of the privy council of James II. but acquiesced in the Revolution, and was afterwards a member of the cabinet council of William and Mary, with a pension of £3000. Sheffield is said to have made love' to Queen Anne when they were both young, and her majesty heaped honours on the favourite immediately on her accession to the throne. He lived in great state in a magnificent house he had built in St. James's Park, of which he has given a long description-dwelling with delight on its gardens, terrace, park, and canal, and the rows of goodly elms and limes through which he approached his mansion. This stately residence was purchased by George III. and taken down by George IV. to make way for the present royal palace, which still bears the name of Buckingham. The noble poet continued actively engaged in public affairs till his death. Sheffield wrote several poems and copies of verses. Among the former is an Essay on Satire, which Dryden is reported, but erroneously, to have revised. His principal work, however, is his Essay on Poetry,' which was published anonymously in 1682; the second edition, enlarged in 1691, received the praises of Roscommon, Dryden, and Pope. This poem was retouched by Pope, and in return some of the last lines of Buckingham were devoted to the praise of the young poet of Windsor Forest.' The Essay on Poetry' is written in the heroic couplet, and seems to have suggested Pope's Essay on Criticism.' It is of the style of Denham and Roscommon, plain, perspicuous, and sensible, but contains little true poetry-less than any of Dryden's prose es

says.

་

Extract from the Essay on Poetry?

Of all those arts in which the wise excel,
Nature's chief master-piece is writing well;
No writing lifts exalted man so high

As sacred and soul-moving Poesy:

No kind of work requires so nice a touch,
And, if well finished, nothing shines so much.
But Heaven forbid we should be so profane
To grace the vulgar with that noble name,
'Tis not a flash of fancy, which, sometimes

Dazzling our minds, sets off the slightest rhymes;
Bright as a blaze, but in a moment done:
True wit is everlasting like the sun,

Which, though sometimes behind a cloud retired,
Breaks out again, and is by all admired.

Number and rhyme, and that harmonious sound
Which not the nicest car with harshness wound,
Are necessary, yet but vulgar arts:
And all in vain these superficial parts
Contribute to the structure of the whole:
Without a genius, too, for that 's the soul:
A spirit which inspires the work throughout,
As that of nature moves the world about;
A flame that glows amidst conceptions fit,
Even something of divine, and more than wit;
Itself unseen, yet all things by it shewn,
Describing all men, but described by none....

First, then, of songs, which now so much abound, Without his song no fop is to be found;

A most offensive weapon which he draws

On all he meets, against Apollo's laws.

Though nothing seems more easy, yet no part
Of poetry requires a nicer art;

For as in rows of richest pearl there lies
Many a blemish that escapes our eyes,
The least of which defects is plainly shown
In one small ring, and brings the value down:
So songs should be to just perfection wrought;
Yet when can one be seen without a fault ?
Exact propriety of words and thought;
Expression easy, and the fancy high;
Yet that not seem to creep, nor this to fly;
No words transposed, but in such order all,
As wrought with care, yet seem by chance to fall.
Of all the ways that wisest men could find
To mend the age, and mortify mankind,
Satire well writ has most successful proved,
And cures, because the remedy is loved.
"Tis hard to write on such a subject more,
Without repeating things oft said before.
Some vulgar errors only we 'll remove,

That stain a beauty which we so much love.
Of chosen words some take not care enough,

And think they should be, as the subject, rough;

This poem must be more exactly made,

And sharpest thoughts in smoothest words conveyed.
Some think, if sharp enough, they cannot fail,
As if their only business was to rail;
But human frailty, nicely to unfold,
Distinguishes a satire from a scold.

Rage you must hide, and prejudice lay down;
A satyr's smile is sharper than his frown;

So while you seem to slight some rival youth,
Malice itself may pass sometimes for truth. . . .
By painful steps at last we labour up
Parnassus' hill, on whose bright airy top
The epic poets so divinely shew,

And with just pride behold the rest below.
Heroic poems have a just pretence

To be the utmost stretch of human sense;

A work of such inestimable worth,

There are but two the world has yet brought forth-
Homer and Virgil; with what sacred awe

Do those mere sounds the world's attention draw!
Just as a changeling seems below the rest
Of men, or rather as a two-legged beast.
So these gigantic souls, amazed, we find
As much above the rest of human-kind!
Nature's whole strength united! endless fame
And universal shouts attend their name!
Read Homer once, and you can read no more,
For all books else appear so mean, so poor,
Verse will seem prose; but still persist to read,
And Homer will be all the books you need.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

A Hymn to my Redeemer.

This hymn

By GEORGE SANDYS, the accomplished traveller, translator of Ovid, and author of Metrical Paraphrases of the Psalms, the Book of Job, &c.' 1636. was hung by Sandys as an offering on the sepulchre of Christ.

Saviour of mankind-man-Emmanuel,

Who sinless died for sin, who vanquished hell,
The first fruits of the grave; whose life did give
Light to our darkness; in whose death we live,
O strengthen Thou my faith! correct my will,
That mine may thine obey! Protect me still,
So that the latter death may not devour
My soul, sealed with thy seal!-so in the hour
When Thou, whose body sanctified this tomb,
Unjustly judged, a glorious judge shalt come
To judge the world with justice, by that sign
I may be known, and entertained for thine!

