too short a date to allow him to perfect such a taste; but how far he was likely to have succeeded, the critic may

I have found among his papers a novel, in rather an imperfect state, which, as soon as I have arranged and collected it, shall be submitted to the public eye.

His sorrows on the death of his brother are the very tears of poesy; and when he complains of the ingratitude of mankind, even the inexperienced cannot but sympathize with him. I wish I were a poet; I should endeavour to catch, by translation, the spirit of those beauties which I admire so warmly.

It seems to have been peculiarly the fate of Catullus, that the better and more valuable part of his poetry has not reached us; for there is confessedly nothing in his extant works to authorize the epithet «doctus,» so universally bestowed upon him by the ancients. If time had suffered the rest to escape, we perhaps should have found among them some more purely amatory; but of those we possess, can there be a sweeter specimen of warm, yet chastened description, than his loves of Acme and Septimius? and the few little songs of dalliance to Lesbia are distinguished by such an exquisite play fulness, that they have always been assumed as models by the most elegant modern Latinists. Still, I must confess, in the midst of these beauties,

Medio de fonte leporum

Surgit amari aliquid, quod in ipsis floribus angat.2 It has often been remarked, that the ancients knew nothing of gallantry; and we are told there was too much sincerity in their love to allow them to trifle with the semblance of passion. But I cannot perceive that they were any thing more constant than the moderns: they felt all the same dissipation of the heart, though they knew not those seductive graces by which gallantry almost teaches it to be amiable. Watton, the learned advocate for the moderns, deserts them in considering this point of comparison, and praises the ancients for their ignorance of such a refinement; but he seems to have collected his notions of gallantry from the insipid fadeurs of the French romances, which are very unlike the sentimental levity, the «grata protervitas,» of a Rochester or a Sedley.

From what I have had an opportunity of observing, the early poets of our own language were the models which Mr LITTLE selected for imitation. To attain their simplicity (ævo rarissima nostro simplicitas) was his fondest ambition. He could not have aimed at a grace more difficult of attainment; 3 and his life was of

Where Mr LITTLE was born, or what is the genealogy of his parents, are points in which very few readers can be interested. His life was one of those humble streams which have scarcely a name in the map of life, and the traveller may pass it by without inquiring its source or direction. His character was well known to all who were acquainted with him; for he had too much vanity to hide its virtues, and not enough of art to conceal its defects. The lighter traits of his mind may be traced perhaps in his writings; but the few for which he was valued live only in the remembrance of his friends.

TO J. ATK-NS-N, ESQ.

MY DEAR SIR,

T. M.

I FEEL a very sincere pleasure in dedicating to you the Second Edition of our friend LITTLE'S Poenis. I am not unconscious that there are many in the collection which perhaps it would be prudent to have altered or omitted; and, to say the truth, I more than once revised them for that purpose; but, I know not why, I distrusted either my heart or my judgment; and the consequence is, you have them in their original form:

Non possunt nostros multe, Faustine, lituræ
mendare jocos, una litura potest.

I am convinced, however, that though not quite a casuiste relâché, you have charity enough to forgive such inoffensive follies: you know the pious Beza was not the less revered for those sportive juvenilia which he published under a fictitious name; nor did the levity of l'embo's poems prevent him from making a very good

cardinal.

IN ALLUSION TO SOME II LIBERAL CRITICISMS.

WHY, let the stingless critic chide
With all that fume of vacant pride
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapour on a stagnant pool!
Oh! if the song, to feeling true,
Can please the elect, the sacred few,
Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught,
Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought-
If some fond feeling maid like thee,
The warm-eyed child of Sympathy,

Shall

say, while o'er my simple theme She languishes in Passion's dream, « He was, indeed, a tender soul

No critic law, no chill control,
Should ever freeze, by timid art,
The flowings of so fond a heart!»>
Yes! soul of Nature! soul of Love!
That, hovering like a snow-wing'd dove,
Breathed o'er my cradle warblings wild,
And hail'd me Passion's warmest child!
Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye,
From Feeling's breast the votive sigh;
Oh! let my song, my memory, find
A shrine within the tender mind;
And I will scorn the critic's chide,
And I will scorn the fume of pride
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapour on a stagnant pool!

TO MRS.

IF, in the dream that hovers
Around my sleeping mind,
Fancy thy form discovers,
And paints thee melting kind;

If joys from sleep I borrow, Sure thou'lt forgive me this; For he who wakes to sorrow At least may dream of bliss!

Oh! if thou art, in seeming, All that I've e'er required: Oh! if I feel, in dreaming,

All that I've e'er desired;

Wilt thou forgive my taking

A kiss, or something more? What thou deny'st me waking, Oh! let me slumber o'er !

