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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 brac'd it in; I hang my studious morning-gown, And write my own inscription down.

"This trophy from the Pithon 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 labors see, Come share the triumph all with me! Ye critics! born to vex the Muse, Go mourn the grand ally you lose."


NICHOLAS ROWE, descended from an ancient derived his principal claims upon posterity, are family in Devonshire, was the son of John Rowe, chiefly founded on the model of French tragedy; Esquire, a barrister of reputation and extensive and in his diction, which is poetical without being practice. He was born in 1673, at the house of his bombastic or affected; in his versification, which is maternal grandfather, at Little Berkford, in Bed- singularly sweet; and in tirades of sentiment, given fordshire. Being placed at Westminster-school, with force and elegance, he has few competitors. under Dr. Busby, he pursued the classical studies: As a miscellaneous poet, Rowe occupies but an

ing simplicity, scarcely excelled by any pieces of the kind. His principal efforts, however, were in poetical translation; and his version of Lucan's Pharsalia has been placed by Dr. Johnson among the greatest productions of English poetry.

of that place with credit. At the age of sixteen he inconsiderable place among his countrymen; but it was removed from school, and entered a student of has been thought proper to give some of his songs the Middle Temple, it being his father's intention or ballads in the pastoral strain; which have a touchto bring him up to his own profession; but the death of this parent, when Nicholas was only nineteen, freed him from what he probably thought a pursuit foreign to his disposition; and he turned his chief studies to poetry and polite literature. At the age of twenty-five he produced his first tra- In politics, Rowe joined the party of the Whigs, gedy, "The Ambitious Stepmother;" which was under whose influence he had some gainful posts, afterwards succeeded by "Tamerlane;""The Fair without reckoning that of poet-laureate, on the acPenitent;" Ulysses;" "The Royal Convert;" cession of George I. He was twice married to "Jane Shore ;" and Lady Jane Grey." Of women of good connexions, by the first of whom these, though all have their merits, the third and he had a son, and by the second, a daughter. He the two last alone keep possession of the stage; but died in December, 1718, in the 45th year of his Jane Shore in particular never fails to be viewed age, and was interred among the poets in Westwith deep interest. His plays, from which are minster Abbey.

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DESPAIRING beside a clear stream,

A shepherd forsaken was laid;

And while a false nymph was his theme,
A willow supported his head.
The wind that blew over the plain,

To his sighs with a sigh did reply;
And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.

"Alas, silly swain that I was!"

Thus sadly complaining, he cried, "When first I beheld that fair face, "Twere better by far I had died. She talk'd, and I bless'd the dear tongue;

When she smil'd, 'twas a pleasure too great.

I listen'd, and cried, when she sung,
Was nightingale ever so sweet?

"How foolish was I to believe

She could dote on so lowly a clown,
Or that her fond heart would not grieve,
To forsake the fine folk of the town?
To think that a beauty so gay,

So kind and so constant would prove;
Or go clad like our maidens in grey,
Or live in a cottage on love?

"What though I have skill to complain,

Though the Muses my temples have crown'd;
What though, when they hear my soft strain,
The virgins sit weeping around.
Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel resign;
Thy false-one inclines to a swain,
Whose music is sweeter than thine.

"And you, my companions so dear,
Who sorrow to see me betray'd,
Whatever I suffer, forbear,

Forbear to accuse the false maid.

Though through the wide world I should range, "Tis in vain from my fortune to fly; Twas hers to be false and to change, "Tis mine to be constant and die.

If while my hard fate I sustain,

In her breast any pity is found,

Let her come with the nymphs of the plain,
And see me laid low in the ground.
The last humble boon that I crave,

Is to shade me with cypress and yew; And when she looks down on my grave, Let her own that her shepherd was true.

"Then to her new love let her go,

And deck her in golden array, Be finest at every fine show,

And frolic it all the long day; While Colin, forgotten and gone,

No more shall be talk'd of, or seen, Unless when, beneath the pale Moon, His ghost shall glide over the green."



As on a summer's day

In the greenwood shade I lay,
The maid that I lov'd,
As her fancy mov'd,
Came walking forth that way.

And as she passed by, With a scornful glance of her eye, "What a shame," quoth she, "For a swain must it be, Like a lazy loon for to die!

"And dost thou nothing heed, What Pan our God has decreed; What a prize to-day

Shall be given away,

To the sweetest shepherd's reed!

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"What though my fortune frown, And deny thee a silken gown; My own dear maid,

Be content with this shade, And a shepherd all thy own."



To the brook and the willow that heard him complain Ah willow, willow.

Poor Colin sat weeping, and told them his pain; Ah willow, willow; ah willow, willow.

