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Fables of Flora. In this, although he claimed too hastily the merit of combining for the first time imagery, description, and sentiment, yet he has certainly enlarged the province of fable, and given proof of a wide range of imagination. It cannot however be denied, that the moral is not always sufficiently pointed, that the style is too much ornamented, and the general cast of sentiment too obscure, for the persons in whose hands fables are usually placed. In answer to the objec tion made to the language of flowers, his son very justly remarks, that "impersonation may certainly be applied with as much reason to the vegetable as to the animal creation, if the characteristic attributes of each plant or flower are faithfully marked, and the unity of the fable is maintained."

Towards the latter end of the year 1771, Dr. Langhorne went to reside for a few months at Potton in Bedfordshire, where he wrote his Origin of the Veil, which, however, was not published for some time after. In 1772, he paid a visit to his native country, and married a second wife, the daughter of Thomson, esq. a magistrate near Brough, and soon after took her with him on a tour through part of France and Flanders, the scenery of which afforded new topics for his

muse.

Late in the spring he returned to Blagden, where he was put into the commis. sion of the peace; and having considered the usual practice of the duties of that office, he imparted his sentiments on the subject in a species of didactic and satirical poem, entitled The Country Justice, in three parts, published in 1774, 1775, and 1777. This humane endeavour to plead the cause of the poor and wretched against oppression and neglect, does great honour to his feelings, which, indeed, in all his works, are on the side of benevolence and virtue. It is said to have been written in consequence of the suggestion, and as to facts, probably with the assistance, of Dr. Burn, the well-known author of a Digest of the Laws relating to Justices of the Peace.-In 1773, Dr. Langhorne presented the public with a liberal translation of that part of Denina on the Ancient Republics of Italy, which contains the author's reflections on the admission of the Italian states to the fran. chises of Rome 1.

In 1776, he lost his second wife, who died like the former, in child-bed, fire years after her marriage, and left a daughter whom he consigned by his will to the protection of his friend, Mrs. Gillman. What impression this second interruption to domestic happiness produced on his mind, we are not told. In this year, how ever, we find him again employing the press in a Translation of Milton's Italian Sonnets, and on two occasional sermons. In 1777, at the request of the Bouverie family (who highly respected Dr. Langhorne), Dr. Moss, bishop of Bath and Wells, presented him with a prebend in the cathedral of Wells.

His last production was the tale of Owen of Carron, which, with some beauties, has less of his usual energy and vigour: it is uncertain whether this was owing to the nature of the poem, in which he conceived it necessary to imitate the ballad simplicity, or to a languer of body and mind. The death of the right hon. Charles Yorke, from whom he had great expectations, is said to have made a

The author's object in this publication is not very obvious. In our days it might be of more importance to discuss the question, by what means the Romans acquired their superiority and were enabled to extend their conquests? C.

lasting impression on him, but as Mr. Yorke died in 1770, this seems wholly improbable.

His biographer passes over his last days without notice of his situation or em. ployments. We are merely told that he died on April 1, 1779, in the forty-fifth year of his age.

In 1804, his son published an edition of his poems, in two elegant volumes 12mo. with memoirs of the Author. To these I am indebted for the principal part of this sketch.

If we may judge from his writings, Dr. Langhorne was a man of an amiable disposition, a friend to religion and morals, and though a wit, he never descends to grossness or indelicacy. His memory has not been followed by any worse objection than that he was of a social turn, and during the latter part of his life more addicted to convivial indulgences than is consistent with health. This, however, is a serious objection, and not much lessened by the supposition that he was driven to this unhappy species of relief by having twice lost the chief source of domestic happiness.

Incidental notice having been already taken of many of his pieces, it will not be necessary to enlarge on the subject in this place. Easc, elegance, and tenderness, are the most striking features of his poetry: nor is he deficient in invention; an attentive perusal will discover many original sentiments, and spirited flights, which the critics of his day pointed out with high praise. He is very seldom a copyist; his style and his sentiments, whatever their merit, are his own.

His prose works are various enough to convince us that he was either a laborious writer, or possessed of great fertility of imagination, and the latter will probably be the safest conjecture. But, although a scholar of high attainments, he has rarely brought learning to his aid. His mind was stored with remarks on men and manners, which he expressed in various and desultory modes, so as to give an air of novelty to every thing he wrote, but we find nothing very profound. He appeared so frequently before the public as to secure a considerable degree of fame; what he announced was expected with eagerness, and what he published was read with pleasure; but as his abilities were confined to the lighter provinces of literature, there are few of his productions which will be honoured by permanent popularity.

POEMS

OF

DR. JOHN LANGHORNE.

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to praise ;

Even tuneful Langhorne's friendship fails t' inspire The glow that warm'd my breast in happier days.

Yet not this cold heart can remain unmov'd,

When thy sweet numbers strike my raptur'd The silver sounds, by ev'ry Muse approv'd,[ear; Suspend a while the melancholy tear. What time, on Arrowe's osier'd banks reclin'd,

I to the pale Moon pour'd thy plaintive lay; Smooth roll'd the waves, more gently sigh'd the wind,

And Echo stole the tender notes away.

Sweet Elves and Fays, that o'er the shadowy plains

Their mystic rites and mazy dance pursue, Tun'd their light minstrelsy to softer strains,

And from thy lays their melting music drew. Sweet son of Fancy! may the white-rob'd Hours Shed their kind influence on thy gentle breast; May Hebe strew thy vernal path with flow'rs, Blest in thy love, and in thy friendship blest. Smooth as thy numbers may thy years advance, Pale Care and Pain their speeding darts suspend; May Health, and Fancy, lead the cheerful dance, And Hope for ever her fair torch extend.

