DR. WALTER POPE was junior proctor of Oxford, in 1668, when a controversy took place respecting the wearing of hoods and caps, which the reigning party considered as the relics of popery. Our proctor, however, so stoutly opposed the revolutionists on this momentous point, that the venerable caps and hoods continued to

be worn till the Restoration. This affair he used to call the most glorious action of his life. Dr. Pope was, however, a man of wit and information, and one of the first chosen fellows of the Royal Society. He succeeded Sir Christopher Wren as Professor of Astronomy in Gresham College.

THE OLD MAN'S WISH.

IF I live to grow old, for I find I go down,
Let this be my fate: in a country town,
May I have a warm house, with a stone at the gate,
And a cleanly young girl to rub my bald pate.

May I govern my passion with an absolute sway, And grow wiser and better, as my strength wears away,

Without gout or stone, by a gentle decay.

Near a shady grove, and a murmuring brook, With the ocean at distance, whereon I may look; With a spacious plain, without hedge or stile, And an easy pad-nag to ride out a mile.

May I govern, &c.

With Horace and Petrarch, and two or three more Of the best wits that reign'd in the ages before; With roast mutton, rather than ven'son or teal, And clean, though coarse linen, at every meal. May I govern, &c.

THE Compass of Parnell's poetry is not extensive, but its tone is peculiarly delightful: not from mere correctness of expression, to which some critics have stinted its praises, but from the graceful and reserved sensibility that accompanied his polished phraseology. The curiosa felicitas, the studied happiness of his diction, does not spoil its simplicity. His poetry is like a flower that has been trained and planted by the skill of the gardener, but which preserves, in its cultured state, the natural fragrance of its wilder air.

His ancestors were of Congleton, in Cheshire. His father, who had been attached to the republican party in the civil wars, went to Ireland at the Restoration, and left an estate which he purchased in that kingdom, together with another at Cheshire, at his death, to the poet. Parnell was educated at the university of Dublin, and having been permitted, by a dispensation, to take

deacon's orders under the canonical age, had the archdeaconry of Clogher conferred upon him by the bishop of that diocese, in his twenty-sixth year. About the same time he married a Miss Anne Minchin, an amiable woman, whose death he had to lament not many years after their union, and whose loss, as it affected Parnell, even the iron-hearted Swift mentions as a heavy misfortune.

Though born and bred in Ireland, he seems to have had too little of the Irishman in his local attachments. His aversion to the manners of his native country was more fastidious than amiable. When he had once visited London, he became attached to it for ever. His zest or talents for society made him the favourite of its brightest literary circles. His pulpit oratory was also much admired in the metropolis; and he renewed his visits to it every year. This, however, was

only the bright side of his existence. His spirits were very unequal, and when he found them ebbing, he used to retreat to the solitudes of Ireland, where he fed the disease of his imagination, by frightful descriptions of his retirement. During his intimacy with the Whigs in England, he contributed some papers, chiefly Visions, to the Spectator and Guardian. Afterward his personal friendship was engrossed by the Tories, and they persuaded him to come over to their side in politics, at the suspicious moment when the Whigs were going out of power. In the frolics of the Scriblerus club, of which he is said to have been the founder, whenever literary allusions were required for the ridicule of pedantry, he may be

supposed to have been the scholar most able to supply them; for Pope's correspondence shows, that among his learned friends he applied to none with so much anxiety as to Parnell. The death of the queen put an end to his hopes of preferment by the Tories, though not before he had obtained, through the influence of Swift, the vicarage of Finglass, in the diocese of Dublin. His fits of despondency, after the death of his wife, became more gloomy, and these aggravated a habit of intemperance which shortened his days. He died, in his thirty-eighth year, at Chester, on his way to Ireland,* and he was buried in Trinity church, in that city, but without a memorial to mark the spot of his interment.

A FAIRY TALE, IN THE ANCIENT ENGLISH
STYLE.

IN Britain's isle, and Arthur's days,
When midnight fairies daunced the maze,
Lived Edwin of the Green;
Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth,
Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth,
Though badly shaped he been.

His mountain back mote well be said
To measure heighth against his head,
And lift itself above;

Yet, spite of all that Nature did
To make his uncouth form forbid,

This creature dared to love.

