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even modern poets. He has added to his heroic poem a dream, in the manner of Spencer, where the poet supposes himself to be introduced to Homer, who censures his poem in some particulars, and excuses it in others. This poem is, indeed, a species of apology for the Epigoniad, wrote in a very lively and elegant manner : it may be compared to a well-polished gem, of the purest water, and cut into the most beautiful form. Those who would judge of our author's talents for poetry, without perusing his larger work, may fatisfy their curiosity, by running over this short poem. They will see the same force of imagination and harmony of numbers, which distinguish his longer performance; and may thence, with small application, receive a favourable impreslion of our author's genius.

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Fix'd on my

Than, from my glorious toils and triumphs paft,
To fall subdu'd by female arts, at last.
O cool my boiling blood, ye winds, that blow
From mountains loaded with eternal snow,
And crack the icy cliffs : in vain! in vain !
Your rigour cannot quench my raging pain !
For round this heart the furies wave their brands,
And wring my entrails with their burning hands.
Now bending from the fkies, O wife of Jove!
Enjoy the vengeance of thy injur'd love:
For fate, by me, the Thund’ier's guilt atones,
And puuish'd in her son Alcmena groans.
The object of your hate shall soon expire ;

flioulders

preys a net of fire :
Whom nor the toils nor dangers could subdue,
By false Eurystheus dilated from

you ;
Nor tyrants lawless, nor the monstrous brood,
Which haunts the desert or infefts the flood,
Nor Greece, nor all the barb'rous climes that lic
Where Phæbus ever points his golden eye;
A woman has o’erthrown! ye Gods! I yield
To female arts, unconquer'd in the field.
My arms-alas ! are these the same that bow'd
Antæus, and his giant force subdu'd ?
That dragg'd Nemea's monster from his den ;
And flew the dragon in his native fen?.
Alas, alas! their mighty muscles fail,
While pains in'ernal ev'ry nerve assail.
Alas, alas ! I feel in streams of woe
These eyes dissolv’d, before untaught to flow.
Awake my virtue, oft in dangers try'd,
Patient in toils, in deaths unterrify'd :
Rouse to my aid ; nor let my labours past,
With fame atchieved, be blotted by the last :
Firin and qamov'd, the present shock endure,
Once triumph, and for ever relt secure.

Our poet, though his genius be in many respects very original, has not disdained to imitate even modern poets. He has added to his heroic poein a dream, in the manner of Spencer, where the poet fupposes himself to be introduced to Ho. mer, who censures his poem in some particulars, and excuses it in others. This poem is, indeed, a species of apology for the Epigoniad, wrote in a very lively and elegant manner : it may be compared to a well-polished gem, of the purest water, and cut into the most beautiful form. Those who would judge of our author's talents for poetry, without perusing his larger work, may satisfy their curiosity, by running over this short poem. They will see the same force of imagination and harmony of numbers, which distinguish his longer performance; and may thence, with small application, receive a favourable impression of our author's genius.

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No. III.

EXPOSÉ SUCCINCT

DE LA

CONTESTATION,

QUI S'EST ÉLÉVÉ ENTRE

M. HUME ET M. ROUSSEAU,

AVEC

LES PIECES JUSTIFICATIVES.

(Tirée de la Supplement à la Collection des Ouvres de J. J.

Rousseau, citoyen de Geneve, tome 2, qui forme tome 14, de même Collection. Imprimé à Geneve, 1782.)

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