"Shall I be left forgotten in the dust,
When Fate, relenting, lets the flower revive?
Shall Nature's voice, to man alone unjust,
Bid him, though doom'd to perish, hope to live?
Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive
With disappointment, penury, and pain?
No Heaven's immortal springs shall yet arrive,
And man's majestic beauty bloom again,
Bright through th' eternal year of Love's trium-
phant reign."

This truth sublime his simple sire had taught.
In sooth, 'twas almost all the shepherd knew.
No subtile nor superfluous lore he sought,
Nor ever wish'd his Edwin to pursue.
"Let man's own sphere," said he, "confine his view,
Be man's peculiar work his sole delight."
And much, and oft, he warn'd him to eschew
Falsehood and guile, and aye maintain the right,
By pleasure unseduced, unawed by lawless might.

"And from the prayer of Want, and plaint of Woe,
O never, never turn away thine ear!
Forlorn, in this bleak wilderness below,
Ah! what were man, should Heaven refuse to
To others do (the law is not severe) [hear!
What to thyself thou wishest to be done.
Forgive thy foes; and love thy parents dear,
And friends, and native land; nor those alone;
All human weal and woe learn thou to make thine
own."

See, in the rear of the warm sunny shower The visionary boy from shelter fly; For now the storm of summer-rain is o'er, And cool, and fresh, and fragrant is the sky. And, lo! in the dark east, expanded high, The rainbow brightens to the setting sun! Fond fool, that deem'st the streaming glory nigh, How vain the chase thine ardour has begun! "Tis fled afar, ere half thy purposed race be run.

Yet couldst thou learn, that thus it fares with age, When pleasure, wealth, or power, the bosom warm, This baffled hope might tame thy manhood's rage, And disappointment of her sting disarm. But why should foresight thy fond heart alarm? Perish the lore that deadens young desire; Pursue, poor imp, th' imaginary charm, Indulge gay hope, and fancy's pleasing fire: Fancy and hope too soon shall of themselves expire.

When the long-sounding curfew from afar
Loaded with loud lament the lonely gale,
Young Edwin, lighted by the evening star,
Lingering and listening, wander'd down the vale.
There would he dream of graves, and corses pale;
And ghosts that to the charnel-dungeon throng,
And drag a length of clanking chain, and wail,
Till silenced by the owl's terrific song,

Or blast that shrieks by fits the shuddering aisles along.

Or when the setting moon, in crimson dyed, Hung o'er the dark and melancholy deep, To haunted stream, remote from man, he hied, Where fays of yore their revels wont to keep; And there let Fancy rove at large, till sleep A vision brought to his entranced sight. And first, a wildly murmuring wind 'gan creep Shrill to his ringing ear; then tapers bright, With instantaneous gleam, illumed the vault of night.

Anon in view a portal's blazon'd arch
Arose: the trumpet bids the valves unfold;
And forth an host of little warriors march,
Grasping the diamond lance, and targe of gold.
Their look was gentle, their demeanour bold,
And green their helms, and green their silk attire;
And here and there, right venerably old,
The long-robed minstrels wake the warbling wire,
And some with mellow breath the martial pipe
inspire.

With merriment, and song, and timbrels clear,
A troop of dames from myrtle bowers advance;
The little warriors doff the targe and spear,
And loud enlivening strains provoke the dance.
They meet, they dart away, they wheel askance;
To right, to left, they thrid the flying maze;
Now bound aloft with vigorous spring, then glance
Rapid along with many-colour'd rays
Of tapers, gems, and gold, the echoing forests
blaze.

The dream is fled. Proud harbinger of day, Who scared'st the vision with thy clarion shrill, Fell chanticleer! who oft hath reft away My fancied good, and brought substantial ill! O to thy cursed scream, discordant still, Let harmony aye shut her gentle ear : Thy boastful mirth let jealous rivals spill, Insult thy crest, and glossy pinions tear, And ever in thy dreams the ruthless fox appear.

Forbear, my Muse. Let Love attune thy line, Revoke the spell. Thine Edwin frets not so. For how should he at wicked chance repine. Who feels from every change amusement flow! Even now his eyes with smiles of rapture glow, | As on he wanders through the scenes of morn, Where the fresh flowers in living lustre blow, Where thousand pearls the dewy lawns adorn, A thousand notes of joy in every breeze are borne.

But who the melodies of morn can tell? The wild brook babbling down the mountain side; The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell; The pipe of early shepherd dim descried In the lone valley; echoing far and wide, The clamorous horn along the cliffs above; The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide; The hum of bees, the linnet's lay of love, And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.

