He imagines himself married to Delia, and that, content with each other, they are retired into the country. LET others boast their heaps of shining gold, And view their fields, with waving plenty crown'd, Whom neighbouring foes in constant terror hold, And trumpets break their slumbers, never sound:

(*Through all Tickell's works there is a strain of balladthinking, if I may so express it: and in this professed ballad Le seems to have surpassed himself. It is, perhaps, the best in our language in this way.-GOLDSMITH.

I always thought Tickell's ballad the prettiest in the world.-GRAY to Walpole.]

[† The best criticism on Hammond has been anticipated by Cowley, that "he served up the cold-meats of the ancients, new-heated and new set-forth."

"Sure Hammond has no right," says Shenstone," to the

While calmly poor I trifle life away,
Enjoy sweet leisure by my cheerful fire,
No wanton hope my quiet shall betray,
But, cheaply bless'd, I'll scorn each vain desire.

With timely care I'll sow my little field,
And plant my orchard with its master's hand,
Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield,
Or range my sheaves along the sunny land.

least inventive merit. I do not think that there is a single thought in his Elegies of any eminence, that is not literally translated. I am astonished he could content himself with being so little an original." "I question," he adds in another place, "whether they had taken without the interest of his genteel acquaintance, or indeed if the author had not died precedently." What has been said of Kirke White, that consumption and Southey have been the salvation of his verse, is more true when said of Hammond, of disease and Lord Chesterfield.]

If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,
I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb,
Under my arm I'll bring the wanderer home,
And not a little chide its thoughtless dam.
What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast!
Or, lull'd to slumber by the beating rain,
Secure and happy, sink at last to rest!
Or, if the sun in flaming Leo ride,
By shady rivers indolently stray,
And with my Delia, walking side by side,
Hear how they murmur as they glide away!
What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
To stop and gaze on Delia as I go!
To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,
And teach my lovely scholar all I know!
Thus pleased at heart, and not with fancy's dream,
In silent happiness I rest unknown;
Content with what I am, not what I seem,
I live for Delia and myself alone.

Ah, what avails to press the stately bed,
And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep,
By marble fountains lay the pensive head,
And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep!

Delia alone can please, and never tire,
Exceed the paint of thought in true delight;
With her, enjoyment wakens new desire,
And equal rapture glows through every night:

Beauty and worth in her alike contend,
To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind;
In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend,
I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd.

On her I'll gaze, when others' loves are o'er,
And dying press her with my clay-cold hand-
Thou weep'st already, as I were no more,
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.
Oh, when I die, my latest moments spare,
Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill,
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair,
Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still:

Oh, quit the room, oh, quit the deathful bed,
Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart;
Oh, leave me, Delia, ere thou see me dead,
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part;
Let them extended on the decent bier,
Convey the corse in melancholy state;
Through all the village spread the tender tear,
While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate.

WILLIAM SOMERVILE was born at Edston, in Warwickshire, of an ancient and illustrious family. He possessed an estate of £1500 a year,* was amiable and hospitable, and united elegant and refined pursuits with the active amusements

which he has celebrated in his poem of the Chase; but from deficiency in economy and temperance was driven, according to Shenstone's account, to drink himself into pains of body in order to get rid of those of the mind.

BACCHUS TRIUMPHANT.

A TALE.

"FOR shame," said Ebony, "for shame!
Tom Ruby, troth, you're much to blame,
To drink at this confounded rate,
To guzzle thus, early and late."

Poor Tom, who just had took his whet,
And at the door his uncle met,
Surprised and thunder-struck, would fain
Make his escape, but, oh! in vain

Each blush that glow'd with an ill grace,
Lighted the flambeaux in his face;
No loop-hole left, no slight pretence,
To palliate the foul offence.
"I own (said he) I'm very bad—
A sot-incorrigibly mad—

But, sir-I thank you for your love,
And by your lectures would improve:
Yet, give me leave to say, the street
For conference is not so meet.
Here, in this room-nay, sir, come in—
Expose, chastise me for my sin;
Exert each trope, your utmost art,
To touch this senseless, flinty heart.
I'm conscious of my guilt, 'tis true,
But yet I know my frailty too;
A slight rebuke will never do,
Urge home my faults-come in, I pray-
Let not my soul be cast away."

Wise Ebony, who deem'd it good
T'encourage by all means he could
These first appearances of grace,
Follow'd up stairs, and took his place.
The bottle and the crust appear'd,
And wily Tom demurely sneer'd.

