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Good, from each object, from each place acquired, Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,
For ever exercised, yet never tired;

'Sir, let me see your works and you no more.' Nerer elated, while one man's oppressed ;

You think this cruel ? Take it for a rule, Never dejected, while another's blest;

No creature smarts so little as a fool. And where no wants, no wishes can remain,

Let peals of laughter, Codrus ! round thee break, Since but to wish more virtue, is to gain.

Thou unconcerned canst hear the mighty crack:

Pit, box, and gallery, in convulsions hurled, [From the Prologue to the Satires, Addressed to

Thou stand'st unshook amidst a bursting world. Arbuthnot.)

Who shames a scribbler? Break one cobweb through,

He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew :
P. Shut up the door, good John ! fatigued I said, Destroy his fib or sophistry, in vain,
Tie up the knocker; say I'm sick, I'm dead.

The creature's at his dirty work again;
The dog-star rages ! nay, 'tis past a doubt,

Throned in the centre of his thin designs, All bedlam or Parnassus is let out:

Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines ! Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,

Whom have I hurt? has poet yet, or peer, They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

Lost the arched evebrow or Parnassian sneer? What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide? And has not Colly still his lord and whore ! They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide. His butchers Henley, his freemasons Moor? By land, by water, they renew the charge ;

Does not one table Bavius still admit? They stop the chariot, and they board the barge. Still to one bishop Philips seem a wit ? No place is sacred, not the church is free,

Still Sappho-A. Hold; for God's sake-you'll offendEven Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me;

No names-be calm-learn prudence of a friend : Then from the mint walks forth the man of rhyme, I, too, could write, and I am twice as tall; Happy to catch me just at dinner time.

But foes like these—P. One flatterer's worse than all. Is there a parson, much bemused in beer,

Of all mad creatures, if the learned are right, A maydlin poetess, a rhyming peer,

It is the slaver kills, and not the bite. A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross,

A fool quite angry is quite innocent: Who pens a stanza, when he should engross?

Alas! 'tis ten times worse when they repent. Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls

One dedicates in high heroic prose, With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls ? And ridicules beyond a hundred foes : All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain

One from all Grub-street will my fame defend, Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.

And, more abusive, calls himself my friend. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,

This prints my letters, that expects a bribe, Imputes to me and my damned works the cause : And others roar aloud, “Subscribe, subscribe ! Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,

There are, who to my person pay their court: And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

I cough like Horace, and though lean, am short. Friend to my life! (which did you not prolong, Ammon's great son one shoulder had too high, The world had wanted many an idle song)

Such Ovid's nose, and, 'Sir! you have an eye!' What drop or nostrum can this plague remove ? Go on, obliging creatures, make me see Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or lore? All that disgraced my betters, met in me. A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped ;

Say for my comfort, languishing in bed, If foes, they write ; if friends, they read me dead. Just so immortal Maro held his head;' Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched I; And when I die, be sure you let me know Who can't be silent, and who will not lie:

Great Homer died three thousand years ago. To laugh were want of goodness and of grace;

Why did I write? what sin to me unknown And to be grave, exceeds all power of face.

Dipped me in ink; my parents', or my own! I sit with sad civility; I read

As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame, With honest anguish, and an aching head;

I lisped in numbers, for the numbers came. And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,

I left no calling for this idle trade, This saving counsel, 'Keep your piece nine years.' No duty broke, no father disobeyed :

“Nine years !' cries he, who high in Drury Lane, The muse but served to ease some friend, not wife; Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, To help me through this long disease, my life; Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, To second, Arbuthnot! thy art and care, Obliged by hunger, and request of friends :

And teach the being you preserved, to bear. * The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it; But why then publish? Granville the polite, I'm all submission; what you'd have it, make it.' And knowing Walsh, would tell me I could write ; Th

roe things another's modest wishes bound, Well-natured Garth, inflamed with early praise, My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound. And Congreve loved, and Swift endured my lays;

Pitholeon sends to me: 'You know his grace; The courtly Talbot, Somers, Sheffield read, I want a patron; ask him for a place.'

Even mitred Rochester would nod the head, Pitholeon libelled me—but here's a letter

And St John's self (great Dryden's friends before) Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better. With open arms received one poet more. Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine,

Happy my studies, when by these approved ! He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine.'

