards, things without a tail, And all the tribes of foreign monsters fail; Here shall ye sigh to see, with rust o'ergrown, The iron griffin and the sphinx of stone; And mourn, neglected in their waste abodes, Fire-breathing drakes, and water-spouting gods. Long have these mighty monsters known disgrace, Yet still some trophies hold their ancient place; Where, round the hall, the oak's high surbase reais The field-day triumphs of two hundred years. Th' enormous antlers here recal the day That saw the forest monarch forced away; Who, many a flood, and many a mountain pass'd, Not finding those, nor deeming these the last, O'er floods, o'er mountains yet prepared to fly, Long ere the death-drop fill'd his failing eye! Here famed for cunning, and in crimes grown old, Hangs his gray brush, the felon of the fold. Oft as the rent-feast swells the midnight cheer, The maudlin farmer kens him o'er his beer, And tells his old, traditionary tale, Though known to ev'ry tenant of the vale. Here, where of old the festal ox has fed, Mark'd with his weight, the mighty horns are spread! Some ox, O Marshall, for a board like thine, These, and such antique tokens that record By any chance, to visit Harewood's shade, Justice that, in the rigid paths of law, Would still some drops from Pity's fountain draw, And all the sober virtues of the heart- Frail in his genius, in his heart too frail, Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed; For him, who, lost to ev'ry hope of life, Has long with fortune held unequal strife, Known to no human love, no human care, The friendless, homeless object of despair; For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains, Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. Alike, if folly or misfortune brought Those last of woes his evil days have wrought; Believe with social mercy and with me, Folly's misfortune in the first degree. Perhaps on some inhospitable shore The houseless wretch a widow'd parent bore; Who then, no more by golden prospects led, Of the poor Indian begg'd a leafy bed. Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, Perhaps that parent mourn'd her soldier slain; Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, Gave the sad presage of his future years, The child of misery, baptised in tears • ! [* This passage, beautiful in itself, has an associated interest beyond its beauty. "The only thing I remember," says Sir Walter Scott, "which was remarkable in Burns' manner, was the effect produced upon him by a print of Bunbury's, representing a soldier lying dead on the snow: his dog sitting in misery on one side, on the other, his widow, with a child in her arms. These lines were written beneath : Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, &c. Burns seemed much affected by the print, or rather the ideas which it suggested to his mind. He actually shed tears. He asked whose the lines were, and it chanced that nobody but myself remembered that they occur in a half forgotten poem of Langhorne's, called by the unpromising title of The Justice of Peace. I whispered iny information to a friend present, who mentioned it to Burns, who rewarded me with a look and a word, which though of mere civility, I then received, and still recollect with very great pleasure."-Lockhart's Life of Burns, övo ed. p. 151. Burns it is said foretold the future fame of Scott: "That boy will be heard of yet: " 'Tis certainly mysterious that the name |