He felt the charms of Edith's eyes, Nor wanted hope to gain the prize, Could ladies look within;

But one Sir Topaz dress'd with art,
And if a shape could win a heart,
He had a shape to win.

Edwin, if right I read my song,
With slighted passion paced along,
All in the moony light;
'Twas near an old enchanted court,
Where sportive fairies made resort

To revel out the night.

His heart was drear, his hope was cross'd, 'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost

That reach'd the neighbour town; With weary steps he quits the shades, Resolved, the darkling dome he treads

And drops his limbs adown.

But scant he lays him on the floor,
When hollow winds remove the door,
And trembling rocks the ground:
And, well I ween to count aright,
At once a hundred tapers light
On all the walls around.

[He is said to have died in 1717; but in the parish register the entry of his burial is the 18th October, 1718. See Goldsmith's Misc. Works by Prior, vol. iv. p. 512.]

Now sounding tongues assail his ear, Now sounding feet approachen near, And now the sounds increase: And from the corner where he lay, He sees a train profusely gay,

Come prankling o'er the place.

But (trust me, gentles!) never yet
Was dight a masking half so neat,

Or half so rich before;

The country lent the sweet perfumes, The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes, The town its silken store.

Now whilst he gazed, a gallant, drest
In flaunting robes above the rest,
With awful accent cried,
"What mortal of a wretched mind,
Whose sighs infect the balmy wind,
Has here presumed to hide ?"

At this the swain, whose venturous soul
No fears of magic art control,

Advanced in open sight;

"Nor have I cause of dread," he said, "Who view, by no presumption led, Your revels of the night.

""Twas grief, for scorn of faithful love, Which made my steps unweeting rove

Amid the nightly dew." ""Tis well," the gallant cries again, "We fairies never injure men Who dare to tell us true.

"Exalt thy love-dejected heart, Be mine the task, or ere we part,

To make thee grief resign; Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce; Whilst I with Mab, my partner, daunce, Be little Mable thine."

He spoke, and all a sudden there
Light music floats in wanton air;

The monarch leads the queen : The rest their fairy partners found: And Mable trimly tript the ground With Edwin of the Green.

The dauncing past, the board was laid, And siker such a feast was made

As heart and lip desire; Withouten hands the dishes fly, The glasses with a wish come nigh, And with a wish retire.

But, now to please the fairy king,
Full every deal they laugh and sing,
And antic feats devise;

Some wind and tumble like an ape,
And other some transmute their shape
In Edwin's wondering eyes.

Till one at last, that Robin hight,
Renown'd for pinching maids by night,
Has bent him up aloof;
And full against the beam he flung,
Where by the back the youth he hung
To sprawl uneath the roof.

From thence, "Reverse my charm," he cries, "And let it fairly now suffice

The gambol has been shown."
But Oberon answers with a smile,
"Content thee, Edwin, for a while,
The vantage is thine own."

Here ended all the phantom-play;
They smelt the fresh approach of day,

And heard a cock to crow;

The whirling wind that bore the crowd
Has clapp'd the door, and whistled loud,
To warn them all to go.

Then, screaming, all at once they fly, And all at once the tapers die;

Poor Edwin falls to floor; Forlorn his state, and dark the place; Was never wight in such a case

Through all the land before.

But soon as Dan Apollo rose,
Full jolly creature home he goes,

He feels his back the less;
His honest tongue and steady mind
Had rid him of the lump behind,

Which made him want success.

With lusty livelyhed he talks,
He seems a dauncing as he walks,

His story soon took wind;
And beauteous Edith sees the youth
Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth,
Without a bunch behind.

The story told, Sir Topaz moved,
The youth of Edith erst approved,
To see the revel scene:

At close of eve he leaves his home,
And wends to find the ruin'd dome
All on the gloomy plain.

As there he bides, it so befel,
The wind came rustling down a dell,
A shaking seized the wall;

Up spring the tapers as before,
The fairies bragly foot the floor,
And music fills the hall.

