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Alm. Where hast thou been? and how art thou

alive?

How is all this? All-powerful Heaven, what are we? Oh, my strain'd heart-let me again behold thee, For I weep to see thee-Art thou not paler? Much, much; how thou art changed!

Osm. Not in my love.

Alm. No, no! thy griefs, I know, have done this to thee.

Thou hast wept much, Alphonso; and, I fear,
Too much, too tenderly, lamented me.

Osm. Wrong not my love, to say too tenderly.
No more, my life; talk not of tears or grief;
Affliction is no more, now thou art found.
Why dost thou weep, and hold thee from my arms,
My arms which ache to hold thee fast, and grow
To thee with twining? Come, come to my heart !
Alm. I will, for I should never look enough.
They would have married me; but I had sworn
To Heaven and thee, and sooner would have died—
Osm. Perfection of all faithfulness and love!
Alm. Indeed I would-Nay, I would tell thee all.
If I could speak; how I have mourn'd and pray'd:
For I have pray'd to thee, as to a saint;
And thou hast heard my prayer; for thou art come
To my distress, to my despair, which Heaven
Could only, by restoring thee, have cured.

Osm. Grant me but life, good Heaven, but length of days,

To pay some part, some little of this debt,
This countless sum of tenderness and love,
For which I stand engaged to this all-excellence;
Then bear me in a whirlwind to my fate,
Snatch me from life, and cut me short unwarn'd:
Then, then 'twill be enough-I shall be old,
I shall have pass'd all æras then

Of yet unmeasured time; when I have made
This exquisite, this most amazing goodness,
Some recompense of love and matchless truth.

Alm. 'Tis more than recompense to see thy face.
If Heaven is greater joy, it is no happiness,
For 'tis not to be borne-What shall I say ?
I have a thousand things to know and ask,
And speak-That thou art here beyond all hope,
All thought; and all at once thou art before me,
And with such suddenness hast hit my sight,
Is such surprise, such mystery, such ecstacy,
It hurries all my soul, and stuns my sense.
Sure from thy father's tomb thou didst arise?
Osm. I did; and thou, my love, didst call me ;
thou.

Alm. True; but how camest thou there? Wert thou alone?

Osm. I was, and lying on my father's lead, When broken echoes of a distant voice Disturb'd the sacred silence of the vault, In murmurs round my head. I rose and listen'd, And thought I heard thy spirit call Alphonso; I thought I saw thee too; but, Oh, I thought not That I indeed should be so blest to see thee

Alm. But still, how camest thou thither? How thus ?- -Ha!

What's he, who, like thyself, is started here
Ere seen?

Osm. Where? Ha! What do I see, Antonio!
I am fortunate indeed-my friend, too, safe!
Heli. Most happily, in finding you thus bless'd.
Alm. More miracles! Antonio escaped!
Osm. And twice escaped; both from the rage
And war for in the fight I saw him fall. [of seas
Heli. But fell unhurt, a prisoner as yourself,
And as yourself made free; hither I came,
Impatiently to seek you, where I knew
Your grief would lead you to lament Anselmo.
Osm. There are no wonders; or else all is wonder.
Heli. I saw you on the ground, and raised you up,
When with astonishment I saw Almeria.

Osm. I saw her too, and therefore saw not thee. Alm. Nor I; nor could I, for my eyes were yours.

Osm. What means the bounty of all-gracious That persevering still, with open hand, [Heaven, It scatters good, as in a waste of mercy! Where will this end? But Heaven is infinite In all, and can continue to bestow, When scanty number shall be spent in telling.

Leon. Or I am deceived, or I beheld the glimpse Of two in shining habits cross the aisle ; Who, by their pointing, seem to mark this place. Alm. Sure I have dreamt, if we must part so soon. Osm. I wish at least our parting were a dream, Or we could sleep till we again were met.

Heli. Zara and Selim, sir; I saw and know them: You must be quick, for love will lend her wings. Alm. What love? Who is she? Why are you alarm'd?

Osm. She's the reverse of thee; she's my unhappiness.

Harbour no thought that may disturb thy peace ;
But gently take thyself away, lest she

Should come, and see the straining of my eyes
To follow thee.