[* Somervile's estate was part in Warwickshire and part in Gloucestershire. He must have been born before 1692, if there is any truth in the assertions of song, for among his works is an epistle to Aikman the painter, "on his painting a full-length portrait of the author in the decline of life, carrying him back, by the assistance of another portrait, to his youthful days," wherein he says that he is then passed his zenith, and

All the poor comfort that I now can share,
Is the soft blessing of an elbow-chair-

which if his biographers tell the truth must have been said of himself when thirty-eight, for Aikman was dead early in 1731. Shenstone, moreover, imputes his foibles to age: the foibles of fifty are not the foibles of age. "The

"My duty, sir!"-"Thank you, kind Tom."—
"Again, an't please you."-"Thank you: Come."
"Sorrow is dry-I must once more-"
"Nay, Tom, I told you at the door

I would not drink-what! before dinner?
Not one glass more, as I'm a sinner-
Come, to the point in hand; is't fit
A man of your good sense and wit
Those parts which Heaven bestow'd should
drown,

A butt to all the sots in town?
Why, tell me, Tom-what fort can stand
(Though regular, and bravely mann'd)
If night and day the fierce foe plies
With never-ceasing batteries;
Will there not be a breach at last?"-
"Uncle, 'tis true-forgive what's past."
"But if nor interest, nor fame,

Nor health, can your dull soul reclaim,
Hast not a conscience, man? no thought
Of an hereafter? dear are bought
These sensual pleasures."-"I relent,
Kind sir-but give your zeal a vent-"
Then, pouting, hung his head; yet still
Took care his uncle's glass to fill,
Which as his hurried spirits sunk,
Unwittingly, good man! he drunk.
Each pint, alas! drew on the next,
Old Ebony stuck to his text,
Grown warm, like any angel spoke,
Till intervening hiccups broke
The well-strung argument. Poor Tom
Was now too forward to reel home;
That preaching still, this still repenting,
Both equally to drink consenting,

Chase," the monument to his name, was first published in the May of 1735. His portrait is at Lord Somerville's, and engraved before the Memoirs of the Somerville's a very extraordinary performance; a portion of the debt due by the public to Sir Walter Scott. He was, we are told by Lady Luxborough, "of a very fair complexion," and he describes himself in one of his rhyming effusions to Ramsay, as

A squire well-born and six foot high.

"Whatever," says Shenstone, "the world might esteem in poor Somerville, I really find upon critical inquiry, that I loved him for nothing so much as his flocci-nauci-nihilipili-fication of money." A happiness of expression used more than once by its author.]

Till both, brimful, could swill no more, And fell dead drunk upon the floor.

Bacchus, the jolly god, who sate Wide-straddling o'er his tun in state, Close by the window side, from whence He heard this weighty conference; Joy kindling in his ruddy cheeks, Thus the indulgent godhead speaks: "Frail mortals, know, reason in vain Rebels, and would disturb my reign. See there the sophister o'erthrown, With stronger arguments knock'd down Than e'er in wrangling schools were known! The wine that sparkles in this glass Smoothes every brow, gilds every face:

As vapours when the sun appears,
Far hence anxieties and fears:

Grave ermine smiles, lawn sleeves grow gay,
Each haughty monarch owns my sway,
And cardinals and popes obey:
Even Cato drank his glass, 'twas I
Taught the brave patriot how to die
For injured Rome and liberty;
'Twas I who with immortal lays
Inspired the bard that sung his praise.
Let dull unsociable fools

Loll in their cells, and live by rules;
My votaries, in gay delight

And mirth, shall revel all the night;
Act well their parts on life's dull stage,
And make each moment worth an age."

AD AMICOS.*

YES, happy youths, on Camus's sedgy side,
You feel each joy that friendship can divide;
Each realm of science and of art explore,
And with the ancient blend the modern lore.
Studious alone to learn whate'er may tend
To raise the genius, or the heart to mend ;
Now pleased along the cloister'd walk you rove,
And trace the verdant mazes of the grove,
Where social oft, and oft alone, ye chuse
To catch the zephyr, and to court the muse.
Meantime at me (while all devoid of art
These lines gave back the image of my heart)
At me the power that comes or soon or late,
Or aims, or seems to aim, the dart of fate;
From you remote, methinks, alone I stand,
Like some sad exile in a desert land;
Around no friends their lenient care to join
In mutual warmth, and mix their hearts with mine.
Or real pains, or those which fancy raise,
For ever blot the sunshine of my days;
To sickness still, and still to grief a prey,
Health turns from me her rosy face away.
Just heaven! what sin ere life begins to bloom,
Devotes my head untimely to the tomb?
Did e'er this hand against a brother's life
Drug the dire bowl, or point the murderous knife?
Did e'er this tongue the slanderer's tale proclaim,
Or madly violate my Maker's name?

