VII.

INVITATION TO AN ATTIC FEAST.

LAWRENCE,* of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
From the hard season gaining? Time will run
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire

The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire

The lily and rose, that neither sowed nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touched, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?

He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

* This Mr. Lawrence was the son of the President of Cromwell's Council.

VIII.

A DREAM OF HIS LOST WIFE.

METHOUGHT I saw my late espoused saint

Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave, Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint. Mine (as whom, washed from spot of child-bed taint, Purification in th' old Law did save,

And such as yet once more I trust to have Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint) Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:

Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight, Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined So clear, as in no face with more delight.

But O, as to embrace me she inclined,

I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night!*

*This conclusion has been thought a "conceit," but it is not. The idea is perfectly warranted by the feeling. Returning day, to those who have undergone such calamities, does bring back a veritable night-like gloom to the soul, darker even for the light.

But with no irreverence be it said, that Milton should not have used the word "taint" in connection with child-bed. There is no taint where the mind is not tainted; and the word on such an occasion desecrated both mind and heart.

THOMAS GRAY.

ON THE DEATH OF HIS FRIEND WEST.*

In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,

And reddening Phoebus lifts his golden fire;
The birds in vain their amorous descant join,

Or cheerful fields resume their green attire:
These ears, alas! for other notes repine;

A different object do these eyes require ;
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men;
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;

To warm their little loves the birds complain;
I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear;

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

* For a defence of this beautiful sonnet against the hypercriticism of Wordsworth, see Introductory Essay, pp. 82, 83.

THOMAS WARTON.

I.

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE'S MONASTICON.*

DEEM not devoid of elegance the sage,
By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguiled,
Of painful pedantry the poring child,

Who turns of these proud domes the historic page,
Now sunk by Time and Henry's fiercer rage.†
Think'st thou the warbling Muses never smiled
On his lone hours? Ingenuous views engage
His thoughts on themes, unclassic falsely styled,
Intent. While cloistered Piety displays

Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores
New manners, and the pomp of elder days,
Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores.
Nor rough nor barren are the winding ways
Of hoar antiquity, but strewn with flowers.

*This and the next sonnet were favorites with Hazlitt.

† Alluding to the dissolution of the Monasteries by Henry the Eighth.

Etter trash

II.

AFTER SEEING THE COLLECTION OF PICTURES AT WILTON

HOUSE.

FROM Pembroke's princely dome, where mimic Art

Decks with a magic hand the dazzling bowers,
Its living hues where the warm pencil pours,
And breathing forms from the rude marble start-
How to life's humbler scene can I depart,

In

--

My breast all glowing from these gorgeous towers?
my low cell how cheat the sullen hours?
Vain the complaint; for Fancy can impart
(To Fate superior, and to Fortune's doom)
Whate'er adorns the stately-storied hall.
She, 'mid the dungeon's solitary gloom,

Can dress the Graces in their Attic pall;
Bid the green landscape's vernal beauty bloom,
And in bright trophies clothe the twilight wall.*

* This sonnet, though containing several commonplace expressions, has been justly admired, both for its language in other respects, and for the truthfulness of its feeling. But the author would have given it an additional grace, if he had written a companion sonnet, informing us what verse it was that set the first lines of it flowing; to wit, his father's, - another Thomas Warton, also -like himself— Professor of Poetry at Oxford, and worthy estimator of a student's modest apartments. The main thought in the