But, certes, sorely sunk with woe,
Sir Topaz sees the elfin show,
His spirits in him die:

When Oberon cries, "A man is near,
A mortal passion, cleped fear,

Hangs flagging in the sky."
With that Sir Topaz, hapless youth!
In accents faultering, ay for ruth,
Intreats them pity grant;
For als he been a mister wight,
Betray'd by wandering in the night,
To tread the circled haunt.
"A losell vile," at once they roar;
"And little skill'd of fairy lore,

Thy cause to come we know:
Now has thy kestrel courage fell;
And fairies, since a lie you tell,

Are free to work thee woe."
Then Will, who bears the wispy fire
To trail the swains among the mire,
The caitiff upward flung;
There, like a tortoise in a shop,
He dangled from the chamber top,

Where whilome Edwin hung.
The revels now proceeds apace,
Deftly they frisk it o'er the place,

They sit, they drink, and eat;
The time with frolic mirth beguile,
And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while
Till all the rout retreat.

By this the stars began to wink,
They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink,
And down y-drops the knight:
For never spell by fairy laid
With strong enchantment bound a glade,
Beyond the length of night.
Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay,
Till up the welkin rose the day,

Then deem'd the dole was o'er:
But wot ye well his harder lot?
His seely back the bunch had got
Which Edwin lost afore.

This tale a Sybil-nurse ared;
She softly stroked my youngling head,
And when the tale was done,
"Thus some are born, my son," she cries,
"With base impediments to rise,

And some are born with none.
"But virtue can itself advance
To what the favourite fools of chance
By fortune seem'd design'd;
Virtue can gain the odds of fate,
And from itself shake off the weight
Upon th' unworthy mind."*

[* Never was the old manner of speaking more happily applied, or a tale better told, than this.-GOLDSMITH.]

THE BOOK-WORM.

COME hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day
The book-worm, ravening beast of prey,
Produced by parent earth, at odds,
As fame reports it, with the gods.
Him frantic hunger wildly drives
Against a thousand authors' lives:
Through all the fields of wit he flies;
Dreadful his head with clustering eyes,
With horns without, and tusks within,
And scales to serve him for a skin.
Observe him nearly, lest he climb
To wound the bards of ancient time,
Or down the vale of fancy go
To tear some modern wretch below.
On every corner fix thine eye,
Or ten to one he slips thee by.
See where his teeth a passage eat:
We'll rouse him from the deep retreat.
But who the shelter 's forced to give?
"Tis sacred Virgil, as I live!

From leaf to leaf, from song to song,
He draws the tadpole form along;
He mounts the gilded edge before;
He's up, he scuds the cover o'er;
He turns, he doubles, there he past,
And here we have him, caught at last.
Insatiate brute, whose teeth abuse
The sweetest servants of the Muse!
(Nay, never offer to deny,

I took thee in the fact to fly.)
His roses nipp'd in every page,
My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage;
By thee my Ovid wounded lies;
By thee my Lesbia's sparrow dies;
Thy rabid teeth have half destroy'd
The work of love in Biddy Floyd;
They rent Belinda's locks away,
And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay.
For all, for every single deed,
Relentless justice bids thee bleed.
Then fall a victim to the Nine,
Myself the priest, my desk the shrine.

Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso near,
To pile a sacred altar here;
Hold, boy, thy hand outruns thy wit,
You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ;
You reach'd me Philips' rustic strain;
Pray take your mortal bards again.

Come, bind the victim,-there he lies, And here between his numerous eyes This venerable dust I lay, From manuscripts just swept away.

The goblet in my hand I take, (For the libation 's yet to make,) A health to poets! all their days May they have bread, as well as praise; Sense may they seek, and less engage In papers fill'd with party-rage; But if their riches spoil their vein, Ye Muses, make them poor again!

Now bring the weapon, yonder blade, With which my tuneful pens are made.

I strike the scales that arm thee round,
And twice and thrice I print the wound;
The sacred altar floats with red;
And now he dies, and now he's dead.
How like the son of Jove I stand,
This Hydra stretch'd beneath my hand!
Lay bare the monster's entrails here,
To see what dangers threat the year:
Ye gods! what sonnets on a wench!
What lean translations out of French!
"Tis plain, this lobe is so unsound,
Sprints before the months go round.

But hold, before I close the scene,
The sacred altar should be clean.
Oh had I Shadwell's second bays,
Or, Tate, thy pert and humble lays!
(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow

I never miss'd your works till now,)
I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine
(That only way you please the Nine:)
But since I chance to want these two,
I'll make the songs of Durfey do.

Rent from the corpse, on yonder pin
I hang the scales that braced it in;
I hang my studious morning-gown,
And write my own inscription down.