* An imitation of Elegy V. 3d book of Tibullus.-This poem was written by this interesting youth at the age of twenty. [West's poems are very few in number, and those few are chiefly exercises in Latin. There is a fine vein of tender feeling throughout this poem, and though the

Did e'er this heart betray a friend or foe,
Or know a thought but all the world might know?
As yet just started from the lists of time,
My growing years have scarcely told their prime;
Useless, as yet, through life I've idly run,
No pleasures tasted, and few duties done.
Ah, who, ere autumn's mellowing suns appear,
Would pluck the promise of the vernal year;
Or, ere the grapes their purple hue betray,
Tear the crude cluster from the morning spray
Stern Power of Fate, whose ebon sceptre rules
The Stygian deserts and Cimmerian pools,
Forbear, nor rashly smite my youthful heart,
A victim yet unworthy of thy dart:
Ah, stay till age shall blast my withering face,
Shake in my head, and falter in my pace;
Then aim the shaft, then meditate the blow,
And to the dead my willing shade shall go.

?

How weak is man to Reason's judging eye! Born in this moment, in the next we die; Part mortal clay, and part ethereal fire, Too proud to creep, too humble to aspire. In vain our plans of happiness we raise, Pain is our lot, and patience is our praise; Wealth, lineage, honours, conquest, or a throne, Are what the wise would fear to call their own. Health is at best a vain precarious thing, And fair-faced youth is ever on the wing; 'Tis like the stream beside whose watery bed, Some blooming plant exalts his flowery head;

thoughts are from Tibullus and Pope, yet they are borrowed in no common way; with that kind of liberality which gives a return for what it steals. We may add here what is not at all generally known, that Tom Hearne's Reply to Time is one of young West's felicitous effusions.]

Nursed by the wave the spreading branches rise,
Shade all the ground and flourish to the skies;
The waves the while beneath in secret flow,
And undermine the hollow bank below;
Wide and more wide the waters urge their way,
Bare all the roots, and on their fibres prey.
Too late the plant bewails his foolish pride,
And sinks, untimely, in the whelming tide.

But why repine? Does life deserve my sigh;
Few will lament my loss whene'er I die.
For those the wretches I despise or hate,
I neither envy nor regard their fate.

For me, whene'er all-conquering Death shall spread

His wings around my unrepining head,

I care not: though this face be seen no more,
The world will pass as cheerful as before;
Bright as before the day-star will appear,
The fields as verdant, and the skies as clear;
Nor storms nor comets will my doom declare,
Nor signs on earth nor portents in the air;
Unknown and silent will depart my breath,
Nor Nature e'er take notice of my death.
Yet some there are (ere spent my vital days)
Within whose breasts my tomb I wish to raise.
Loved in my life, lamented in my end,

Their praise would crown me as their precepts mend:

To them may these fond lines my name endear, Not from the Poet but the Friend sincere.

THE FIVE TRAITORS.

A SONG.

THERE's not a sense but still betrays,
Like bosom-snakes, their master;
Where'er my various fancy strays,
It still brings some disaster;
For all my different senses move
To the same centre-fatal love!

My rebel eyes betray my heart,
And ruin me by gazing,

Like burning glasses flames impart,
And set me all a blazing:

These treachrous twins, which should protect,
Like fatal stars my peace have wreck'd.

My simple ears my soul betray,

By listening to the syren;

They who should guard th' important way,
With sounds my heart environ;
Bribed, they admit such potent foes
As rob me of my sweet repose.

My smell, too, plays a traitor's part,
Her fragrant breath admitting;

Her perfumed sighs sharp stings impart,
My simple soul outwitting :

Poor I am led thus by the nose,
And find the nettle in the rose.

My taste the dangerous nectar sips,—
Such nectar gods ne'er tasted;
And sucks ambrosia from her lips;

With ruin thus I'm feasted;
My palate, which should be my cook,
Destroys me with the poison'd hook.

My touch-oh, there contagion lies!
Whene'er I touch I tremble;
Through all my frame the enchantment flies,
An aspen I resemble;

My lips deluding me with bliss,
Betray their master with a kiss.

Whate'er I see, or hear, or smell, Or taste, or touch, delighted, By all together, like a spell,

Am I to love invited :

And other things their ruin shun, But I am by myself undone.

2 L