But when to horror his amazement rose,
A gentler strain the beldame would rehearse,
A tale of rural life, a tale of woes,

The orphan-babes, and guardian uncle fierce. O cruel! will no pang of pity pierce That heart, by lust of lucre sear'd to stone? For sure, if aught of virtue last, or verse, To latest times shall tender souls bemoan Those hopeless orphan babes by thy fell arts undone.

Behold, with berries smear'd, with brambles torn,
The babes now famish'd lay them down to die :
Amidst the howl of darksome woods forlorn,
Folded in one another's arms they lie;
Nor friend, nor stranger, hears their dying cry:
"For from the town the man returns no more.'
But thou, who Heaven's just vengeance darest
defy,

This deed with fruitless tears shalt soon deplore, When Death lays waste thy house, and flames consume thy store.

A stifled smile of stern vindictive joy Brighten'd one moment Edwin's starting tear, "But why should gold man's feeble mind decoy, And innocence thus die by doom severe ?" O Edwin! while thy heart is yet sincere, Th' assaults of discontent and doubt repel : Dark even at noontide is our mortal sphere; But let us hope; to doubt is to rebel; Let us exult in hope, that all shall yet be well.

Nor be thy generous indignation check'd, Nor check'd the tender tear to Misery given; From guilt's contagious power shall that protect, This soften and refine the soul for Heaven. But dreadful is their doom, whom doubt has driven To censure Fate, and pious Hope forego: Like yonder blasted boughs by lightning riven, Perfection, beauty, life, they never know, But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe.

Shall he, whose birth, maturity, and age
Scarce fill the circle of one summer day,-
Shall the poor gnat, with discontent and rage,
Exclaim that Nature hastens to decay,

If but a cloud obstruct the solar ray,
If but a momentary shower descend !

Or shall frail man Heaven's dread decree gainsay,
Which bade the series of events extend
Wide through unnumber'd worlds, and ages with-
out end !

One part, one little part, we dimly scan Through the dark medium of life's feverish dream; Yet dare arraign the whole stupendous plan, If but that little part incongruous seem. Nor is that part perhaps what mortals deem; Oft from apparent ill our blessings rise. Oh then renounce that impious self-esteem, That aims to trace the secrets of the skies : For thou art but of dust; be humble, and be wise.

Thus Heaven enlarged his soul in riper years, For Nature gave him strength, and fire, to soar On Fancy's wing above this vale of tears; Where dark, cold-hearted sceptics, creeping, pore

Through microscope of metaphysic lore: And much they grope for truth, but never hit. For why? Their powers, inadequate before, This idle art makes more and more unfit ; Yet deem they darkness light, and their vain blunders wit.

Nor was this ancient dame a foe to mirth: Her ballad, jest, and riddle's quaint device Oft cheer'd theshepherds round their social hearth; Whom levity or spleen could ne'er entice To purchase chat, or laughter, at the price Of decency. Nor let it faith exceed, That Nature forms a rustic taste so nice. Ah! had they been of court or city breed, Such delicacy were right marvellous indeed.

Oft when the winter storm had ceased to rave,
He roam'd the snowy waste at even, to view
The clouds stupendous, from th' Atlantic wave
High-towering, sail along th' horizon blue :
Where 'midst the changeful scenery, ever new,
Fancy a thousand wondrous forms descries,
More wildly great than ever pencil drew,
Rocks, torrents, gulfs, and shapes of giant size,
And glitt'ring cliffs on cliffs, and fiery ramparts
rise.

Thence musing onward to the sounding shore,
The lone enthusiast oft would take his way,
Listening, with pleasing dread, to the deep roar
Of the wide-weltering waves.
In black array
When sulphurous clouds roll'd on th' autumnal
day,

Even then he hasten'd from the haunt of man,
Along the trembling wilderness to stray,
What time the lightning's fierce career began,
Ando'er Heaven's rending arch the rattling thunder

ran.

Is there a heart that music cannot melt ?
Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn!
Is there, who ne'er those mystic transports felt
Of solitude and melancholy born?

He needs not woo the Muse; he is her scorn.
The sophist's rope of cobweb he shall twine;
Mope o'er the the schoolman's peevish page; or

mourn,

And delve for life in Mammon's dirty mine ; Sneak with the scoundrel fox, or grunt with glutton swine.

For Edwin Fate a nobler doom had plann'd ;
Song was his favourite and first pursuit.
The wild harp rang to his advent'rous hand,
And languish'd to his breath the plaintive flute.
His infant Muse, though artless, was not mute :
Of elegance as yet he took no care;

For this of time and culture is the fruit ;
And Edwin gain'd at last this fruit so rare :
As in some future verse I purpose to declare.