Sweet stream, he cried sadly, I'll teach thee to flow. Ah willow, &c.

And the waters shall rise to the brink with my woe Ah willow, &c.

All restless and painful poor Amoret lies,
Ah willow, &c.

And counts the sad moments of time as it flies.
Ah willow, &c.

To the nymph my heart loves, ye soft slumbers repair, Ah willow, &c.

Spread your downy wings o'er her, and make her

your care.

Ah willow, &c.

Dear brook, were thy chance near her pillow to creep, Ah willow, &c.

Perhaps thy soft murmurs might lull her to sleep. Ah willow, &c.

Let me be kept waking, my eyes never close,
Ah willow, &c.

So the sleep that I lose brings my fair-one repose,
Ah willow, &c.

But if I am doom'd to be wretched indeed;
Ah willow, &c.

If the loss of my dear-one, my love is decreed ;
Ah willow, &c.

If no more my sad heart by those eyes shall be cheer'd;

Ah willow, &c.

If the voice of my warbler no more shall be heard; Ah willow, &c.

Believe me, thou fair-one; thou dear-one believe, Ah willow, &c.

Few sighs to thy loss, and few tears will I give. Ah willow, &c.

One fate to thy Colin and thee shall be tied,
Ah willow, &c.

And soon lay thy shepherd close by thy cold side.
Ah willow, &c.

Then run, gentle brook; and to lose thyself, haste; Ah willow, willow.

Fade thou too, my willow, this verse is my last, Ah willow, willow; ah willow, willow.


JOSEPH ADDISON, a person in the foremost ranks | superior efforts, has deserved that degree of praise, of wit and elegant literature, was the son of the which, in general estimation, has been allotted to Reverend Lancelot Addison, at whose parsonage at him. It cannot be doubted that playful and huMilston, near Ambrosbury, Wiltshire, he was born morous wit was the quality in which he obtained in May, 1672. At the age of fifteen he was entered almost unrivalled pre-eminence; but the reader of of Queen's College, Oxford, where he distinguished his poem to Sir Godfrey Kneller will discover, in himself by his proficiency in classical literature, the comparison of the painter to Phidias, a very especially in Latin poetry. He was afterwards happy and elegant resemblance pointed out in his elected a demy of Magdalen College, where he took verse. His celebrated tragedy of "Cato," equally the degrees of bachelor and master of arts. In his remarkable for a correctness of plan, and a sustained twenty-second year he became an author in his own elevation of style, then unusual on the English language, publishing a short copy of verses addressed stage, was further distinguished by the glow of its to the veteran poet, Dryden. Other pieces in verse sentiments in favor of political liberty, and was and prose succeeded; and in 1695 he opened the equally applauded by both parties. career of his fortune as a literary man, by a complimentary poem on one of the campaigns of King William, addressed to the Lord-keeper Somers. A pension of 300l. from the crown, which his patron obtained for him, enabled him to indulge his inclination for travel; and an epistolary poem to Lord Halifax in 1701, with a prose relation of his travels, published on his return, are distinguished by the spirit of liberty which they breathe, and which, during life, was his ruling passion. The most famous of his political poems, "The Campaign," appeared in 1704. It was a task kindly imposed by Lord Halifax, who intimated to him that the writer should not lose his labor. It was accordingly rewarded by an immediate appointment to the post of commissioner of appeals.

A very short account will suffice for the remainder of his works. His connexion with Steele engaged him in occasionally writing in the Tatler, the Spectator, and the Guardian, in which his productions, serious and humorous, conferred upon him immortal honor, and placed him deservedly at the head of his class. Some other periodical papers, decidedly political, were traced to Addison, of which The Freeholder was one of the most conspicuous. In 1716 he married the Countess-Dowager of Warwick, a connexion which is said not to have been remarkably happy. In the following year he was raised to the office of one of the principal secretaries of state; but finding himself ill suited to the post, and in a declining state of health, he resigned it to Mr. Craggs. In reality, his constitution was This will be the proper place for considering the suffering from an habitual excess in wine; and it is merits of Addison in his character of a writer in a lamentable circumstance that a person so generally verse. Though Dryden and Pope had already se- free from moral defects, should have given way to cured the first places on the British Parnassus, and a fondness for the pleasures of a tavern life. Addiother rivals for fame were springing to view, it will son died in June, 1719, leaving an only daughter scarcely be denied that Addison, by a decent medi- by the Countess of Warwick.

ocrity of poetic language, rising occasionally to



Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
Magna virum! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis
Aggredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes.

Virg. Georg. ii.

WHILE you, my lord, the rural shades admire,
And from Britannia's public posts retire,
Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please,

For their advantage sacrifice your ease;

Me into foreign realms my fate conveys
Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,
Where the soft season and inviting clime
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme.

For wheresoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise,
Poetic fields encompass me around,

And still I seem to tread on classic ground;
For here the Muse so oft her harp has strung,
That not a mountain rears its head unsung,
Renown'd in verse each shady thicket grows,
And every stream in heavenly numbers flows.
How am I pleas'd to search the hills and woods
For rising springs and celebrated floods!

To view the Nar, tumultuous in his course,
And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source,
To see the Mincio draw his watery store,
Through the long windings of a fruitful shore,
And hoary Albula's infected tide
O'er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide.
Fir'd with a thousand raptures, I survey
Eridanus through flowery meadows stray,
The king of floods! that, rolling o'er the plains,
The towering Alps of half their moisture drains,
And proudly swoln with a whole winter's snows,
Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows.

Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng,
I look for streams immortaliz'd in song,
That lost in silence and oblivion lie,

Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,
And emperors in Parian marble frown:
While the bright dames, to whom they humbly sued
Still show the charms that their proud hearts sub-

Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse,
And show th' immortal labors in my verse,
Where, from the mingled strength of shade and light
A new creation rises to my sight,

Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow,
So warm with life his blended colors glow.
From theme to theme with secret pleasure tost,
Amidst the soft variety I'm lost:

Here pleasing airs my ravish'd soul confound
With circling notes and labyrinths of sound;

(Dumb are their fountains and their channels dry,) Here domes and temples rise in distant views,

Yet run for ever by the Muse's skill,
And in the smooth description murmur still.
Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,
And the fam'd river's empty shores admire,
That destitute of strength derives its course
From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source;
Yet sung so often in poetic lays,
With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys;
So high the deathless Muse exalts her theme!
Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream,
That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd,
And, unobserv'd, in wild meanders play'd;
Till by your lines and Nassau's sword renown'd,
Its rising billows through the world resound,
Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce,
Or where the fame of an immortal verse.

Oh, could the Muse my ravish'd breast inspire With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire, Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine, And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine!

See how the golden groves around me smile, That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle, Or, when transplanted and preserv'd with care, Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. Here kindly warmth their mountain juice ferments To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents: E'en the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom, And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats, Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats; Where western gales eternally reside, And all the seasons lavish all their pride: Blossoms, and fruits, and flowers together rise, And the whole year in gay confusion lies.

Immortal glories in my mind revive, And in my soul a thousand passions strive, When Rome's exalted beauties I descry Magnificent in piles of ruin lie. An amphitheatre's amazing height Here fills my eye with terror and delight, That on its public shows unpeopled Rome, And held, uncrowded, nations in its womb: Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies, And here the proud triumphal arches rise, Where the old Romans deathless acts display'd, Their base degenerate progeny upbraid: Whole rivers here forsake the fields below, [flow. And wondering at their height through airy channels Still to new scenes my wandering Muse retires, And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires: Where the smooth chisel all its force has shown, And soften'd into flesh the rugged stone. In solemn silence, a majestic band, Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls stand..

And opening palaces invite my Muse.

How has kind Heaven adorn'd the happy land, And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand! But what avail her unexhausted stores, Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores, With all the gifts that Heaven and Earth impart, The smiles of Nature, and the charms of Art, While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, And tyranny usurps her happy plains? The poor inhabitant beholds in vain The reddening orange and the swelling grain Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines: Starves in the midst of Nature's bounty curst, And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst.

O Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright, Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight! Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, And smiling Plenty leads thy wanton train; Eas'd of her load, Subjection grows more light, And Poverty looks cheerful in thy sight; Thou mak'st the gloomy face of Nature gay, Giv'st beauty to the Sun, and pleasure to the day Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores; How has she oft exhausted all her stores, How oft in fields of death thy presence sought, Nor thinks the mighty prize too dearly bought! On foreign mountains may the Sun refine The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine, With citron groves adorn a distant soil, And the fat olive swell with floods of oil: We envy not the warmer clime, that lies In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, Nor at the coarseness of our Heaven repine, Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine: "Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle,

And makes her barren rocks and her bleak moun

tains smile.

Others with towering piles may please the sight, And in their proud aspiring domes delight; A nicer touch to the stretcht canvas give, Or teach their animated rocks to live: 'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate, And hold in balance each contending state, To threaten bold presumptuous kings with war, And answer her afflicted neighbor's prayer. The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by fierce alarms, Bless the wise conduct of her pious arms: Soon as her fleets appear, their terrors cease, And all the northern world lies hush'd in peace. Th' ambitious Gaul beholds with secret dread Her thunder aim'd at his aspiring head, And fain her godlike sons would disunite By foreign gold, or by domestic spite:

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