When furious whirlwinds rend the howling air,
And ocean, groaning from his lowest bed,
Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky,
Amid the mighty uproar, while below
The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad
From some high cliff superior, and enjoys
The elemental war. But Waller longs
All on the margin of some flowery stream
To spread his careless limbs amid the cool
Of plantane shades, and to the listening deer
The tale of slighted vows and love's disdain
Resound soft-warbling all the live-long day:
Consenting zephyr sighs; the weeping rill
Joins in his plaint, melodious; mute the groves;
And hill and dale with all their echoes mourn.
Such and so various are the tastes of men.

O blest of heaven! whom not the languid songs Of luxury, the syren! not the bribes

Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils

Of pageant honour can seduce to leave

Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the store
Of nature fair Imagination culls

To charm the enlivened soul. What though not all
Of mortal offspring can attain the heights
Of envied life; though only few possess
Patrician treasures or imperial state;
Yet Nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures and an ampler state,
Endows at large whatever happy man
Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp
The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns
The princely dome, the column and the arch,
The breathing marble and the sculptured gold,
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim.
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the spring
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him the hand
Of autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooming gold and blushes like the morn.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings;
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes
The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure, unreproved. Nor thence partakes
Fresh pleasure only for the attentive mind,
By this harmonious action on her powers,
Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft
In outward things to meditate the charm
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home
To find a kindred order, to exert
Within herself this elegance of love,

:

This fair inspired delight: her tempered powers
Refine at length, and every passion wears
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.

But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze
On nature's form, where, negligent of all
These lesser graces. she assumes the port
Of that eternal majesty that weighed

The world's foundations: if to these the mind

Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far

Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms
Of servile custom cramp her generous power;
Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth
Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down
To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear?
Lo! she appeals to nature, to the winds
And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course,
The elements and seasons: all declare
For what the eternal Maker has ordained
The powers of man: we feel within ourselves
His energy divine: he tells the heart,

He meant. he made us to behold and love
What he beholds and loves, the general orb
Of life and being; to be great like him,
Beneficent and active. Thus the men

Whom nature's works can charm, with God himself
Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day,
With his conceptions, act upon his plan,
And form to his, the relish of their souls.

Inscription for a Monument to Shakspeare.

O youths and virgins: O declining eld:
O pale misfortune's slaves: O ye who dwell
Unknown with humble quiet: ye who wait
In courts, or fill the golden seat of kings:
O sons of sport and pleasure: O thou wretch
That weep'st for jealous love, or the sore wounds
Of conscious guilt, or death's rapacious hand,
Which left thee void of hope: O ye who roam
In exile, ye who through the embattled field
Seek bright renown, or who for nobler palms
Contend, the leaders of a public cause,
Approach: behold this marble. Know ye not
The features? Hath not oft his faithful tongue
Told you the fashion of your own estate,

The secrets of your bosom? Here then round
His monument with reverence while ye stand,

Say to each other: This was Shakspeare's form;

Who walked in every path of human life,

Felt every passion; and to all mankind

Doth now, will ever taat experience yield

Which his own genius only could acquire.'

Inscription for a Statue of Chaucer, at Woodstock.

Such was old Chaucer: such the placid mien
Of him who first with harmony informed
The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt
For many a cheerful day. These ancient walls
Have often heard him, while his legends blithe
He sang; of love, or knighthood, or the wiles
Of homely life; through each estate and age,
The fashions and the follies of the world
With cunning hand portraying. Though perchance
From Blenheim's towers, O stranger, thou art come
Glowing with Churchill's trophies; yet in vain
Dost thou applaud them, if thy breast be cold

To him, this other hero; who in times

Dark and untaught, began with charming verse
To tame the rudeness of his native land."

GEORGE LORD LYTTELTON.

As a poet, LYTTELTON might escape remembrance, but he comes before us as a general author, and is, from various considerations apart from literary reputation, worthy of notice. He was the son of Sir Thomas Lyttelton of Hagley, in Worcestershire-born on the 17th of January 1709; and after distinguishing himself at Eton and Oxford, he went abroad, and passed some time in France and Italy. On his return, he obtained a seat in parliament, and opposed the measures of Sir Robert Walpole. He became secretary to the Prince of Wales, and was thus able to benefit his literary friends, Thomson and Mallet. Pope admirea his talents and principles, commemorated him in his verse, and remembered him in his will. In 1741, Lyttel ton married Miss Lucy Fortescue of Devonshire, who, dying five years afterwards, afforded a theme for his muse, considered by many the most successful of his poetical efforts. When Walpole and the Whigs were vanquished, Lyttelton was made one of the lords of the treasury. He was afterwards a privy-councillor and chancellor of the exchequer, and was elevated to the peerage. He died August 22, 1773, aged sixty-four. Lyttelton appeared early as an author. In 1728, he published Blenheim,' a poem; in 1732, The Progress of Love;' in 1735, Letters from a Persian in England,' &c. He was author of a short but excellent treatise on the Conversion of St. Paul,' which is still regarded as one of the subsidiary bulwarks of Christianity. He wrote this work in 1746, as he has stated, with 'a particular view to the satisfaction' of Thomson the poet, to whom he was strongly attached. Another prose work of Lyttelton's, ‘Dialogues of the Dead' (1760), enjoyed considerable popularity. He also wrote an elaborate History of the Reign of Henry II.,' to which he brought ample information and a spirit of impartiality and justice; but the work is dry and tedious-not illuminated,' as Gibbon remarks, by a ray of genius.' These various works, and his patronage of literary men-Fielding, it will be recollected, dedicated to him his Tom Jones,' and to Thomson he was a firm friend-constitute the chief claim of Lyttelton upon the regard of posterity. As a politician, though honest, he was not distinguished. Gray has praised his ' Monody' on his wife's death as tender and elegiac; but undoubtedly the finest poetical effusion of Lyttelton is his Prologue to Thomson's tragedy of 'Coriolanus.' Before this play could be brought out, Thomson had paid the debt of nature. The tragedy was acted for the benefit of the poet's relations, and when Quin spoke the prologue by Lyttelton, many of the audience wept at the lines

