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 cenfures his poem in fome particulars, and excuses it in others. This poem is, indeed, a fpecies of apology for the Epigoniad, wrote in a very lively and elegant manner: it may be compared to a well-polifhed gem, of the pureft water, and cut into the most beautiful form. Those who would judge of our author's talents for poetry, without perufing his larger work, may fatisfy their curiofity, by running over this fhort poem. They will see the fame force of imagination and harmony of numbers, which diftinguifh his longer performance; and may thence, with small application, receive a favourable impreffion of our author's genius.

Than, from my glorious toils and triumphs paft,
To fall fubdu'd by female arts, at last.

O cool my boiling blood, ye winds, that blow
From mountains loaded with eternal fnow,
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 puuifh'd in her fon Alcmena groans.
The object of your hate fhall foon expire;
Fix'd on my fhoulders preys a net of fire :
Whom nor the toils nor dangers could fubdue,
By falfe Eurytheus dictated from you;
Nor tyrants lawlefs, nor the monstrous brood,
Which haunts the defert or infefts the flood,
Nor Greece, nor all the barb'rous climes that lie
Where Phoebus 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 fame that bow'd
Antous, and his giant force fubdu’d?

That dragg'd Nemea's monfter from his den;
And flew the dragon in his native fen? ·
Alas, alas! their mighty muscles fail,
While pains infernal ev'ry nerve affail.

Alas, alas! I feel in ftreams of woe

These eyes diffolv'd, before untaught to flow.
Awake my virtue, oft in dangers try'd,
Patient in toils, in deaths unterrify'd:
Roufe to

my aid; nor let my labours past,

With fame atchieved, be blotted by the laft:
Firm and unmov'd, the prefent fhock endure,
Once triumph, and for ever reft fecure.

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 poem a dream, in the manner of Spencer, where the poet supposes himself to be introduced to Homer, who cenfures his poem in fome particulars, and excufes 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 pureft water, and cut into the most beautiful form. Those who would judge of our author's talents for poetry, without perufing his larger work, may satisfy their curiofity, by running over this fhort poem. They will fee the fame force of imagination and harmony of numbers, which distinguish his longer performance; and may thence, with small application, receive a favourable impreffion of our author's genius.

(Tirée de la Supplement à la Collection des Ouvres de J. J. Rouffeau, Citoyen de Geneve, tome 2, qui forme tome 14, de même Collection. Imprimé à Geneve, 1782.)