Retire, my love, I'll think how we may meet
To part no more; my friend will tell thee all;
How I escaped, how I am here, and thus ;
How I am not called Alphonso, now, but Osmyn;
And he Heli, All, all he will unfold,
Ere next we meet-

Alm. Sure we shall meet again——

Osm. We shall; we part not but to meet again.
Gladness and warmth of ever-kindling love
Dwell with thee, and revive thy heart in absence!
[Exeunt ALM. LEON, and HELJ.

Yet I behold her-yet-and now no more.
Turn your lights inward, eyes, and view my

thoughts,

So shall you still behold her-'twill not be.
Oh, impotence of sight! Mechanic sense!
Which to exterior objects owest thy faculty,
Not seeing of election, but necessity.
Thus do our eyes, as do all common mirrors,
Successively reflect succeeding images:
Not what they would, but must; a star, or toad;
Just as the hand of chance administers,

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ELIJAH FENTON was obliged to leave the university on account of his non-juring principles. He was for some time secretary to Charles, Earl of Orrery he afterwards taught the grammarschool of Sevenoaks, in Kent; but was induced, by Bolingbroke, to forsake that drudgery for the more unprofitable state of dependence upon a political patron, who, after all, left him disappointed and in debt. Pope recommended him to Craggs as a literary instructor, but the death of that statesman again subverted his hopes of preferment; and he became an auxiliary to Pope in

translating the Odyssey, of which his share was the first, fourth, nineteenth, and twentieth books. The successful appearance of his tragedy of Mariamne on the stage, in 1723, relieved him from his difficulties, and the rest of his life was comfortably spent in the employment of Lady Trumbull, first as tutor to her son, and afterwards as auditor of her accounts. His character was that of an amiable but indolent man, who drank, in his great chair, two bottles of port wine a day. He published an edition of the poetical works of Milton and of Waller +.

AN ODE TO THE RIGHT HON. JOHN LORD GOWER. WRITTEN IN THE SPRING OF 1716.

OE'R winter's long inclement sway,
At length the lusty Spring prevails;
And swift to meet the smiling May,

Is wafted by the western gales.
Around him dance the rosy Hours,
And damasking the ground with flowers,
With ambient sweets perfume the morn;
With shadowy verdure flourish'd high,
A sudden youth the groves enjoy ;
Where Philomel laments forlorn.
By her awaked, the woodland choir

To hail the coming god prepares ;
And tempts me to resume the lyre,
Soft warbling to the vernal airs.
Yet once more, O ye Muses! deign
For me, the meanest of your train,

Unblamed t' approach your blest retreat :
Where Horace wantons at your spring,
And Pindar sweeps a bolder string;

Whose notes th' Aonian hills repeat.

[* Borrowed from Milton's minor poems, whence, in 1716, one might steal with safety.]

Or if invoked, where Thames's fruitful tides,
Slow through the vale in silver volumes play;
Now your own Phoebus o'er the month presides,
Gives love the night, and doubly gilds the day;
Thither, indulgent to my prayer,
Ye bright harmonious nymphs, repair
To swell the notes I feebly raise :

So with aspiring ardours warm'd
May Gower's propitious ear be charm'd
To listen to my lays.

Beneath the Pole on hills of snow,

Like Thracian Mars, th' undaunted Swede‡

To dint of sword defies the foe;

In fight unknowing to recede :
From Volga's banks, th' imperious Czar
Leads forth his furry troops to war;

[ Fenton wrote nothing equal to his Ode to the Lord Gower, which is, says Joseph Warton, written in the true spirit of lyric poetry. It has received too the praises of Pope and of Akenside, but is better in parts than as a whole.]

[ Charles XII.]

Fond of the softer southern sky: The Soldan galls th' Illyrian coast; But soon the miscreant Moony host Before the Victor-Cross shall fly. But here, no clarion's shrilling note The Muse's green retreat can pierce; The grove, from noisy camps remote, Is only vocal with my verse: Here, wing'd with innocence and joy, Let the soft hours that o'er me fly

Drop freedom, health, and gay desires : While the bright Seine, t'exalt the soul, With sparkling plenty crowns the bowl, And wit and social mirth inspires.

Enamour'd of the Seine, celestial fair,

(The blooming pride of Thetis' azure train,)
Bacchus, to win the nymph who caused his care,
Lash'd his swift tigers to the Celtic plain :
There secret in her sapphire cell,
He with the Nais wont to dwell;
Leaving the nectar'd feasts of Jove :
And where her mazy waters flow
He gave the mantling vine to grow,
A trophy to his love.

Shall man from Nature's sanction stray,
With blind opinion for his guide;
And, rebel to her rightful sway,
Leave all her beauties unenjoy'd?

Fool! Time no change of motion knows;
With equal speed the torrent flows,

To sweep Fame, Power, and Wealth away:
The past is all by death possest;
And frugal fate that guards the rest,
By giving, bids him live To-Day.

O Gower! through all the destined space,
What breath the Powers allot to me
Shall sing the virtues of thy race,

United and complete in thee.
O flower of ancient English faith!
Pursue th' unbeaten Patriot-path,

In which confirm'd thy father shone :
The light his fair example gives,
Already from thy dawn receives
A lustre equal to its own.

Honour's bright dome, on lasting columns rear'd,
Nor envy rusts, nor rolling years consume;
Loud Pæans echoing round the roof are heard,
And clouds of incense all the void perfume.
There Phocion, Lælius, Capel, Hyde,
With Falkland seated near his side,

Fix'd by the Muse, the temple grace;
Prophetic of thy happier fame,
She, to receive thy radiant name,
Selects a whiter space.

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EDWARD (familiarly called Ned) WARD was a low-born uneducated man, who followed the trade of a publican. He is said, however, to have attracted many eminent persons to his house by his colloquial powers as a landlord, to have had a general acquaintance among authors, and to have been a great retailer of literary anecdotes. In those times the tavern was a less discreditable haunt than at present, and his literary acquaintance might probably be extensive. Jacob offended him very much by saying, in his account of the poets, that he kept a publichouse in the city. He publicly contradicted the

assertion as a falsehood, stating that his house was not in the city, but in Moorfields. Ten thick volumes attest the industry, or cacoethes, of this facetious publican, who wrote his very will in verse. His favourite measure is the Hudibrastic. His works give a complete picture of the mind of a vulgar but acute cockney. His sentiment is the pleasure of eating and drinking, and his wit and humour are equally gross; but his descriptions are still curious and full of life, and are worth preserving, as delineations of the manners of the times.

SONG.

O GIVE me, kind Bacchus, thou god of the vine,
Not a pipe or a tun, but an ocean of wine;
And a ship that's well-mann'd with such rare merry
fellows,

That ne'er forsook tavern for porterly ale-house.
May her bottom be leaky to let in the tipple,
And no pump on board her to save ship or people;
So that each jolly lad may suck heartily round,
And be always obliged to drink or be drown'd!

Let a fleet from Virginia, well laden with weed,
And a cargo of pipes, that we nothing may need,
Attend at our stern to supply us with guns,
And to weigh us our funk, not by pounds, but by

tuns.

When thus fitted out we would sail cross the line,
And swim round the world in a sea of good wine;
Steer safe in the middle, and vow never more
To renounce such a life for the pleasures on shore.

F

Look cheerfully round us and comfort our eyes
With a deluge of claret inclosed by the skies;
A sight that would mend a pale mortal's complexion,
And make him blush more than the sun by reflexion.
No zealous contentions should ever perplex us,
No politic jars should divide us or vex us;
No presbyter Jack should reform us or ride us,
The stars and our whimsical noddles should guide us.
No blustering storms should possess us with fears,
Or hurry us, like cowards, from drinking to prayers,
But still with full bowls we'd for Bacchus maintain
The most glorious dominion o'er the clarety main;
And tipple all round till our eyes shone as bright
As the sun does by day, or the moon does by night.
Thus would I live free from all care or design,
And when death should arrive I'd be pickled in wine;
That is, toss'd over-board, have the sea for my grave,
And lie nobly entomb'd in a blood-colour'd wave;

That, living or dead, both my body and spirit Should float round the globe in an ocean of claret, The truest of friends and the best of all juices, Worth both the rich metals that India produces: For all men we find from the young to the old, Will exchange for the bottle their silver and gold, Except rich fanatics-a pox on their pictures ! That make themselves slaves to their prayers and their lectures;

And think that on earth there is nothing divine, But a canting old fool and a bag full of coin. What though the dull saint make his standard and sterling

His refuge, his glory, his god, and his darling; The mortal that drinks is the only brave fellow, Though never so poor he's a king when he's mellow; Grows richer than Croesus with whimsical thinking, And never knows care whilst he follows his drinking.

JOHN GAY.

[Born, 1688. Died, 1732.]

GAY'S Pastorals are said to have taken with the public not as satires on those of Ambrose Philips, which they were meant to be, but as natural and just imitations of real life and of rural manners. It speaks little, however, for the sagacity of the poet's town readers, if they enjoyed those caricatures in earnest, or imagined any truth of English manners in Cuddy and Cloddipole contending with Amabæan verses for the prize or song, or in Bowzybeus rehearsing the laws of nature. If the allusion to Philips was overlooked, they could only be relished as travesties of Virgil, for Bowzybeus himself would not be laughable unless we recollected Silenus*.

Gay's Trivia seems to have been built upon the hint of Swift's Description of a City Shower+. It exhibits a picture of the familiar customs of the metropolis that will continue to become more

amusing as the customs grow obsolete. As a fabulist he has been sometimes hypercritically blamed for presenting us with allegorical impersonations. The mere naked apologue of Æsop is too simple to interest the human mind, when its fancy and understanding are past the state of childhood or barbarism. La Fontaine dresses the stories which he took from Æsop and others with such profusion of wit and naïveté, that his manner conceals the insipidity of the matter. "La sauce vaut mieux que le poisson." Gay, though not equal to La Fontaine, is at least free from his occasional prolixity; and in one instance, (the Court of Death) ventures into allegory with considerable power. Without being an absolute simpleton, like La Fontaine, he possessed a bonhomie of character which forms an agreeable trait of resemblance between the fabulists.

MONDAY; OR THE SQUABBLE.

LOBBIN CLOUT, CUDDY, CLODdipole.

L. Clout. THY younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake,

No thrustles shrill the bramble bush forsake,

[* That in these pastorals Gay has hit, undesignedly perhaps, the true spirit of pastoral poetry, was the opinion of Goldsmith: "In fact," he adds, "he more resembles Theocritus than any other English pastoral writer whatsoever." Yet he will not defend, he says, the antiquated | expressions.]

[ Gay acknowledges in the prefatory Advertisement that he owes several hints of it to Dr. Swift.]

[ Gay is now best known as the author of The Beggars' Opera, which, in spite of its passed political tendency, still keeps, by its music chiefly, its hold upon the stage; and as the author of Black Eyed Susan, which when sung, as it often is, with feeling, brings to remembrance or acquaint

No chirping lark the welkin sheen invokes, No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes ; ance a once familiar name. The multitude know nothing of Trivia; to a Londoner even, it is a dead-letter; and few of the many have read or even heard of The Shepherd's Week. The stage and the convivial club have essentially assisted in preserving his fame. The works of Gay are on our shelves, but not in our pockets-in our remembrance, but not in our memories.

His Fables are as good as a series of such pieces will in all possibility ever be. No one has envied him their production; but many would like to have the fame of having written The Shepherd's Week, Black-Eyed Susan, and the ballad that begins :

""Twas when the seas were roaring."

Had he given his time to satire he had excelled, for his lines on Blackmore are in the extreme of bitterness.]

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L. Clout. Ah Blouzelind! I love thee more by Than does their fawns, or cows, the new-fallen calf: Woe worth the tongue! may blisters sore it gall, That names Buxoma Blouzelind withal?

Cuddy. Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise, Lest blisters sore on thy own tongue arise. Lo, yonder, Cloddipole, the blithesome swain, The wisest lout of all the neighbouring plain! From Cloddipole we learn to read the skies, To know when hail will fall or winds arise. He taught us erst the heifer's tail to view, When stuck aloft, that showerswould straight ensue: He first that useful secret did explain, That pricking corns foretold the gathering rain. When swallows fleet soar high, and sport in air, He told us that the welkin would be clear. Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse, And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse. I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee, That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.

L. Clout. See this tobacco-pouch, that's lined with Made of the skin of sleekest fallow-deer. [hair, This pouch that's tied with tape of reddest hue, I'llwager that the prize shall be my due. [slouch! Cuddy. Begin thy carols then, thou vaunting Be thine the oaken staff, or mine the pouch.

L. Clout. My Blouzelinda is the blithest lass, Than primrose sweeter, or the clover-grass. Fair is the king-cup that in meadow blows, Fair is the daisy that beside her grows; Fair is the gilliflower, of gardens sweet, Fair is the marygold, for pottage meet: But Blouzelind's than gilliflower more fair, Than daisy, marygold, or king-cup rare.

Cuddy. My brown Buxoma is the featest maid That e'er at wake delightsome gambol play'd. Clean as young lambkins or the goose's down, And like the goldfinch in her Sunday gown. The witless lamb may sport upon the plain, The frisking kid delight the gaping swain, The wanton calf may skip with many a bound, And my cur Tray play deftest feats around; But neither lamb, nor kid, nor calf, nor Tray, Dance like Buxoma on the first of May.

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And holidays, if haply she were gone,

Like worky-days, I wish'd would soon be done. Eftsoons, O sweetheart kind! my love repay, And all the year shall then be holiday.

L. Clout. As Blouzelinda, in a gamesome mood, Behind a haycock loudly laughing stood,

I slyly ran, and snatch'd a hasty kiss;
She wiped her lips, nor took it much amiss.
Believe me, Cuddy, while I'm bold to say
Her breath was sweeter than the ripen'd hay.

Cuddy. As my Buxoma, in a morning fair,
With gentle finger stroked her milky care,
I queintly stole a kiss: at first, 'tis true,
She frown'd, yet after granted one or two.
Lobbin, I swear, believe who will my vows,
Her breath by far excell'd the breathing cows.
L. Clout. Leek to the Welch, to Dutchmen
butter's dear,

Of Irish swains potatoe is the cheer;
Oats for their feasts the Scottish shepherds grind ;
Sweet turnips are the food of Blouzelind.
While she loves turnips, butter I'll despise,
Nor leeks, nor oatmeal, nor potatoe, prize.

Cuddy. In good roast-beef my landlord sticks
The capon fat delights his dainty wife, [his knife,
Pudding our parson eats, the squire loves hare,
But white-pot thick is my Buxoma's fare.
While she loves white-pot, capon ne'er shall be,
Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.

L. Clout. As once I play'd at blindman's buff, About my eyes the towel thick was wrapt. [it hapt I miss'd the swains, and seized on Blouzelind. True speaks that ancient proverb, "Love is blind.”

Cuddy. As at hot cockles once I laid me down, And felt the weighty hand of many a clown; Buxoma gave a gentle tap, and I

Quick rose, and read soft mischief in her eye.
L. Clout. On two near elms the slacken'd cord
I hung,

Now high, now low, my Blouzelinda swung ;
With the rude wind her rumpled garment rose,
And show'd her taper leg, and scarlet hose.

Cuddy. Across the fallen oak the plank I laid,
And myself poised against the tottering maid:
High leap'd the plank; adown Buxoma fell;
I spied-but faithful sweethearts never tell.

L. Clout. This riddle, Cuddy if thou canst exThis wily riddle puzzles every swain. [plain, "What flower is that which bears the virgin's name, The richest metal joined with the same?"

Cuddy. Answer, thou carle, and judge this riddle I'll frankly own thee for a cunning wight. [right, "What flower is that which royal honour craves, Adjoin the virgin, and 'tis strown on graves!" Cloddipole. Forbear, contending louts, give o'er your strains!

An oaken staff each merits for his pains.
But see the sun-beams bright to labour warn,
And gild the thatch of goodman Hodge's barn.
Your herds for want of water stand a-dry.
They're weary of your songs-and so am I.

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