One day there chaunced into these halls to rove A joyous youth, who took you at first sight; Him the wild wave of pleasure hither drove, Before the sprightly tempest tossing light: Certes, he was a most engaging wight, Of social glee, and wit humane, though keen, Turning the night to day, and day to night: For him the merry bells had rung, I ween, If in this nook of quiet bells had ever been. But not even pleasure to excess is good: What most elates then sinks the soul as low: When spring-tide joy pours in with copious flood, The higher still th' exulting billows flow, The farther back again they flagging go, And leave us groveling on the dreary shore : Taught by this son of joy we found it so ; Who, whilst he staid, kept in a gay uproar Our madden'd castle all, th' abode of sleep no more. As when in prime of June a burnish'd fly, Sprung from the meads, o'er which he sweeps along, Cheer'd by the breathing bloom and vital sky, Tunes up amid these airy halls his song, Soothing at first the gay reposing throng: And oft he sips their bowl; or, nearly drown'd, He, thence recovering, drives their beds among, And scares their tender sleep, with trump profound; Then out again he flies, to wing his mazy round. Another guest there was †, of sense refined, "Come, dwell with us! true son of virtue, come ! Here whilom ligg'd th' Esopus of the age; [* Young John Forbes of Duncan Forbes.] Culloden, the only son of [† Lord Lyttelton.] [ Quin, whom a quarrel with Garrick had driven temporarily off the stage.] A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems §; He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat. Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod, Nor be forgot a tribe, who minded nought Here languid beauty kept her pale-faced court: Their only labour was to kill the time; | And court the vapoury god soft-breathing in the [wind. Now must I mark the villany we found, But ah! too late, as shall eftsoons be shown. A place here was, deep, dreary, under ground; Where still our inmates, when unpleasing grown, Diseased, and loathsome, privily were thrown ; Far from the light of heaven, they languish'd there, Unpity'd, uttering many a bitter groan; For of these wretches taken was no care: Fierce fiends, and hags of hell, their only nurses were. [8 Thomson himself. This stanza was written by Lord Lyttelton.] [The Rev. Patrick Murdoch, the poet's friend and biographer. His sleek, rosy visage, and roguish eye, are preserved on canvas at Culloden.] ISAAC WATTS. [Born, 1674. Died, 1748.] DR. WATTS's devotional poetry was for the most part intentionally lowered to the understanding of children. If this was a sacrifice of taste, it was at least made to the best of intentions. The sense and sincerity of his prose writings, the excellent method in which he attempted to connect the study of ancient logic with common sense, and the conciliatory manner in which he allures the youthful mind to habits of study and reflection, are probably remembered with gratitude by nine men out of ten, who have had proper books put into their hands at an early period of their education. Of this description was not poor old Percival Stockdale, who in one of his lucubrations gives our author the appellation of " Mother Watts." The nickname would not be worth mentioning if it did not suggest a compassionate reflection on the difference between the useful life and labours of Dr. Watts, and the utterly useless and wasted existence of Percival Stockdale. It might have been happy for the frail intellects of that unfortunate man, if they had been braced and rectified in his youth by such works as Watts's Logic and Improvement of the Mind. The study of them might possibly have saved even him from a life of vanity, vexation, and oblivion*. FEW HAPPY MATCHES. SAY, mighty Love, and teach my song, And who the happy pairs Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, Find blessings twisted with their bands, To soften all their cares. Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains As custom leads the way: Not sordid souls of earthly mould Not the mad tribe that hell inspires Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms Not minds of melancholy strain, Nor can the soft enchantments hold The rugged and the keen: Nor let the cruel fetters bind For Love abhors the sight: Two kindest souls alone must meet, [* Of Watts's poetry one can praise the design, but not the execution, though Cowper professed to find excellent poetry in his verse. The author of the Olney Hymns, which are about the level of Watts's, may be pardoned for such natural blindness.] AMBROSE PHILIPS. [Born, 1671. Died, 1749.] AMBROSE PHILIPS, the pastoral rival of Pope, was educated at Cambridge, and distinguished for many years in London as a member of clubs witty and political, and as a writer for the Whigs. By the influence of that party he was put into the commission of the peace soon after the accession of George I., and, in 1717, was appointed one of the commissioners of the lottery. When his friend Dr. Boulter was appointed primate of Ireland, he accompanied the prelate, TO THE EARL OF DORSET †. Copenhagen, March 9, 1709. FROM frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow, From streams which northern winds forbid to flow, What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring, Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing? The hoary winter here conceals from sight All pleasing objects which to verse invite. The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, The flowery plains, and silver-streaming floods, By snow disguised, in bright confusion lie, And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye. No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring, No birds within the desert region sing. The ships, unmoved, the boisterous winds defy, While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. The vast leviathan wants room to play, And spout his waters in the face of day. The starving wolves along the main sea prowl, And to the moon in icy valleys howl. O'er many a shining league the level main Here spreads itself into a glassy plain : There solid billows of enormous size, Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise. And yet but lately have I seen, even here, Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured snow, The Freethinker, in which A. Philips wrote, began its career on Monday, March 24, 1718, was published twice a week, and terminated with the 159th paper, Monday, September 28th, 1719. Dr. Drake speaks in praise of its easy and perspicuous diction, and thinks a very interesting selection might be made from it.-Essay on Periodical Papers. [ The opening of this poem is incomparably fine. The latter part is tedious and trifling.-GOLDSMITH.] received considerable preferments, and was elected member for Armagh in the Irish Commons. He returned to England in the year 1748, and died in the following year, at his lodgings near Vauxhall. The best of his dramatic writings is the Distrest Mother, a translation of Racine's Andromache. His two other tragedies, the Briton, and Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, are not much better than his pastorals. For every shrub, and every blade of grass, When if a sudden gust of wind arise, The brittle forest into atoms flies, The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends, While here enchanted gardens to him rise, A HYMN TO VENUS. O VENUS, Beauty of the skies, If ever thou hast kindly heard Thou once didst leave almighty Jove, The birds dismiss'd (while you remain) What frenzy in my bosom raged, Though now he shuns thy longing arms, Celestial visitant, once more, A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO. BLESS'D as the immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak, and sweetly smile. "Twas this deprived my soul of rest, And raised such tumults in my breast; For while I gazed, in transport toss'd, My breath was gone, my voice was lost. My bosom glow'd: the subtle flame Ran quickly through my vital frame; O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung, My ears with hollow murmurs rung. In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd, My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd; My feeble pulse forgot to play, I fainted, sunk, and died away [* Joseph Warton thinks that Addison lent a helping hand to Philips in these translations. He was fond of rendering such assistance, and may have done so; but it is idle to indulge in conjectures and plausible perhapses.] LEONARD WELSTED. [Born, 1688. Died, 1746-7.] LEONARD WELSTED, a victim of Pope's satire, whose verses did not always deserve it. FROM HIS "SUMMUM BONUM." SMILE, my Hephestion, smile, no more be seen wake to bless the times unborn. The palm excels that trembles o'er the brooks, *Welsted's great patron, the Duke of Newcastle. This not disturbs you, nor your bliss alloys, chat; |