IN Phoebus' region while some bards there be
That sing of battles, and the trumpet's roar ;
Yet these, I ween, more powerful bards than me,
Above my ken, on eagle pinions soar !
Haply a scene of meaner view to scan,

Beneath their laurel'd praise my verse may give, To trace the features of unnoticed man;

Deeds, else forgotten, in the verse may live! Her lore, mayhap, instructive sense may teach, From weeds of humbler growth within my lowly reach.

A wight there was, who single and alone

Had crept from vigorous youth to waning age, Nor e'er was worth, nor e'er was beauty known His heart to captive, or his thought engage: Some feeble joyaunce, though his conscious mind Might female worth or beauty give to wear, Yet to the nobler sex he held confined

The genuine graces of the soul sincere, And well could show with saw or proverb quaint All semblance woman's soul,and all her beauty paint.

In plain attire this wight apparel'd was,

(For much he conn'd of frugal lore and knew) Nor, till some day of larger note might cause, From iron-bound chest his better garb he drew: But when the Sabbath-day might challenge more, Or feast, or birth-day, should it chance to be, A glossy suit devoid of stain he wore,

And gold his buttons glanced so fair to see, Gold clasp'd his shoon, by maiden brush'd so sheen, And his rough beard he shaved, and donn'd his linen clean.

But in his common garb a coat he wore,

A faithful coat that long its lord had known, That once was black, but now was black no more, Attinged by various colours not its own. All from his nostrils was the front imbrown'd, And down the back ran many a greasy line, While, here and there, his social moments own'd The generous signet of the purple wine. Brown o'er the bent of eld his wig appear'd, Like fox's trailing tail by hunters sore affeir'd.

One only maid he had, like turtle true,

But not like turtle gentle, soft, and kind; For many a time her tongue bewray'd the shrew, And in meet words unpack'd her peevish mind. Ne form'd was she to raise the soft desire

That stirs the tingling blood in youthful vein, Ne form'd was she to light the tender fire,

By many a bard is sung in many a strain : Hook'd was her nose, and countless wrinkles told What no man durst to her, I ween, that she was old. When the clock told the wonted hour was come When from his nightly cups the wight withdrew, Right patient would she watch his wending home, His feet she heard, and soon the bolt she drew. If long his time was past, and leaden sleep

O'er her tired eye-lids 'gan his reign to stretch, Oft would she curse that men such hours should keep,

And many a saw 'gainst drunkenness would preach;

Haply if potent gin had arm'd her tongue, All on the reeling wight a thundering peal she rung.

For though the blooming queen of Cyprus' isle
O'er her cold bosom long had ceased to reign,
On that cold bosom still could Bacchus smile,
Such beverage to own if Bacchus deign:
For wine she prized not much, for stronger

drink

Its medicine, oft a cholic-pain will call, And for the medicine's sake, might envy think,

Oft would a cholic-pain her bowels enthral; Yet much the proffer did she loath, and say No dram might maiden taste, and often answer'd nay.

So as in single animals he joy'd,

One cat, and eke one dog, his bounty fed; The first the cate-devouring mice destroy'd, Thieves heard the last, and from his threshold fled:

All in the sun-beams bask'd the lazy cat,

Her mottled length in couchant posture laid; On one accustom'd chair while Pompey sat,

And loud he bark'd should Puss his right invade. The human pair oft mark'd them as they lay, And haply sometimes thought like cat and dog were they.

A room he had that faced the southern ray, Where oft he walk'd to set his thoughts in tune, Pensive he paced its length an hour or tway, All to the music of his creeking shoon. And at the end a darkling closet stood, Where books he kept of old research and new, In seemly order ranged on shelves of wood, And rusty nails and phials not a few: Thilk place a wooden box beseemeth well, And papers squared and trimm'd for use unmeet to tell.

For still in form he placed his chief delight,
Nor lightly broke his old accustom'd rule,
And much uncourteous would he hold the wight
That e'er displaced a table, chair, or stool;
And oft in meet array their ranks he placed,

And oft with careful eye their ranks review'd;
For novel forms, though much those forms had
Himself and maiden-minister eschew'd:[graced,
One path he trod, nor ever would decline
A hair's unmeasured breadth from off the even line.

A Club select there was, where various talk
On various chapters pass'd the ling'ring hour,
And thither oft he bent his evening walk,
And warm'd to mirth by wine's enlivening
pow'r.

And oft on politics the preachments ran,

If a pipe lent its thought-begetting fume: And oft important matters would they scan,

And deep in council fix a nation's doom: And oft they chuckled loud at jest or jeer, Or bawdy tale the most, thilk much they loved to hear.

For men like him they were of like consort,

Thilk much the honest muse must needs condemn,

Who made of women's wiles their wanton sport, And bless'd their stars that kept the curse

from them!