Meanwhile, whate'er of beautiful or new, Sublime or dreadful, in earth, sea, or sky, By chance, or search, was offer'd to his view, He scann'd with curious and romantic eye. Whate'er of lore tradition could supply From Gothic tale, or song, or fable old, Roused him, still keen to listen and to pry. At last, though long by penury controll❜d, And solitude, her soul his graces 'gan unfold.

Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land,
For many a long month lost in snow profound,
When Sol from Cancer sends the season bland,
And in their northern cave the storms are bound;
From silent mountains, straight, with startling
sound,

Torrents are hurl'd; green hills emerge; and lo, The trees with foliage,cliffs with flowers,are crown'd; Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.

Here pause, my Gothic lyre, a little while; The leisure hour is all that thou canst claim. But on this verse if Montague* should smile, New strains ere long shall animate thy frame; And her applause to me is more than fame; For still with truth accords her taste refined. At lucre or renown let others aim, I only wish to please the gentle mind, Whom Nature's charms inspire, and love of human

[* Mrs. Montague.]

[kind.

THIS light and amusing poet was the son of the Rev. Dr. Anstey, rector of Brinkeley, in Cambridgeshire, who had been a fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge. When very young, he was sent to school at Bury St. Edmunds. From thence he was removed to Eton, and placed at the fourth form, as an oppidan, and afterwards on the foundation. He finished his studies at Eton with a creditable character, and in 1741 went as captain to the Mount. From thence he went to Cambridge, where he obtained some reputation by his Tripos verses. In 1745, he was admitted fellow of King's college, and in the following year took his bachelor's degree in the university. When he had nearly completed the terms of his qualification for that of master of arts, he was prevented from obtaining it in consequence of what his own son, his biographer, calls a spirited and popular opposition, which he showed to the leading men of the university. The phrase of "popular and spirited opposition," sounds promising to the curiosity; but the reader must not expect too much, lest he should be disappointed by learning that this popular opposition was only his refusing to deliver certain declamations, which the heads of the university (unfairly it was thought) required from the bachelors of King's College. Anstey, as senior of the order of bachelors, had to deliver the first oration. He contrived to begin his speech with a rhapsody of adverbs, which, with no direct meaning, hinted a ridicule on the arbitrary injunction of the university rulers. They soon ordered him to dismount from the rostrum, and called upon him for a new declamation, which, as might be expected, only gave him an opportunity of pointing finer irony in the shape of an apology. This affront was not forgotten by his superiors; and when he applied for his degree, it was refused to him.

In the year 1756 he married Miss Calvert, sister to his oldest and most intimate friend John

Calvert, Esq. of Albury Hall, in Hertfordshire, and sat in several successive parliaments for the borough of Hertford. Having succeeded, after his marriage, to his father's estate, he retired to the family seat in Cambridgeshire, and seems to have spent his days in that smooth happiness which gives life few remarkable eras. He was addicted to the sports of the field and the amusements of the country, undisturbed by ambition, and happy in the possession of friends and fortune. His first literary effort which was published, was his translation of Gray's Elegy in a Churchyard into Latin verse, in which he was assisted by Dr. Roberts, author of " Judah Restored." He was personally acquainted with Gray, and derived from him the benefit of some remarks on his translation.

His first publication in English verse was "The New Bath Guide," which appeared in 1766. The droll and familiar manner of the poem is original; but its leading characters are evidently borrowed from Smollett. Anstey gave the copy price of the piece, which was £200, as a charitable donation to the hospital of Bath; and Dodsley, to whom it had been sold, with remarkable generosity restored the copyright to its author, after it had been eleven years published.

His other works hardly require the investigation of their date. In the decline of life he meditated a collection of his letters and poems; but letters recovered from the repositories of dead friends are but melancholy readings; and, probably overcome by the sensations which they excited, he desisted from his collection. After a happy enjoyment of life (during fifty years of which he had never been confined to bed, except one day, by an accidental hurt upon his leg), he quietly resigned his existence, at the house of his son-in-law, Mr. Bosanquet, in his eighty-first year, surrounded by his family, and retaining his

faculties to the last.

Do the gods such a noble ambition inspire;
Or gods do we make of each ardent desire?

"But Anstey's diverting satire," says Sir Walter Scott, "was but a slight sketch, compared to the finished and elaborate manner in which Smollett has, in the first place, identified his characters, and then fitted them with language, sentiments, and powers of observation, in exact correspondence with their talents, temper, condition, and disposition."-Misc. Pr. Works, vol. iii. p. 160.]