Happier their author, when by these beloved ! Bless me! a packet- Tis a stranger sues,

From these the world will judge of men and books, A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.'

Not from the Burnets, Oldmixons, and Cooks. If I dislike it, . furies, death, and rage !

Soft were my numbers; who could take offence If I approve, commend it to the stage.'

While pure description held the place of sense ? There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, Like gentle Fanny's was my flowery theme. The players and I are, luckily, no friends.

A painted mistress, or a purling stream. Fired that the house reject him,''Sdeath! I'll print it, Yet then did Gildon draw his venal quill; And shame the fools- your interest, sir, with Lintot.' I wished the man a dinner, and sat still. Lintot, dull rogue ! will think your price too much : Yet then did Dennis rave in furious fret ; Not, sir, if you revise it, and retouch.'

I never answered; I was not in debt. All my demurs but double his attacks :

If want provoked, or madness made them print, At last he whispers, . Do, and we go snacks.' | I waged no war with bedlam or the mint.

Did some more sober critic come abroad;

Who can your merit selfishly approve,
If wrong, I smiled, if right, I kissed the rod. And show the sense of it without the love;
Pains, reading, study, are their just pretence,

Who has the vanity to call you friend,
And all they want is spirit, taste, and sense.

Yet wants the honour, injured, to defend; Commas and points they set exactly right,

Who tells whate'er you think, whate'er you say, And 'twere a sin to rob them of their mite.

And, if he lie not, must at least betray: *
Yet ne'er one sprig of laurels graced these ribalds, Who reads, but with a lust to misapply,
From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibbalds; Makes satire a lampoon, and fiction lie;
Fach wight, who reads not, and but scans and spells, A lash like mine no honest man shall dread,
Fach word-catcher, that lives on syllables,

But all such babbling blockheads in his stead.
Even such small critics some regard may claim, Let Sporus tremble*-A. What? that thing of silk,
Preserved in Milton's or in Shakspeare's name. Sporus, that mere white curd of asses' milk!
Pretty! in amber to observe the forms

Satire or sense, alas! can Sporus feel ! Of hairs, or straws, or dirt, or grubs, or worms! Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel! The things we know are neither rich nor rare,

P. Yet let me flap this bug with gilded wings, But wonder how the devil they got there.

This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings; Were others angry? I excused them too;

Whose buzz the witty and the fair annoys, Well might they rage, I gave them but their due. Yet wit ne'er tastes, and beauty ne'er enjoys : A man's true merit 'tis not hard to find;

So well-bred spaniels civilly delight But each man's secret standard in his mind,

In mumbling of the game they dare not bite. That casting-weight pride adds to emptiness,

Eternal smiles his emptiness betray, This, who can gratify? for who can guess ?

As shallow streams run dimpling all the way; The bard whom pilfered pastorals renown,

Whether in florid impotence he speaks, Who turns a Persian tale for half-a-crown,

And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks ; Just writes to make his barrenness appear,

Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad,
And strains from hard-bound brains eight lines &-year; Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad,
He who, still wanting, though he lives on theft, In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,
Steals much, spends little, yet has nothing left: Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies;
And he, who now to sensa, now nonsense leaning, His wit all seesaw, between that and this,
Means not, but blunders round about a meaning; Now high, now low, now master up, now miss,
And he, whose fustian's so sublimely bad,

And he himself one vile antithesis.
It is not poetry, but prose run mad :

Amphibious thing! that acting either part, All these my modest satire bade translate,

The trifling head, or the corrupted heart, And owned that nine such poets made a Tate. Fop at the toilet, flatterer at the board, How did they fume, and stamp, and roar, and chafe! Now trips a lady, and now struts a lord. And swear, not Addison himself was safe.