No honest love they knew, no melting smile

That shoots the transports to the throbbing Thilk knew they not but in a harlot's guile [heart! Lascivious smiling through the mask of art: And so of women deem'd they as they knew, And from a Demon's traits an Angel's picture drew.

But most abhorr'd they Hymeneal rites,

And boasted oft the freedom of their fate: Nor 'vail'd, as they opined, its best delytes

Those ills to balance that on wedlock wait; And often would they tell of hen-peck ́d fool

Snubb'd by the hard behest of sour-eyed dame. And vow'd no tongue-arm'd woman's freakish rule Their mirth should quail, or damp their generous

flame:

Then pledged their hands, and toss'd their bumpers o'er,

And Io! Bacchus ! sung, and own'd no other pow'r.

If e'er a doubt of softer kind arose

Within some breast of less obdurate frame, Lo! where its hideous form a Phantom shows Full in his view, and Cuckold is its name. Him Scorn attended with a glance askew, And Scorpion Shame for delicts not his own, Her painted bubbles while Suspicion blew,

And vex'd the region round the Cupid's throne: "Far be from us," they cry'd, "the treach'rous bane, "Far be the dimply guile, and far the flowery chain !"

NN

JOHN ARMSTRONG was born in Roxburghshire, in the parish of Castleton, of which his father was the clergyman. He completed his education, and took a medical degree, at the university of Edinburgh, with much reputation, in the year 1732. Amidst his scientific pursuits, he also cultivated literature and poetry. One of his earliest productions in verse, was an "Imitation of the Style of Shakspere," which received the approbation of the poets Young and Thomson; although humbler judges will perhaps be at a loss to perceive in it any striking likeness to his great original. Two other sketches, also, purporting to be imitations of Shakspere, are found among his works. They are the fragments of an unfi- | nished tragedy. One of them, the "Dream of Progne," is not unpleasing. In the other, he begins the description of a storm by saying, that "The sun went down in wrath, the skies foam'd brass." It is uncertain in what year he came to London; but in 1735 he published an anonymous pamphlet, severely ridiculing the quackery of untaught practitioners. He dedicated this performance to Joshua Ward, John Moore, and others, whom he styles "the Antacademic philosophers, and the generous despisers of the schools." As a physician he never obtained extensive practice. This he himself imputed to his contempt of the little artifices, which, he alleges, were necessary to popularity: by others, the failure was ascribed to his indolence and literary avocations; and there was probably truth in both accounts. A disgraceful poem, entitled, "The Economy of Love," which he published after coming to London, might have also had its share in impeding his professional career. He corrected the nefarious production, at a later period of his life, betraying at once a consciousness of its impurity, and a hankering after its reputation. So unflattering were his prospects, after several years' residence in the metropolis, that he applied (it would seem without success) to be put on the medical staff of the forces, then going out to the West Indies. His "Art of Preserving Health" appeared in 1744, and justly fixed his poetical reputation. In 1746 he was appointed physician to the hospital for sick soldiers, behind Buckingham House. In 1751 he published his poem on “Benevolence ;” in 1753 his “Epistle on Taste ;" and in 1758 his prose "Sketches by Launcelot Temple." Certainly none of these productions exalted the literary character which he had raised to himself by his "Art of Pre

serving Health." The poems "Taste" and "Benevolence" are very insipid. His "Sketches" have been censured more than they seem to deserve for "oaths and exclamations, and for a constant struggle to say smart things." They contain indeed some expressions which might be wished away, but these are very few in number; and several of his essays are plain and sensible, without any effort at humour.

In 1760 he was appointed physician to the forces that went over to Germany. It is at this era of his life that we should expect its history to be the most amusing, and to have furnished the most important relics of observation, from his having visited a foreign country which was the scene of war, and where he was placed, by his situation, in the midst of interesting events. It may be pleasing to follow heroes into retirement; but we are also fond of seeing men of literary genius amidst the action and business of life. Of Dr. Armstrong in Germany, however, we have no other information than what is afforded by his epistle to Wilkes, entitled “Day,” which is by no means a bright production, and chiefly devoted to subjects of eating. With Wilkes he was, at that time, on terms of friendship; but their cordiality was afterwards dissolved by politics. Churchill took a share in the quarrel, and denounced our author as a monster of ingratitude towards Wilkes, who had been his benefactor, and Wilkes, by subsequently attacking Armstrong in the Daily Advertiser, showed that he did not disapprove of the satirist's reproaches. To such personalities Armstrong might have replied in the words of Prior,

"To John I owed great obligation. But John unhappily thought fit To publish it to all the nation; Sure John and I are more than quit." But though his temper was none of the mildest. he had the candour to speak with gratitude of Wilkes's former kindness, and acknowledged that he was indebted to him for his appointment in the

army.

After the peace he returned to London, where his practice, as well as acquaintance, was con fined to a small circle of friends; but among whom he was esteemed as a man of genius. From the originality of his mind, as well as from hi reading, and more than ordinary taste in the fine arts, his conversation is said to have been richly entertaining. Yet if the character which is supposed to apply to him in the "Castle of Indo

* Chalmers's Biographical Dictionary.

lence" describe him justly, his colloquial delightfulness must have been intermittent. In 1770 he published a collection of his Miscellanies, containing a new prose piece, "The Universal Almanack," and "The Forced Marriage," a tragedy, which had been offered to Garrick, but refused. The whole was ushered in by a preface, full of arrogant defiance to public opinion. "He had never courted the public," he said, "and if it was true what he had been told, that the best judges were on his side, he desired no more in the article of fame as a writer." There was a good deal of matter in this collection, that ought to have rendered its author more modest. The “Universal Almanack” is a wretched production, to which the objections of his propensity to swearing, and abortive efforts at humour, apply more justly than to his "Sketches ;" and his tragedy, the "Forced Marriage,” is a mortuum caput of insipidity. In the following year he visited France and Italy, and published a short, but splenetic account of his tour, under his old assumed name of Launcelot Temple. His last production was a volume of "Professional Essays," in which he took more trouble to abuse quacks than became his dignity, and showed himself a man to whom the relish of life was not improving, as its feast drew towards a close. He died in September, 1779, of a hurt, which he accidentally received in stepping out of a carriage; and, to the no small surprise of his friends, left behind him more than 30007., saved out of a very moderate income, arising principally from his half-pay.

His "Art of Preserving Health " is the most successful attempt, in our language, to incorporate material science with poetry. Its subject had the advantage of being generally interesting; for there are few things that we shall be more willing to learn, either in prose or verse, than the means of preserving the outward bulwark of all other blessings. At the same time, the difficulty of poetically treating a subject, which presented disease in all its associations, is one of the most just and ordinary topics of his praise. Of the triumphs of poetry over such difficulty, he had no doubt high precedents, to show that strong and true delineations of physical evil are not without an attraction of fearful interest and curiosity to the human mind; and that the enjoyment, which the fancy derives from conceptions of the bloom and beauty of healthful nature, may be heightened, by contrasting them with the opposite pictures of her mortality and decay. Milton had turned disease itself into a subject of sublimity, in the vision of Adam, with that intensity of the fire of genius, which converts whatever

Armstrong's character is said to have been painted in the stanza of the "Castle of Indolence" beginning "With him was sometimes joined in silent walk (Profoundly silent, for they never spoke) One shyer still, who quite detested talk," &c. Sce ante, p. 408.

His

materials it meets with into its aliment; and
Armstrong, though his powers were not Miltonic,
had the courage to attempt what would have re-
pelled a more timid taste. His Muse might be
said to show a professional intrepidity in choosing
the subject; and, like the physician who braves
contagion, (if allowed to prolong the simile,) we
may add, that she escaped, on the whole, with
little injury from the trial. By the title of the
poem, the author judiciously gave his theme a
moral as well as a medical interest. He makes
the influence of the passions an entire part of it.
By professing to describe only how health is to
be preserved, and not how it is to be restored, he
avoids the unmanageable horrors of clinical de-
tail; and though he paints the disease, wisely
spares us its pharmaceutical treatment.
course through the poem is sustained with lucid
management and propriety. What is explained
of the animal œconomy is obscured by no pedan-
tic jargon, but made distinct, and, to a certain
degree, picturesque to the conception. We need
not indeed be reminded how small a portion of
science can be communicated in poetry; but the
practical maxims of science, which the Muse has
stamped with imagery and attuned to harmony,
have so far an advantage over those which are
delivered in prose, that they become more agree-
able and permanent acquisitions of the memory.
If the didactic path of his poetry is, from its na-
ture, rather level, he rises above it, on several
occasions, with a considerable strength of poetical
feeling. Thus, in recommending the vicinity of
woods around a dwelling, that may shelter us
from the winds, whilst it enables us to hear their
music, he introduces the following pleasing lines:
"Oh! when the growling winds contend, and all

The sounding forest fluctuates in the storm;
To sink in warm repose, and hear the din
Howl o'er the steady battlements, delights
Above the luxury of vulgar sleep."