He loved his friends-forgive this gushing tear:
Alas! I feel I am no actor here.

From the Monody.

In vain I look around

O'er all the well-known ground,

My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry;

Where oft we used to walk,

Where oft in tender talk

We saw the summer sun go down the sky;

Nor by yon fountain's side,

Nor where its waters glide

Along the valley, can she now be found:

In all the wide-stretched prospect's ample bound,
No more my mournful eye

Can aught of her espy,

But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie.

Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns,
Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns,
By your delighted mother's side:

Who now your infant steps shall guide?

Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care
To every virtue would have formed your youth,

And strewed with flowers the thorny ways of truth?
O loss beyond repair!

O wretched father, left alone

To weep their dire misfortune and thy own!

How shall thy weakened mind, oppressed with woe, And dropping o'er thy Lucy's grave,

Perform the duties that you doubly owe,

Now she, alas ! is gone,

From folly and from vice their helpless age to save!

From 'Advice to a Lady.'

The counsels of a friend, Belinda, hear,
Too roughly kind to please a lady's ear,
Unlike the flatteries of a lover's pen,

Such truths as women seldom learn from men.

Nor think I praise you ill, when thus I shew

What female vanity might fear to know:
Some merit's mine to dare to be sincere;

But greater your sincerity to bear.

Hard is the fortune that your sex attends;
Women, like princes, find few real friends;
All who approach them their own ends pursue;
Lovers and ministers are seldom true.

Hence oft from Reason heedless Beauty strays,
And the most trusted guide the most betrays;
Hence, by fond dreams of fancied power amused,
When most you tyrannise, you're most abused.
What is your sex's earliest. latest care,

Your heart's supreme ambition ?-To be fair.
For this the toilet every thought employs,
Hence all the toils of dress, and all the joys:
For this, hands, lips, and eyes are put to school,
And each instructed feature has its rule:
And yet how few have learnt, when this is given,
Not to disgrace the partial boon of Heaven!
How few with all their pride of form can move!
How few are lovely, that are made for love!
Do you, my fair, endeavour to possess
An elegance of mind, as well as dress;
Be that your ornament, and know to please
By graceful Nature's unaffected ease."
Nor make to dangerous wit a vain pretence,
But wisely rest content with modest sense;

For wit, like wine, intoxicates the brain,

Too strong for feeble woman to sustain:

Of those who claim it more than half have none;
And half of those who have it are undone.

Be still superior to your sex's arts,

Nor think dishonesty a proof of parts;
For you, the plainest is the wisest rule:

A cunning woman is a knavish fool.

Be good yourself, nor think another's shame
Can raise your merit, or adorn your fame.
Virtue is amiable, mild, serene;

Without all beauty, and all peace within;
The honour of a prude is rage and storm,
'Tis ugliness in its most frightful form;
Fiercely it stands, defying gods and men,
As fiery monsters guard a giant's den.
Seek to be good, but aim not to be great;
A woman's noblest station is retreat;
Her fairest virtues fly from public sight,
Domestic worth, that shuns too strong a light.

Prologue to the Tragedy of Coriolanus-Spoken by Mr. Quin.

I come not here your candour to implore
For scenes whose author is, alas! no more
He wants no advocate his cause to plead ;
You will yourselves be patrons of the dead.
No party his benevolence confined,

No sect-alike it flowed to all mankind.

He loved his friends-forgive this gushing tear:
Alas! I feel I am no actor here-

He loved his friends with such a warmth of heart,
So clear of interest, so devoid of art,

Such generous friendship, such unshaken zeal,
No words can speak it, but our tears may tell.
O candid truth! O faith without a stain !
O anners gently firm, and nobly plain!
O sympathising love of others' bliss-

Where will you find another breast like his !
Such was the man; the poet well you know;
Oft has he touched your hearts with tender woe;
Oft in this crowded house, with just applause,
You heard him teach fair Virtue's purest laws;

For his chaste muse employed her heaven-taught lyre
None but the noblest passions to inspire;
Not one immoral, one corrupted thought,
One line which, dying, he could wish to blot.
O may to-niglit your favourable doom
Another laurel add to grace his tomb:
Whilst he, superior now to praise or blame,
Hears not the feeble voice of human fame.
Yet if to those whom most on earth he loved,
From whom his pious care is now removed,
With whom his liberal hand, and bounteous heart,
Shared all his little fortune could impart :

If to those friends your kind regard shall give
What they no longer can from his receive,
That, that, even now, above yon starry pole.
May touch with pleasure his immortal soul.

To the Castle of Indolence,' Lyttelton contributed the following excellent stanza, containing a portrait of Thomson: