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You reach'd me Philips' rustic strain ;

But hold, before I close the scene, Pray take your mortal bards again.

The sacred altar should be clean. Come, bind the victim, - there he lies,

Oh had I Shadwell's second bays, And here between his numerous eyes

Or, Tate! thy pert and humble lays ! This venerable dust I lay,

(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow From manuscripts just swept away.

I never miss'd your works till now,) The goblet in my hand I take,

I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine, (For the libation's yet to make,)

(That only way you please the Nine,) A health to poets! all their days

But since I chance to want these two, May they have bread, as well as praise ;

I'll make the songs of Durfey do. Sense may they seek, and less engage

Rent from the corps, on yonder pin, In papers fill'd with party-rage.

I hang the scales that brac'd it in; But if their riches spoil their vein,

I hang my studious morning-gown, Ye Muses, make them poor again.

And write my own inscription down. Now bring the weapon, yonder blade,

“ This trophy from the Pithon won, With which my tuneful pens are made.

This robe, in which the deed was done, I strike the scales that arm thee round,

These, Parnell, glorying in the feat, And twice and thrice I print the wound;

Hung on these shelves, the Muses' seat. The sacred altar floats with red,

Here Ignorance and Hunger found And now be dies, and now he's dead.

Large realms of Wit to ravage round: How like the son of Jove I stand,

Here Ignorance and Hunger fell ? This Hydra stretch'd beneath my hand !

Two foes in one I sent to Hell. Lay bare the monster's entrails here,

Ye poets, who my labours see, To see what dangers threat the year :

Come share the triumph all with me! Ye gods! what sonnets on a wench !

Ye critics ! born to vex the Muse, What lean translations out of French !

Go mourn the grand ally you lose." 'Tis plain, this lobe is so unsound, S— prints, before the months go round.

NICHOLAS ROWE.

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 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 ing simplicity, scarcely excelled by any pieces of death of this parent, when Nicholas was only nine- the kind. His principal efforts, however, were in teen, freed him from what he probably thought a poetical translation; and his version of Lucan's pursuit foreign to his disposition; and he turned Pharsalia has been placed by Dr. Johnson among his chief studies to poetry and polite literature. the greatest productions of English poetry. 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-laureat, 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 connections, 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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Though through the wide world I should range,

“ What though my fortune frown, 'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly;

And deny thee a silken gown; 'Twas hers to be false and to change,

My own dear maid, 'Tis mine to be constant and die.

Be content with this shade,

And a shepherd all thy own.” “ 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;

SONG.
And when she looks down on my grave,

AU WILLOW. TO THE SAME IN HER SICKNESS. Let her own that her shepherd was true.

To the brook and the willow that heard him complain, “ Then to her new love let her go,

Ah willow, willow. And deck her in golden array,

Poor Colin sat weeping, and told them his pain; Be finest at every fine show,

Ah willow, willow ; ah willow, willow.
And frolic it all the long day;
While Colin, forgotten and gone,

Sweet stream, he cry'd sadly, I'll teach thee to flow. No more shall be talk'd of, or seen,

Ah willow, &c. Unless when beneath the pale Moon,

And the waters shall rise to the brink with my woe. His ghost shall glide over the green.”

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

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

Ah willow, &c.
TO MRS. A- - *
As on a summer's day

To the nymph my heart loves, ye soft slumbers In the greenwood shade I lay,

repair; The maid that I lov'd,

Ah willow, &c.

[your care, As her fancy mov'd,

Spread your downy wings o'er her, and make her Came walking forth that way.

* Ah willow, &c.

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JOSEPH ADDISON.

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 favour 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 com A very short account will suffice for the remainplimentary poem on one of the campaigns of King der of his works. His connection with Steele enWilliam, addressed to the Lord-keeper Somers. A gaged him in occasionally writing in the Tatler, the pension of 3001. from the crown, which his patron Spectator, and the Guardian, in which his producobtained for him, enabled him to indulge his inclin | tions, serious and humorous, conferred upon him ation for travel; and an epistolary poem to Lord immortal honour, and placed him deservedly at the Halifax in 1701, with a prose relation of his travels, head of his class. Some other periodical papers, published on his return, are distinguished by the decidedly political, were traced to Addison, of which spirit of liberty which they breathe, and which, during The Freeholder was one of the most conspicuous, life, was his ruling passion. The most famous of his In 1716 he married the Countess-Dowager of Warpolitical poems, “ The Campaign,” appeared in wick, a connexion which is said not to have been 1704. It was a task kindly imposed by Lord Ha remarkably happy. In the following year he was lifax, who intimated to him that the writer should i raised to the office of one of the principal secretanot lose his labour. It was accordingly rewarded ries of state ; but finding himself ill suited to the by an immediate appointment to the post of com post, and in a declining state of health, he resigned missioner of appeals.

it to Mr. Craggs. In reality, his constitution was This will be the proper place for considering the suflering 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 a cured the first places on the British Parnassus, and | fondness for the pleasures of a tavern life. Addison other rivals for fame were springing to view, it will died in June, 1719, leaving an only daughter by the scarcely be denied that Addison, by a decent me Countess of Warwick. diocrity of poetic language, rising occasionally to

Me into foreign realms my fate conveys
A LETTER FROM ITALY. ! Through nations fruitful of immortal lays,

Where the soft season and inviting clime
TO THE RIGHT HON. CHARLES LORD HALIFAX, IN

Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme.
THE YEAR MDCCI,

For wheresoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,

Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise, Magna virûm ! tibi res antiquæ laudis et artis

Poctic fields encompass me around,
Aggredior, sanctos ausus recludere fontes.