O generous passion! 'tis yours to afford
The splendid assembly, the plentiful board;
To thee do I owe such a breakfast this morn,
As I ne'er saw before since the hour I was born;
"Twas you made my Lord Ragamuffin come here,
Who, they say, has been lately created a Peer,
And to-day with extreme complaisance and respect
ask'd

All the people at Bath to a general breakfast.

You've heard of my Lady Bunbutter, no doubt, How she loves an assembly, fandango, or rout; No lady in London is half so expert

At a snug private party her friends to divert; But they say that, of late, she's grown sick of the town,

And often to Bath condescends to come down:
Her Ladyship's fav'rite house is the Bear:
Her chariot, and servants, and horses are there:
My Lady declares that retiring is good;
As all with a separate maintenance should:
For when you have put out the conjugal fire,
"Tis time for all sensible folk to retire ;
If Hymen no longer his fingers will scorch,
Little Cupid for others can whip in his torch,
So pert is he grown, since the custom began
To be married and parted as quick as you can.
Now my Lord had the honour of coming down post,
To pay his respects to so famous a toast;
In hopes he her Ladyship's favour might win,
By playing the part of a host at an inn.
I'm sure he's a person of great resolution,
Though delicate nerves, and a weak constitution;
For he carried us all to a place 'cross the river,
And vow'd that the rooms were too hot for his liver:
He said it would greatly our pleasure promote,
If we all for Spring-gardens set out in a boat:
I never as yet could his reason explain,
Why we all sallied forth in the wind and the rain;
For sure, such confusion was never yet known;
Here a cap and a hat, there a cardinal blown :
While his Lordship, embroider'd and powder'd
all o'er,

Was bowing, and handing the ladies ashore :
How the misses did huddle and scuddle, and run:
One would think to be wet must be very good fun;
For by wagging their tails, they all seem'd to take
pains

To moisten their pinions like ducks when it rains;
And 'twas pretty to see how, like birds of a feather,
The people of quality flock'd all together;
All pressing, addressing, caressing, and fond,
Just the same as those animals are in a pond:
You've read all their names in the news, I suppose,
But, for fear you have not, take the list as it goes:
There was Lady Grease wrister,
And Madam Van-Twister,

Her Ladyship's sister;
Lord Cram, and Lord Vulture,
Sir Brandish O'Culter,
With Marshal Carouzer,
And old Lady Mouzer,

And the great Hanoverian Baron Pansmowzer:

Besides many others, who all in the rain went,
On purpose to honour this great entertainment:
The company made a most brilliant appearance,
And ate bread-and-butter with great perseverance:
All the chocolate, too, that my Lord set before 'em,
The ladies despatch'd with the utmost decorum.
Soft musical numbers were heard all around,
The horns and the clarions echoing sound:

Sweet were the strains, as od'rous gales that blow
O'er fragrant banks, where pinks and roses grow.
The Peer was quite ravish'd, while close to his side
Sat Lady Bunbutter, in beautiful pride!
Oft turning his eyes, he with rapture survey'd
All the powerful charms she so nobly display'd.
As when at the feast of the great Alexander,
Timotheus, the musical son of Thersander,
Breathed heavenly measures;
The prince was in pain,

And could not contain,
While Thais was sitting beside him;
But, before all his peers,

Was for shaking the spheres,

Such goods the kind gods did provide him;
Grew bolder and bolder,

And cock'd up his shoulder,

Like the son of great Jupiter Ammon,
Till at length quite oppress'd,
He sunk on her breast,
And lay there as dead as a salmon.

O had I a voice that was stronger than steel, With twice fifty tongues to express what I feel, And as many good mouths, yet I never could utter All the speeches my Lord made to Lady Bunbutter!

So polite all the time, that he ne'er touch'd a bit, While she ate up his rolls and applauded his wit: For they tell me that men of true taste, when they

treat,

Should talk a great deal, but they never should eat:
And if that be the fashion, I never will give
Any grand entertainment as long as I live :
For I'm of opinion 'tis proper to cheer
The stomach and bowels, as well as the ear.
Nor me did the charming concerto of Abel
Regale like the breakfast I saw on the table:
I freely will own I the muffins preferr'd
To all the genteel conversation I heard,
E'en though I'd the honour of sitting between
My Lady Stuff-damask and Peggy Moreen,
Who both flew to Bath in the nightly machine.
Cries Peggy," This place is enchantingly pretty;
We never can see such a thing in the city:
You may spend all your lifetime in Cateaton-street,
And never so civil a gentleman meet;
You may talk what you please; you may search

London through;

You may go to Carlisle's, and to Almanac's too: And I'll give you my head if you find such a host, For coffee, tea, chocolate, butter, and toast:

How he welcomes at once all the world and his

wife,

And how civil to folk he ne'er saw in his life!"—