From Sandys' Version of the Nineteenth Psalm.
God's glory the vast heavens proclaim,
The firmament His mighty frame;
Day unto day, and night to night,
The wonders of His works recite.

To these nor speech nor words belong,
Yet understood without a tongue,

The globe of earth they compass round,
Through all the world disperse their sound.
There is the sun's pavilion set,

Who from his rosy cabinet,

Like a fresh bridegroom shews his face,

And as a giant runs his race.

The Old Man's Wish.

This song, by Dr. WALTER POPE (died in 1714), was first published in 1685. It was imitated in Latin by VINCENT BOURNE (1697-1747), usher in Westminster School, who was affectionately remembered by Cowper and other pupils.

If I live to grow old, as I find I go down,

Let this be my fate in a country town:

May I have a warm house, with a stone at my gate,
And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate.

May I govern my passions with an absolute sway,
Grow wiser and better as my strength wears away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

In a country town, by a murmuring brook,
With the ocean at distance on which I may look,
With a spacious plain without hedge or stile,
And an easy pad nag to ride out a mile.

With a pudding on Sunday, and stout humming liquor,
And remnants of Latin to puzzle the vicar;

With a hidden reserve of Burgundy wine
To drink the king's health as oft as I dine.
May I govern, &c.

With a courage undaunted, may I face my last day,
And when I am dead may the better sort say,

In the morning when sober, in the evening when mellow,
'He's gone and ha n't left behind him his fellow;

For he governed his passions with an absolute sway,
And grew wiser and better as his strength wore away,
Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.'

Colin's Complaint.-By NICHOLAS ROWE.

Despairing beside a clear stream,

A shepherd forsaken was laid;
And while a false nymph was his theme,
A willow supported his head,
The wind that blew over the plain,

To his sighs with a sigh did reply;
And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.

'Alas, silly swain that I was!'

Thus sadly complaining he cried; When first I beheld that fair face "Twere better by far I had died.

She talked, and I blessed the dear tongue; When she smiled 'twas a pleasure too great:

I listened and cried when she sung, "Was nightingale ever so sweet?"

'How foolish was I to believe

She could dote on so lowly a clown.
Or that her fond heart would not grieve
To forsake the fine folk of the town.
To think that a beauty so gay.

So kind and so constant could prove,
Or go clad like our maidens in gray,
Or live in a cottage on love.

'What though I have skill to complain, Though the Muses my temple have crowned?

What though, when they hear my soft strain,

The virgins sit weeping around?

The Blind Boy.-By

O say what is that thing called light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy,
What are the blessings of the sight-
O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see;
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play;

COLLEY CIBBER.

And could I ever keep awake,

With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear

You mourn my hapless woe;
But, sure, with patience I can boar
A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy;
While thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.

SCOTTISH POETS.

THE MARQUIS OF MONTROSE.

The celebrated JAMES GRAHAM, Marquis of Montrose (1612-1650), had some taste for literature. He wrote a few copies of verses, irregular in style, but occasionally happy and vigorous in expression, and characteristic of that daring romantic spirit he displayed both as Covenanter and cavalier. The following is the most popular of his effusions:

Ballad I'll Never Love Thee More.

My dear and only love, I pray
That little world of thee
Be governed by no other sway
Than purest monarchy;
For if confusion have a part,

Which virtuous souls abhor,
And hold a synod in thine heart,
I'll never love thee more.

As Alexander I will reign,

And I will reign alone;
My thoughts did ever more disdain
A rival on my throne.

He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
That dares not put it to the touch
To gain or lose it all!

But I will reign and govern still,
And always give the law,
And have each subject at my will,
And all to stand in awe.

But 'gainst my batteries if I find
Thou kick, or vex me sore,
As that thou set me up a blind,
I'll never love thee more.

And in the empire of thine heart,
Where I should solely be,

If others do pretend a part,
Or dare to vie with me;
Or committees if thou erect,
And go on such a score,
I'll laugh and sing at thy neglect,
And never love thee more.

But if thou wilt prove faithful, then,
And constant of thy word,
I'll make thee.glorious by my pen,
And famous by my sword;

I'll serve thee in such noble ways
Was never heard before;

I'll crown and deck thee all with bays,
And love thee more and more.

Lines written by Montrose after sentence of death was passed upon him.

Let them bestow on every airt (1) a limb,
Then open all my veins, that I may swim
To Thee, my Maker, in that crimson lake;
Then place my parboiled head upon a stake,
Scatter my ashes, strew them in the air:

Lord! since Thou know'st where all those atoms are,

I'm hopeful Thou 'lt recover once my dust,

And confident Thou 'It raise me with the just!

ROBERT SEMPILL.

The Semples of Beltrees were a poetical family, and one piece by ROBERT SEMPILL (1595-1659) evinces a talent for humorous description. Allan Ramsay, and afterwards Burns, copied the style and form of verse in Sempill's poem, The Piper of Kilbarchan :'

Kilbarchan now may say 'Alas!'
For she hath lost her game and grace,
Both Trixie and the Maiden Trace;

But what remead?

For no man can supply his place-
Hab Simson 's dead!

·

Now who shall play, 'The Day it daws,'
Or Hunts up,' when the cock he craws?
Or who can for our kirk-town cause

Stand us in stead?

On bagpipes now naebody blaws
Sin' Habbie 's dead.

1 Every point of the compass (Gaelic aird, a cardinal point).