Eve's tempter thus the Rabbins have expressed : Peace to all such! but were there one whose fires | A cherub's face, a reptile all the rest, True genius kindles, and fair fame inspires ;

Beauty that shocks you, parts that none will trust, Blest with each talent and each art to please,

Wit that can creep, and pride that licks the dust. And born to write, converse, and live with ease :

Not fortune's worshipper, nor fashion's fool;
Should such a man, too fond to rule alone,

Not lucre's inadman, nor ambition's tool;
Bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne, Not proud nor servile: be one poet's praise,
View him with scornful, yet with jealous eyes, That, if he pleased, he pleased by manly ways;
And hate for arts that caused himself to rise ; That flattery even to kings he held a shame,
Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer, And thought a lie in verse or prose the same;
And, without sneering, teach the rest to sneer; That not in fancy's maze he wandered long,
Willing to wound, and yet afraid to strike,

But stooped to truth, and moralised his song :
Just hint a fault, and hesitate dislike;

That not for fame, but virtue's better end, Alike reserred to blame, or to commend,

He stood the furious foe, the timid friend, A timorous foe, and a suspicious friend;

The damning critic, half-approving wit, Dreading even fools, by flatterers besieged,

The coxcomb hit, or fearing to be hit; And so obliging, that he ne'er obliged ;

Laughed at the loss of friends he never had, Like Cato, give his little senate laws,

The dull, the proud, the wicked, and the mad;
And sit attentive to his own applause;

The distant threats of vengeance on his head;
While wits and Templars every sentence raise, The blow, unfelt, the tear he never shed;
And wonder with a foolish face of praise.

The tale revived, the lie so oft o'erthrown,
Who but must laugh, if such a man there be ? The imputed trash, and dulness not his own;
Who would not weep, if Atticus were he ?*

The morals blackened when the writings 'scape,

The libelled person, and the pictured shape; Cursed be the verse, how well soe'er it flow, Abuse on all he loved, or loved him, spread, That tends to make one worthy man my foe,

A friend in exile, or a father dead; Give virtue scandal, innocence a fear,

The whisper, that to greatness still too near, Or from the soft-eyed virgin steal a tear !

Perhaps yet vibrates on his sovereign's ear.
But he who hurts a harmless neighbour's peace, Welcome to thee, fair Virtue, all the past;
Insults fallen worth, or beauty in distress;

For thee, fair Virtue! welcome even the last!
Who loves a lie, lame slander helps about,
Who writes a libel, or who copies out;

The Man of Ross.
That fop, whose pride affects a patron's name,

(From the Moral Essays Epistle III.) Yet absent wounds an author's honest fame :

But all our praises why should lords engross?

Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross : * The jealousy betwixt Addison and Pope, originating in * Lord Herrcy. literary and political rivalry, broke out into an open rupture

| The Man of Ross was Mr John Kyrle, who died in 1724, aged by the above highly-finished and poignant satire. When Atter- 90. and was interred in the church of Ross, in Herefordshire bury read it, he saw that Pope's strength lay in satirical Mr Kyrle was enabled to effect many of his benevolent purpoetry, and he wrote to him not to suffer that talent to be un- |

be un | poses by the assistance of liberal subscrptions. Pope had been employed.

in Rose, on his way from Lord Bathurst's to Lord Oxford.

Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds,

What is this absorbs me quite ? And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds.

• Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow? Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? From the dry rock who bade the waters flow?

Tell me, my soul, can this be death? Not to the skies in useless columns tost,

The world recedes; it disappears ! Or in proud falls magnificently lost;

Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears But clear and artless, pouring through the plain,

With sounds seraphic ring: Health to the sick, and solace to the swain.

Lend, lend your wings! I mount ! I fly! Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows?

O Grave! where is thy victory? Whose seats the weary traveller repose ?

O Death! where is thy sting! Who taught the heaven-directed spire to rise ? * The Man of Ross,' each lisping babe replies.

We may quote, as a specimen of the melodious Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread! versification of Pope's Homer, the well-known moonThe Man of Ross divides the weekly bread :

light scené, which has been both extravagantly He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state, praised and censured. Wordsworth and Southey Where age and want sit smiling at the gate : unite in considering the lines and imagery as false Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphans blessed, and contradictory. It will be found in this case, as The young who labour, and the old who rest. in many passages of Dryden, that, though natural Is any sick ? the Man of Ross relieves,

objects be incorrectly described, the beauty of the Prescribes, attends, and med'cine makes and gives. language and versification elevates the whole into Is there a variance? enter but his door,

poetry of a high imaginative order. Pope followed Baulked are the courts, and contest is no more : the old version of Chapman, which we also subDespairing quacks with curses fled the place,

join : And vile attorneys, now a useless race.

The troops exulting sat in order round, B. Thrice happy man, enabled to pursue

And beaming fires illumined all the ground, What all so wish, but want the power to do!

