relation in Yorkshire, both for the purpose of amending his own health, and that his sister's accomplishments in music and dancing might be more advantageously pursued. Here he entered into some sort of dissipation. He hunted in the mornings, danced in the evenings, and having no books with him trifled away, I suppose, the intermediate hours. Among the few volumes which he found at his relative's, happened to be Spenser's Fairy Queen; this he sometimes read, and soon strove to imitate. He squandered some time in unprofitable attempts to adapt the language and stanza of Spenser to ideas of his own; but his mother's good sense soon reminded him that he was idly wasting hours upon a species of composition which, when best done, is seldom read with pleasure, and when ill done, is certain to be treated with contempt.

His mind, however, could not remain totally inactive. When his taste was rescued from the influence of Spenser's verse, he turned to more legitimate modes of writing, and being favoured with the perusal of a copy of elegiac verses, written by the Lady Susan, daughter of the Earl of Galloway, who was then residing at York, with his family, he wrote a reply to them, in quatrains. The subject of the lady's pen seemed to be taken from Hamlet's meditations on the scull of Yorick. What they were I cannot tell, for Cumberland did not feel himself at liberty to publish them; but

G

his own he has, and as they have merit, I will transcribe them here.

"True! We must all be changed by death,

Such is the form the dead must wear,

And so, when Beauty yields its breath,

So shall the fairest face appear.

But let thy soul survey the grace,

That yet adorns its frail abode,

And through the wond'rous fabric trace
The hand of an unerring God.

Why does the blood in stated round
Its vital warmth throughout dispense?
Who tun'd the ear to every sound,
And lent the hand its ready sense?

Whence had the eyes that subtle force,
That languor, they by turns display?
Who hung the lips with prompt discourse,
And tun'd the soft melodious lay?

What but thy Maker's image there
In each external part is seen?
But 'tis thy better part to wear
His image pictur'd best within.

Else what avail'd the raptur'd strain,
Did not the mind her aid impart,
The melting eye would speak in vain,
Flow'd not its language from the heart,

The blood, with stated pace, had crept
Along the dull and sluggish veins,
The ear insensibly had slept,
Though angels sung in choicest strains.

It is that spark of quickning fire,
To every child of nature giv'n,
That either kindles wild desire,
Or lights us on the road to heav'n.

That spark, if Virtue keeps it bright,
And Genius fans it into flame,
Aspiring mounts, and in its flight,
Soars far above this earthly frame.

Strong and expansive in its view,
It tow'rs amidst the boundless sky,
Sees planets other orbs pursue,
Whose systems other suns supply.

Such Newton was, diffusing far

His radiant beams; such Cotes had been, This a bright comet; that a star,

Which glitter'd, and no more was seen.

Blush then, if thou hast sense of shame,
Inglorious, ign'rant, impious slave!
Who think'st this heav'n-created frame
Shall basely perish in the grave.

False as thou art, dar'st thou suggest
That thy Creator is unjust?

Wilt thou the truth with Him contest,
Whose wisdom form'd thee of the dust?

Say, dotard, hath He idly wrought,
Or are his works to be heliev'd?
Speak, is the whole creation nought?
Mortal, is God or thou deceiv'd ?

Thy harden'd spirit, convict at last,
Its damning error shall perceive,
Speechless shall hear its sentence past,
Condemn'd to tremble and believe.

But thou in reason's sober light
Death clad with terror can'st survey,
And from the foul and ghastly sight

Derive the pure and moral lay.

Go on, sweet Nymph, and when thy Muse
Visits the dark and dreary tomb,
Bright-rob'd Religion shall diffuse
Her radiance, and dispel the gloom.

And when the necessary day

Shall call thee to thy saving God,

Secure thou'lt chuse that better way,

Which Conscience points and Saints have trode.

So shall thy soul at length forsake

The fairest form e'er soul receiv'd,

Of those rich blessings to partake,

Which eye ne'er saw, nor heart conceiv'd.

There, 'midst the full angelic throng,

Praise Him, who those rich blessings gave,
There shall resume the grateful song,

A joyful victor o'er the grave.'”

Nor was this the only trifle with which he amused his vacant hours at York. He had renounced Spenser, and adopted Hammond as a model to imitate; but the same judicious monitress who had ridiculed his folly in the former instance, attacked it in the present; and so sensible was he to her suggestions, that he soon abandoned his love master in writing, and took his leave of him in the following spritely lines, written almost extempore:

"When wise men love they love to folly,
When blockheads love they're melancholy,
When coxcombs love, they love for fashion,
And quaintly call it the belle passion.

Old bachelors, who wear the willow,
May dream of love and hug the pillow,
Whilst love, in poet's fancy rhyming,
Sets all the bells of folly chiming,

But women, charming women, prove
The sweet varieties of love,

They can love all, but none too dearly,
Their husbands too, but not sincerely.

They'll love a thing, whose outward shape
Marks him twin brother to an ape;
They'll take a miser for his riches,
And wed a beggar without breeches.

Marry, as if in love with ruin,

A gamester to their sure undoing,

A drunkard raving, swearing, storming,

For the dear pleasure of reforming.

They'll wed a lord, whose breath shall falter

Whilst he is crawling from the altar:

What is there women will not do,

When they love man and money too?'”

If the reprehension of his mother extended only to the danger of imitation, as a practice which is apt to enfeeble the mind, and make it diffident of its own powers, I fully accord with the prudence of her proceeding, for no imitator has ever risen to eminence; but if she implied, in her disapprobation of the practice, any censure of the writer whose strains were the object of her son's imitation, I should reluctantly believe the testimonies which I have mentioned, of her superior capacity and taste. No writer in our language has written with more tender elegance than Hammond, if a living