In treating of diet he seems to have felt the full difficulty of an humble subject, and to have sought to relieve his precepts and physiological descriptions, with all the wealth of allusion and imagery which his fancy could introduce. The appearance of a forced effort is not wholly avoided, even where he aims at superior strains, in order to garnish the meaner topics, as when he solemnly addresses the Naiads of all the rivers in the world, in rehearsing the praises of a cup of water. But he closes the book in a strain of genuine dignity. After contemplating the effects of Time on the human body, his view of its influence dilates, with easy and majestic extension, to the universal structure of nature; and he rises from great to greater objects with a climax of sublimity. "What does not fade? the tower that long had stood The crush of thunder and the warring winds, Shook by the slow, but sure destroyer, Time, Now hangs in doubtful ruins o'er its base. And flinty pyramids, and walls of brass, Descend: the Babylonion spires are sunk;

Achaia, Rome, and Egypt moulder down.
Time shakes the stable tyranny of thrones,
And tottering empires crush by their own weight.
This huge rotundity were tread grows old;
And all those worlds that roll around the sun,
The sun himself, shall die."

He may, in some points, be compared advantageously with the best blank verse writers of the age; and he will be found free from their most striking defects. He has not the ambition of Akenside, nor the verbosity of Thomson. On the other hand, shall we say that he is equal in genius to either of those poets? Certainly, his originality is nothing like Thomson's; and the rapture of his heroic sentiments is unequal to that of the author of the "Pleasures of Imagination." For, in spite of the too frequently false pomp of Akenside, we still feel, that he has a devoted moral impulse, not to be mistaken for the cant of morality, a zeal in the worship of Virtue, which places her image in a high and hallowed light. Neither has his versification the nervous harmony of

Akenside's, for his habit of pausing almost uniformly at the close of the line, gives an air of formality to his numbers. His vein has less mixture than Thomson's; but its ore is not so fine. Sometimes we find him trying his strength with that author, in the same walk of description, where, though correct and concise, he falls beneath the poet of "The Seasons" in rich and graphic observation. He also contributed to “ Tue Castle of Indolence" some stanzas, describing the diseases arising from sloth, which form rather an useful back-ground to the luxuriant picture of the Castle, than a prominent part of its enchantment *.

On the whole, he is likely to be remembered as a poet of judicious thoughts and correct expres sion; and, as far as the rarely successful applica tion of verse to subjects of science can be admired, an additional merit must be ascribed to the hand which has reared poetical flowers on the dry and difficult ground of philosophy.

Opening of the Poem in an Invocation to Hygeia.
DAUGHTER of Pæon, queen of every joy,
Hygeia; whose indulgent smile sustains
The various race luxuriant nature pours,
And on th' immortal essences bestows
Immortal youth; auspicious, O descend!
Thou cheerful guardian of the rolling year,
Whether thou wanton'st on the western gale,
Or shakest the rigid pinions of the north,
Diffusest life and vigour through the tracts
Of air, through earth, and ocean's deep domain.
When through the blue serenity of heaven
Thy power approaches, all the wasteful host
Of Pain and Sickness, squalid and deform'd,
Confounded sink into the loathsome gloom,
Where in deep Erebus involved the Fiends
Grow more profane. Whatever shapes of death,
Shook from the hideous chambers of the globe,
Swarm through the shuddering air: whatever
plagues

Or meagre famine breeds, or with slow wings
Rise from the putrid wat'ry element,

The damp waste forest, motionless and rank,
That smothers earth, and all the breathless winds,
Or the vile carnage of th' inhuman field;
Whatever baneful breathes the rotten south;
Whatever ills th' extremes or sudden change
Of cold and hot, or moist and dry produce;
They fly thy pure effulgence: they and all
The secret poisons of avenging Heaven,
And all the pale tribes halting in the train
Of Vice and heedless Pleasure or if aught
The comet's glare amid the burning sky,
Mournful eclipse, or planets ill-combined,

Portend disastrous to the vital world;
Thy salutary power averts their rage,
Averts the general bane: and but for thee
Nature would sicken, nature soon would die.

FROM THE SAME.

Choice of a rural situation, and allegorical picture of the Quartan Ague.

YE who amid this feverish world would wear

A body free of pain, of cares a mind;
Fly the rank city, shun its turbid air;
Breathe not the chaos of eternal smoke
And volatile corruption, from the dead,
The dying, sick'ning, and the living world
Exhaled, to sully heaven's transparent dome
With dim mortality. It is not air

That from a thousand lungs reeks back to thine,
Sated with exhalations rank and fell,
The spoil of dunghills, and the putrid thaw
Of nature; when from shape and texture she
Relapses into fighting elements :

It is not air, but floats a nauseous mass
Of all obscene, corrupt, offensive things.
Much moisture hurts; but here a sordid bath,
With oily rancour fraught, relaxes more
The solid frame than simple moisture can.
Besides, immured in many a sullen bay
That never felt the freshness of the breeze,
This slumb'ring deep remains, and ranker grows
With sickly rest: and (though the lungs abbor
To drink the dun fuliginous abyss)

* See ante p. 410.