As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night! O say, what sums that generous hand supply !

O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light; What mines to swell that boundless charity ?

When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
P. Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene;
This man possessed five hundred pounds a-year. Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
Blush, grandeur, blush ! proud courts, withdraw your And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole;
blaze;

O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
Ye little stars ! hide your diminished rays.

And tip with silver every mountain's head; B. And what ! no monument, inscription, stone ?

Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, His race, his form, his name almost unknown? A flood of glory bursts from all the skies :

P. Who builds a church to God, and not to fame, The conscious gwains, rejoicing in the sight,
Will never mark the marble with his name:

Eye the blue vault, and bliss the useful light.
Go, search it there, where to be born and die, So many flames before proud Ilion blaze,
Of rich and poor makes all the history;

And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays; Enough, that virtue filled the space between;

The long reflections of the distant fires
Proved by the ends of being to have been.

| Gleam on the walls and tremble on the spires.
When Hopkins dies, a thousand lights attend A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild,
The wretch, who living saved a candle's end ; And shoot a shady lustre o'er the field.
Shouldering God's altar a vile image stands,

Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend,
Belies his features, nay, extends his hands;

Whose umbered arms, by fits, thick flashes send; That live-long wig, which Gorgon's self might own, Loud neigh the coursers o'er their heaps of corn, Eternal buckle takes in Parian stone.

And ardent warriors wait the rising inorn.
Behold what blessings wealth to life can lend !
And see what comfort it affords our end!

Chapman's version is as follows:
In the worst inn's worst room, with mat half-hung, This speech all Trojans did applaud, who from their
The floors of plaster, and the walls of dung,

traces loosed On once a flock-bed, but repaired with straw, Their sweating horse, which severally with headstalls With tape-tied curtains, never meant to draw,

they reposed, The George and Garter dangling from that bed And fastened by their chariots ; when others brought Where tawdry yellow strove with dirty red,

from town Great Villiers lies-alas! how changed from him, Fat sheep and oxen instantly; bread, wine, and hewed That life of pleasure, and that soul of whim!

down Gallant and gay, in Cliefden's proud alcove,

Huge store of wood; the winds transferred into the The bower of wanton Shrewsbury and love;

o friendly sky Or just as gay, at council, in a ring

Their supper'š savour; to the which they sat delightOf mimic statesmen, and their merry king.

fully, No wit to flatter, left of all his store !

And spent all night in open field; fires round about No fool to laugh at, which he valued more.

them shined, There, victor of his health, of fortune, friends, As when about the silver moon, when air is free from And fame, this lord of useless thousands ends.

wind,

And stars shine clear, to whose sweet beams, high The Dying Christian to his Soul.

prospects, and the brows Vital spark of heavenly flame,

Of all steep hills and pinnacles, thrust up themselves

for shows;
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame:
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying-

And even the lowly valleys gay to glitter in their sight,

When the unmeasured firmament bursts to disclose Ob the pain, the bliss of dying ! Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife,

her light,

And all the signs in heaven are seen, that glad the And let me languish into life!

shepherd's heart; Hark! they whisper ; ongels say,

Lo, many fires disclosed their beams, made by the Sister spirit, come away!

Trojan part :

Before the face of Ilion, and her bright turrets showed. When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, A thousand courts of guard kept fires, and every guard When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, allowed

In silent whisp’rings purer thoughts impart, Fifty stout men, by whom their horse eat oats, and | And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; hard-white corn,

Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, And all did wilfully expect the silver-thronëd morn. Till bliss shall join, nor death can part no more.

That awful form which, so the Heavens decree, Cowper's translation is brief, but vivid and distinct :

Must still be loved, and still deplored by me,
As when around the clear bright moon, the stars In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,
Shine in full splendour, and the winds are hushed,

Or roused by Fancy, meets my waking eyes.
The groves, the mountain-tops, the headland heights

If business calls, or crowded courts invite, Stand all apparent, not a vapour streaks

| The unblemished statesman seems to strike my sight; Tbe boundless blue, but ether opened wide

If in the stage I seek to soothe my care,
All glitters, and the shepherd's heart is cheered. I meet his soul, which breathes in Cato there;

If pensive to the rural shades I rove,
His step o'ertakes me in the lonely grove;

'Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong, THOMAS TICKELL.

Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song; The friendship of Addison has shed a reflected

There patient showed us the wise course to steer,

A candid censor, and a friend severe; light on some of his contemporaries, and it elevated

There taught us how to live, and (oh! too high them, in their own day, to considerable importance.

The price for knowledge) taught us how to die. Amongst these was THOMAS TICKELL (1686-1740),

Thou hill! whose brow the antique structures grace, born at Bridekirk, near Carlisle, and educated at

Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race; Oxford. He was a writer in the Spectator and Guar

| Why, once so loved, whene'er tby bower appears, dian, and when Addison went to Ireland as secre

O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears ! tary to Lord Sunderland, Tickell accompanied him,

How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, and was employed in public business. He published

Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air! a translation of the first book of the Iliad at the same

How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees, time with Pope. Addison and the Whigs pronounced

Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze! it to be the best, while the Tories ranged under the

His image thy forsaken bowers restore, banner of Pope. The circumstance led to a breach

Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more; of the friendship betwixt Addison and Pope, which

No more the summer in thy glooms allayed, was never healed. Addison continued his patronage Thy evening breezes, and thy noondav shade. of Tickell, made him his under secretary of state, and left him the charge of publishing his works. Tickell had elegance and tenderness as a poet, but was deficient in variety and force. His ballad of

Colin and Lucy.A Ballad. • Colin and Lucy' is worth all his other works. It Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair, has the simplicity and pathos of the elder lyrics, Bright Lucy was the grace, without their too frequent coarseness and abrupt Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream transitions. His Elegy on the Death of Addison' Reflect so sweet a face; is considered by Johnson one of the most elegant and sublime funeral poems in the language. The Till luckless love and pining care author's own friend, Steele, considered it only "prose Impaired her rosy hue, in rhyme! The following extract contains the best Her coral lips and damask cheeks, verses in the elegy :

And eyes of glossy blue. Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,

Oh! have you seen a lily pale Sad luxury! to vulgar minds unknown,

When beating rains descend ? Along the walls where speaking marbles show

So drooped the slow-consuming maid,
What worthies form the hallowed mould below;

Her life now near its end.
Proud names ! who once the reins of empire held,
In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled;

By Lucy warned, of flattering swains
Chiefs graced with scars, and prodigal of blood,

Take heed, ye easy fair! Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood;

Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Just men by whom impartial laws were given,

Ye perjured swains ! beware.
And saints who taught and led the way to heaven.
Ne'er to these chambers where the mighty rest,

Three times all in the dead of night
Since their foundation came a nobler guest;

· A bell was heard to ring, Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed

And shrieking, at her window thrice A fairer spirit, or more welcome shade.

The raven flapped his wing. In what new region to the just assigned,

Too well the love-lorn maiden knew What new employments please the unbodied mind?

The solemn boding sound, A winged virtue through the ethereal sky,

And thus in dying words bespoke
From world to world unwearied does he fly;

The virgins weeping round:
Or curious trace the long laborious maze
Of Heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze ? 'I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell

Which says I must not stay;
How Michael battled, and the dragon fell;

I see a hand you cannot see,
Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow

Which beckons me away.
In hymns of love not ill essayed below!
Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind !

By a false heart and broken vows
A task well suited to thy gentle mind.

In early youth I die. Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend,

Was I to blame because his bride To me thy aid, thou guardian genius! lend.

Was thrice as rich as I !

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Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,

Speak, goddess! since 'tis thou that best canst tell, Vows due to me alone;

How ancient leagues to modern discord fell; Nor thou, fond maid! receive his kiss,

And why physicians were so cautious grown Nor think him all thy own.

Of others' lives, and lavish of their own;

How by a journey to the Elysian plain, To-morrow in the church to wed,

Peace triumphed, and old time returned again. Impatient both prepare ;

Not far from that most celebrated place, But know, fond maid! and know, false man! Where angry justice shows her awful face ; That Lucy will be there.

Where little villains must submit to fate,

That great ones may enjoy the world in state ; Then bear my corse, my comrades ! bear,

There stands a dome, majestic to the sight, This bridegroom blithe to meet ;

And sumptuous arches bear its oval height; He in his wedding trim so gay,

A golden globe, placed high with artful skill, I in my winding sheet.'

Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill;

This pile was, by the pious patron's aim, She spoke; she died. Her corpse was borne

Raised for a use as noble as its frame; The bridegroom blithe to meet;

Nor did the learned society decline He in his wedding trim so gay,

The propagation of that great design; She in her winding sheet.

mazes, Nature's face they viewed. Then what were perjured Colin's thoughts ?

And, as she disappeared, their search pursued.

Wrapt in the shade of night the goddess lies, How were these nuptials kept?

Yet to the learned unveils her dark disguise, The bridesmen flocked round Lucy dead,

But shuns the gross access of vulgar eyes. And all the village wept.

Now she unfolds the faint and dawning strife
Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,

Of infant atoms kindling into life;
At once his bosom swell;

How ductile matter new meanders takes,
The damps of death bedewed his brow;

And slender trains of twisting fibres makes ; He shook, he groaned, he fell.

And how the viscous seeks a closer tone,

By just degrees to harden into bone;
From the vain bride, ah! bride no more ! While the more loose flow from the vital urn,
The varying crimson fled,

And in full tides of purple streams return;
When stretched before her rival's corpse

How lambent flames from life's bright lamps She saw her husband dead.

arise,

And dart in emanations through the eyes ;
Then to his Lucy's new made grave

How from each sluice a gentle torrent pours,
Conveyed by trembling swains,

To slake a feverish heat with ambient showers;
One mould with her, beneath one sod,

Whence their mechanic powers the spirits claim; For ever he remains.

How great their force, how delicate their frame;

How the same nerves are fashioned to sustain
Oft at this grave the constant hind

The greatest pleasure and the greatest pain ;
And plighted maid are seen ;

| Why bilious juice a golden light puts on, With garlands gay and true-love knots

And floods of chyle in silver currents run;
They deck the sacred green.

How the dim speck of entity began

To extend its recent form, and stretch to man; * * But, swain forsworn! whoe'er thou art,

Why envy oft transforms with wan disguise,
This hallowed spot forbear;

And why gay Mirth sits smiling in the eyes;
Remember Colin's dreadful fate,

Whence Milo's vigour at the Olympic's shown,
And fear to meet him there.

Whence tropes to Finch, or impudence to Sloane;

How matter, by the varied shape of pores
SIR SAMUEL GARTH.

Or idiots frames, or solemn senators.

Hence 'tis we wait the wondrous cause to find, SIR SAMUEL GARTH, an eminent physician, pub- How body acts upon impassive mind: lished in 1696 his poem of The Dispensary, to aid | How fumes of wine the thinking part can fire, the college of physicians in a war they were then Past hopes revive, and present joys inspire: waging with the apothecaries. The latter had ven- | Why our complexions oft our soul declare, tured to prescribe, as well as compound medicines ; | And how the passions in the features are : and the physicians, to outbid them in popularity, How touch and harmony arise between advertised that they would give advice gratis to the Corporeal figure, and a form unseen ; poor, and establish a dispensary of their own for the How quick their faculties the limbs fulfil. sale of cheap medicines. The college triumphed; And act at every summons of the will; but in 1703 the House of Lords decided that apothe- / With mighty truths, mysterious to descry, caries were entitled to exercise the privilege which | Which in the womb of distant causes lie. Garth and his brother physicians resisted. Garth But now no grand inquiries are descried ; was a popular and benevolent man, a firm Whig, Mean faction reigns where knowledge should preside; yet the early encourager of Pope; and when Dryden Feuds are increased, and learning laid aside; died, he pronounced a Latin oration over the poet's Thus synods oft concern for faith conceal, remains. With Addison, he was, politically and | And for important nothings show a zeal : personally, on terms of the closest intimacy. Garth | The drooping sciences neglected pine, died in 1719. The Dispensary' is a mock heroic And Pæan's, beams with fading lustre shine. poem in six cantos. Some of the leading apothe- No readers here with hectic looks are found, caries of the day are happily ridiculed; but the in-Nor eyes in rheum, through midnight-watching terest of the satire has passed away, and it did not drowned: contain enough of the life of poetry to preserve it. The lonely edifice in sweats complains A few lines will give a specimen of the manner and That nothing there but sullen silence reigns. the versification of the poem. It opens in the following strain :

& The College of Physicians

1 Old Bailey.

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