66

This trophy from the Python won, This robe, in which the deed was done; These, Parnell, glorying in the feat, Hung on these shelves, the Muses' seat. Here ignorance and hunger found

Large realms of wit to ravage round:
Here ignorance and hunger fell:
Two foes in one I sent to hell.
Ye poets, who my labours see,
Come share the triumph all with me!
Ye critics! born to vex the Muse,
Go mourn the grand ally you lose."

AN IMITATION OF SOME FRENCH VERSES.

RELENTLESS Time! destroying power,
Whom stone and brass obey,
Who givest to every flying hour
To work some new decay;
Unheard, unheeded, and unseen,
Thy secret saps prevail,
And ruin man, a nice machine,
By nature form'd to fail.

My change arrives; the change I meet
Before I thought it nigh.

My spring, my years of pleasure fleet,
And all their beauties die.

In age I search, and only find
A poor unfruitful gain,
Grave wisdom stalking slow behind,
Oppress'd with loads of pain.

My ignorance could once beguile,
And fancied joys inspire;
My errors cherish'd hope to smile
On newly-born desire.

But now experience shows, the bliss
For which I fondly sought,
Not worth the long impatient wish,
And ardour of the thought.
My youth met Fortune fair array'd,
In all her pomp she shone,
And might perhaps have well essay'd
To make her gifts my own:

But when I saw the blessings shower
On some unworthy mind,

I left the chase, and own'd the power
Was justly painted blind.

I pass'd the glories which adorn
The splendid courts of kings,

And while the persons moved my scorn,
I rose to scorn the things.

My manhood felt a vigorous fire

By love increased the more;

But years with coming years conspire
To break the chains I wore.

In weakness safe, the sex I see
With idle lustre shine;

For what are all their joys to me,
Which cannot now be mine?

But hold-I feel my gout decrease,
My troubles laid to rest,

And truths which would disturb my peace
Are painful truths at best.

Vainly the time I have to roll

In sad reflection flies;
Ye fondling passions of my soul!
Ye sweet deceits! arise.

I wisely change the scene within,
To things that used to please;
In pain, philosophy is spleen,
In health, 'tis only ease.

A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH.

By the blue taper's trembling light,
No more I waste the wakeful night,
Intent with endless view to pore
The schoolmen and the sages o'er:
Their books from wisdom widely stray,
Or point at best the longest way.
I'll seek a readier path, and go
Where wisdom's surely taught below.

How deep yon azure dyes the sky! Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie, While through their ranks in silver pride The nether crescent seems to glide. The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, The lake is smooth and clear beneath, Where once again the spangled show Descends to meet our eyes below. The grounds, which on the right aspire, In dimness from the view retire: The left presents a place of graves, Whose wall the silent water laves.

That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass with melancholy state
By all the solemn heaps of fate,
And think, as softly-sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,

"Time was, like thee, they life possest
And time shall be, that thou shalt rest."

Those with bending osier bound, That nameless have the crumbled ground, Quick to the glancing thought disclose, Where toil and poverty repose.

The flat smooth stones that bear a name, The chisel's slender help to fame, (Which ere our set of friends decay, Their frequent steps may wear away,) A middle race of mortals own, Men, half ambitious, all unknown.

The marble tombs that rise on high, Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones, Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones; These, all the poor remains of state, Adorn the rich, or praise the great; Who, while on earth in fame they live, Are senseless of the fame they give.

Now from yon black and funeral yew,
That bathes the charnel-house with dew,
Methinks I hear a voice begin;

(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din,
Ye tolling clocks, no time resound
O'er the long lake and midnight ground!)
It sends a peal of hollow groans,
Thus speaking from amongst the bones.

When men my scythe and darts supply,
How great a king of fears am I!
They view me like the last of things;
They make, and then thy draw, my strings.
Fools! if you less provoked your fears,
No more my spectre form appears.
Death's but a path that must be trod,
If man would ever pass to God:
A port of calins, a state to ease
From the rough rage of swelling seas.

Why then thy flowing sable stoles, Deep pendant cypress, mourning poles, Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weeds, Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds, And plumes of black, that, as they tread, Nod o'er the 'scutcheons of the dead?

Nor can the parted body know,

Nor wants the soul, these forms of woe;