Nor vainly think those joys thine own, Which all, alas! have falsely flown! What hours, Catullus, once were thine, How fairly seem'd thy day to shine, When lightly thou didst fly to meet The girl, who smiled so rosy sweetThe girl thou lovedst with fonder pain Than e'er thy heart can feel again! You met-your souls seem'd all in oneSweet little sports were said and done— Thy heart was warm enough for both, And hers indeed was nothing loath. Such were the hours that once were thine; But, ah! those hours no longer shine! For now the nymph delights no more In what she loved so dear before;

And all Catullus now can do
Is to be proud and frigid too;
Nor follow where the wanton flies,
Nor sue the bliss that she denies.
False maid! he bids farewell to thee,
To love, and all love's misery.
The hey-day of his heart is o'er,
Nor will he court one favour more;
But soon he'll see thee droop thy head,
Doom'd to a lone and loveless bed,
When none will seek the happy night,
Or come to traffic in delight!
Fly, perjured girl!-but whither fly?
Who now will praise thy cheek and eye?
Who now will drink the syren tone,
Which tells him thou art all his own?
Who now will court thy wild delights,
Thy honey kiss, and turtle bites?

Oh! none. And he who loved before
Can never, never love thee more!

1 Few poets knew better than Catullus what a French writer alls

la delicatesse

Dun voluptueux sentiment;

but his passions too often obscured his imagination.

EPIGRAM.

Your mother says, my little Venus,
There's something not correct between us,
And you're in fault as much as I
Now, on my soul, my little Venus,
I think 't would not be right between us,
To let your mother tell a lie!

TO JULIA.

THOUGH Fate, my girl, may bid us part, Our souls it cannot, shall not, sever; The heart will seek its kindred heart, And cling to it as close as ever.

But must we, must we part indeed? Is all our dream of rapture over? And does not Julia's bosom bleed To leave so dear, so fond a lover?

Does she too mourn?-Perhaps she may; Perhaps she weeps our blisses fleeting : But why is Julia's eye so gay,

If Julia's heart like mine is beating?

I oft have loved the brilliant glow
Of rapture in her blue eye streaming-
But can the bosom bleed with woe,

While joy is in the glances beaming?

No, no!-Yet, love, I will not chide,

Although your heart were fond of roving: Nor that, nor all the world beside,

Could keep your faithful boy from loving.

You'll soon be distant from his eve,

And, with you, all that's worth possessing. Oh! then it will be sweet to die,

When life has lost its only blessing!

SONG.

SWEET seducer! blandly smiling;
Charming still, and still beguiling!
Oft I swore to love thee never,
Yet I love thee more than ever!

Why that little wanton blushing, Glancing eye, and bosom flushing? Flushing warm, and wily glancing→ All is lovely, all entrancing!

Turn away those lips of blisses--
I am poison'd by thy kisses!
Yet, again, ah! turn them to me:
Ruin's sweet, when they undo me!

Oh! be less, be less enchanting; Let some little grace be wanting; Let my eyes, when I'm expiring, Gaze awhile without admiring!

I believe this epigram is originally French.-E.

NATURE'S LABELS.

A FRAGMENT.

In vain we fondly strive to trace The soul's reflection in the face;

In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,
Crooked mouth, or short proboscis;
Boobies have look'd as wise and bright
As Plato or the Stagyrite:

And many a sage and learned skull

Has peep'd through windows dark and dull! Since then, though art do all it can, We ne'er can reach the inward man, Nor inward woman, from without (Though, ma'am, you smile, as if in doubt), I think 't were well if Nature could (And Nature could, if Nature would) Some pretty short descriptions write, In tablets large, in black and white,

Which she might hang about our throttles, Like labels upon physic-bottles.

There we might read of all-But stay--

As learned dialectics say,

The argument most apt and ample
For common use, is the example.
For instance, then, if Nature's care
Had not arranged those traits so fair,
Which speak the son of Lucy L-nd-n,
This is the label she'd have pinn'd on.

LABEL FIRST.

Within this vase there lies enshrined
The purest, brightest gem of mind!
Though Feeling's hand may sometimes throw
Upon its charms the shade of woe,
The lustre of the gem, when veil'd,
Shall be but mellow'd, not conceal'd.

Now, sirs, imagine, if you're able,
That Nature wrote a second label,
They're her own words-at least suppose so—
And boldly pin it on Pomposo.

LABEL SECOND.

When I composed the fustian brain
Of this redoubted Captain Vain,
I had at hand but few ingredients,
And so was forced to use expedients.
I put therein some small discerning,
A grain of sense, a grain of learning;
And when I saw the void behind,
I fill'd it up with-froth and wind!

TO MRS M

SWEET lady! look not thus again:
Those little pouting smiles recal
A maid remember'd now with pain,
Who was my love, my life, my all!

Oh! while this heart delirious took

Sweet poison from her thrilling eye, Thus would she pout, and lisp, and look, And I would hear, and gaze, and sigh!

Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine!
Heaven grant no tears but tears of wine.
Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow,
I'll taste the luxury of woe!.

ANACREONTIQUE.

FRIEND Of my

soul! this goblet sip,
T will chase that pensive tear;

T is not so sweet as woman's lip,
But, oh! 't is more sincere.
Like her delusive beam,

'T will steal away thy mind;
But, like affection's dream,
It leaves no sting behind!

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade;
These flowers were cull'd at noon;-

Like woman's love the rose will fade,
But ah! not half so soon!

For, though the flower's decay'd,

Its fragrance is not o'er;
But once when love 's betray'd,

The heart can bloom no more!