And still I seem to tread on classic ground;
Virg. Georg. ii.

| For here the Muse so oft her harp has strung,

| That not a mountain rears its head unsung, W HULE you, my lord, the rural shades admire, ! Renown'd in verse each shady thicket grows, And from Britannia's public posts retire,

And every stream in heavenly numbers flows. Nor longer, her ungrateful sons to please,

How am I pleas'd to search the hills and woods For their advantage sacrifice your ease;

| For rising springs and celebrated floods !

To view tie Nar, tumultuous in his course, Stern tyrants, whom their cruelties renown,
And trace the smooth Clitumnus to his source, And emperors in Parian marble frown:
To see the Mincio draw his watery store,

While the bright dames, to whom they humbly sued, Through the long windings of a fruitful shore, Still show the charms that their proud hearts sub And hoary Albula's infected tide

dued. D'er the warm bed of smoking sulphur glide. Fain would I Raphael's godlike art rehearse, Fir'd with a thousand raptures, I survey

And show th' immortal labours in my verse, Eridanus through flowery meadows stray,

Where, from the mingled strength of shade and light, The king of floods! that, rolling o'er the plains, A new creation rises to my sight, The towering Alps of half their moisture drains, Such heavenly figures from his pencil flow, And proudly swoln with a whole winter's snows, So warm with life his blended colours glow. Distributes wealth and plenty where he flows. From theme to theme with secret pleasure tost,

Sometimes, misguided by the tuneful throng, Amidst the soft variety I'm lost : I look for streams immortalis'd in song,

Here pleasing airs my ravish'd soul confound That lost in silence and oblivion lie,

With cireling 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 opening palaces invite my Muse. And in the smooth description murmur still.

How has kind Heaven adorn'd the happy land, Sometimes to gentle Tiber I retire,

And scatter'd blessings with a wasteful hand! And the fam'd river's empty shores admire, But what avail her unexhausted stores, That destitute of strength derives its course

Her blooming mountains, and her sunny shores, From thrifty urns and an unfruitful source ; With all the gifts that Heaven and Earth impart, Yet sung so often in poetic lays,

The smiles of Nature, and the charms of Art, With scorn the Danube and the Nile surveys; While proud oppression in her valleys reigns, So high the deathless Muse exalts her theme! And tyranny usurps her happy plains ? Such was the Boyne, a poor inglorious stream, The poor inhabitant beholds in vain That in Hibernian vales obscurely stray'd,

The reddening orange and the swelling grain : And, unobserv'd, in wild meanders play'd; Joyless he sees the growing oils and wines, Til by your lines and Nassau's sword renown'd, And in the myrtle's fragrant shade repines : Its rising billows through the world resound, Starves in the midst of Nature's bounty curst, Where'er the hero's godlike acts can pierce,

And in the loaden vineyard dies for thirst. Or where the fame of an immortal verse.

O Liberty, thou goddess heavenly bright, Oh, could the Muse my ravish'd breast inspire Profuse of bliss, and pregnant with delight ! With warmth like yours, and raise an equal fire, Eternal pleasures in thy presence reign, Unnumber'd beauties in my verse should shine, And smiling Plenty leads thy wanton train; And Virgil's Italy should yield to mine!

Eas'd of her load, Subjection grows more light, See how the golden groves around me smile, And Poverty looks cheerful in thy sight; That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle, Thou mak'st the gloomy face of Nature gay, Or, when transplanted and preserv'd with care, Giv'st beauty to the Sun, and pleasure to the day. Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. Thee, goddess, thee, Britannia's isle adores; Here kindly warmth their mountain juice ferments How has she oft exhausted all her stores, To-Dobler tastes, and more exalted scents:

How oft in fields of death thy presence sought, E'en the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom, Nor thinks the mighty prize toc dearly bought! And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. On foreign mountains may the Sun refine Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats,

The grape's soft juice, and mellow it to wine, Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats;

With citron groves adorn a distant soil, Wbere western gales eternally reside,

And the fat olive swell with floods of oil : And all the seasons lavish all their pride :

We envy not the warmer clime, that lies Blossotns, and fruits, and flowers together rise, In ten degrees of more indulgent skies, And the whole year in gay confusion lies.

Nor at the coarseness of our Heaven repine, Immortal glories in my mind revive,

Though o'er our heads the frozen Pleiads shine : And in my soul a thousand passions strive, 'Tis Liberty that crowns Britannia's isle, Wen Rorne's exalted beauties I descry

And makes her barren rocks and her bleak mounMagnificent in piles of ruin lie.

tains smile. An anphitheatre's amazing height

Others with towering piles may please the sight, Here fills my eye with terrour and delight, And in their proud aspiring domes delight; That on its public shows unpeopled Rome,

A nicer touch to the stretcht canvas give, And beld, uncrowded, nations in its womb :

Or teach their animated rocks to live: Here pillars rough with sculpture pierce the skies, 'Tis Britain's care to watch o'er Europe's fate, And here the proud triumphal arches rise,

And hold in balance each contending state, Where the old Romans deathless acts display'd, To threaten bold presumptuous kings with war, Their base degenerate progeny upbraid :

And answer her afflicted neighbour's prayer. Whole rivers here forsake the fields below, [flow. The Dane and Swede, rous'd up by fierce alarms, And wondering at their height through airy channels Bless the wise conduct of her pious arms :

Soll to new scenes my wandering Muse retires, Soon as her fleets appear, their terrours cease, And the dumb show of breathing rocks admires : And all the northern world lies hush'd in peace. Where the smooth chisel all its force has shown, Th' ambitious Gaul beholds with secret dread And soften'd into flesh the rugged stone.

Her thunder aim'd at his aspiring head, Ja solezan silence, a majestic band,

And fain her god-like sons would disunite Heroes, and gods, and Roman consuls stand. | By foreign gold, or by domestic spite :

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