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For thee may Fame her fairest chaplets twine; Each fragrant bloom that paints Aonia's brow,

Each flow'r, that blows by Alcidale, be thine;

With the chaste laurel's never-fading bough. On thee may faithful friendship's cordial smile, Attendant wait to sooth each rising care; The nymph thou lov'st be thine devoid of guile,

Mild, virtuous, kind, compassionate, and fair. May thy sweet lyre still charm the generous mind,

Thy liberal Muse the patriot spirit raise; While, in thy page to latest time consign'd, Virtue receives the meed of polish'd praise..

SONNET TO MR. LANGHORNE.

BY JOHN SCOTT, ESQ. LANGHORNE, unknown to me (sequester'd swain!) Save by the Muse's soul-enchanting lay, To kindred spirits never sung in vain,

Accept the tribute of this light essay; Due for thy sweet songs that amus'd my day! Where Fancy held her visionary reign, [strain Or Scotland's honours claim'd the pastoral Or Music came o'er Handel tears to pay : For all thy Irwan's flow'ry banks display

Thy Persian lover and his Indian fair; All Theodosius' mournful lines convey, Where Pride and Av'rice part a matchless

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To Nature's friend her genuine gifts would bring,
The light amusements of life's vacant spring;
Nor shalt thou, Yorke, her humble offering
blame,

If pure her incense, and unmixt her flame.
She pours no flattery into Folly's ear,
No shameless hireling of a shameless peer,
The friends of Pope indulge her native lays,
And Gloucester joins with Lyttelton to praise.
Each judge of art her strain, though artless,
loves;
[proves.
And Shenstone smil'd, and polish'd Hurd ap-
O may such spirits long protect my page,
Surviving lights of wit's departed age!
Long may in their kind opinion live!
All meaner praise, all envy, I forgive.-
Yet fairly be my future laurels won!

Nor let me bear a bribe to Hardwicke's son !
Should his free suffrage own the favour'd strain,
Though vain the toil, the glory were not vain.

PROEMIUM.

WRITTEN IN 1766.

IN Eden's' vale, where early fancy wrought
Her wild embroidery on the ground of thought,
Where Pembroke's grottos, strew'd with Sidney's
bays,

Recall'd the dreams of visionary days, [youth,
Thus the fond Muse, that sooth'd my vacant
Prophetic sung, and what she sung was truth.

Boy, break thy lyre, and cast thy reed

away;

Vain are the honours of the fruitless bay. Though with each charm thy polish'd lay should please,

Glow into strength, yet soften into ease;
Should Attic fancy brighten ev'ry line,
And all Aonia's harmony be thine;
Say would thy cares a grateful age repay,
Fame wreathe thy brows, or Fortune gild thy
way?

Ev'n her own fools, if Fortune smile, shall blame;
And Envy lurks beneath the flowers of Fame.

"Yet, if resolv'd, secure of future praise, To tune sweet songs, and live melodious days, Let not the hand, that decks my holy shrine, Round Folly's head the blasted laurel twine. Just to thyself, dishonest grandeur scorn; Nor gild the bust of meanness nobly born. Let truth, let freedom still thy lays approve! Respect my precepts, and retain my love!"

STUDLEY PARK.

TO THE REV. MR. FARRAR.

FARRAR! to thee these early lays I owe : Thy friendship warms the heart from whence they flow.

1 The river Eden, in Westmorland.

2 The countess of Pembroke, to whom sir Philip Sidney dedicated his Arcadia, resided at Appleby, a small but beautiful town in Westmorland, situated upon the Eden.

Thee, thee I find, in all I find to please;
In this thy elegance, in that thy ease.
Come then with Fancy to thy fav'rite scene,
Where Studley triumphs in her wreaths of
green,

And pleas'd for once, while Eden smiles again,
Forget that life's inheritance is pain.

Say, shall we muse along yon arching shades, Whose awful gloom no brightening ray pervades ; Or down these vales where vernal flowers display Their golden bosoms to the smiles of day; Where the fond eye in sweet distraction strays. Most pleas'd, when most it knows not where to gaze?

Here groves arrang'd in various order rise, And blend their quiv'ring summits in the skies. The regal oak high o'er the circling shade, Exalts the hoary honours of his head. The spreading ash a diff'ring greeu displays, And the smooth asp in soothing whispers plays. The fir that blooms in Spring's eternal prime, The spiry poplar, and the stately lime."

Here moss-clad walks, there lawns of lively green,

United, form one nicely-varying scene:
The varying scene still charms th'attentive sight,
Or brown with shades, or op'ning into light.

Here the gay tenants of the tuneful grove, Harmonious breathe the raptures of their love: Each warbler sweet that hails the genial Spring, Tunes the glad song, and plies th' expanded wing:

The love-suggested notes in varied strains,
Fly round the vocal hills and list'ning plains:
The vocal hills and list'ning plains prolong
In varied strains the love-suggested song.
To thee, all-bounteous Nature! thee they pay
The welcome tribute of their grateful lay!
To thee, whose kindly-studious hand prepares
The fresh'ning fields and softly-breathing airs;
Whose parent-bounty annual still provides
Of foodful insects such unbounded tides.
Beneath some friendly leaf supremely blest,
Each pours at large the raptures of his breast:
Nor changeful seasons mourn, nor storins unkind,
With those contented, and to these resign'd.

Here sprightly range the grove, or skim the

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