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"Oh wondrous powre of womans wily art,
What for thy witchcraft too secure may be !
Not Circes cup may so transform the heart,
Or bend the will, fallacious powre, like thee;
Lo manly sense, of princely dignitie,

Witchd by thy spells, thy crowching slave is seen;
Lo, high-browd honour bends the groveling knee,
And every bravest virtue, sooth I ween,
Seems like a blighted flowre of dank unlovely mien.

"Ne may grim Saracene, nor Tartar man,
Such ruthless bondage on his slave impose,
As Kathrin on the knight full deffly can:
Ne may the knight escape, or cure his woes :
As he who dreams he climbs some mountains brows,
With painful struggling up the steep height strains,
Anxious he pants and toils, but strength foregoes
His feeble limbs, and not a step he gains;
So toils the powerlesse knight beneath his servile
chains.

"His lawyer now assumes the guardians place;
Learnd was thilk clerk in deeds, and passing slie;
Slow was his speeche, and solemn was his face
As that grave bird which Athens rankt so high;
Pleased Dullness basking in his glossie eye,
The smyle would oft steal through his native phlegm;
And well he guards syr Martyns propertie,
Till not one peasant dares invade the game;
But certes, seven yeares rent was soon his own just

claim.

"Now mortgage follows mortgage; cold delay Still yawns on everie long-depending case. The knights gay bloome the while slid fast away; Kathrin the while brought bantling imps apace; While everie day renews his vile disgrace, And straitens still the more his galling thrall: See now what scenes his household hours debase, And rise successive in his cheerlesse hall." So spake the seer, and prompt the scene obey'd his call.

"See," quoth the wizard," how with foltering mien, And discomposd, yon stranger he receives; Lo, how with sulkie look, and moapt with spleen, His frowning mistresse to his friend behaves; In vain he nods, in vain his hand he waves, Ne will she heed, ne will she sign obay; Nor corner dark his awkward blushes saves, Ne may the hearty laugh, ne features gay: The hearty laugh, perdie, does but his pain betray.

"A worthy wight his friend was ever known, Some generous cause did still his lips inspire; He begs the knight by friendships long agone To shelter from his lawyers cruel ire

An auncient hinde, around whose cheerlesse fire Sat grief, and pale disease. The poor mans wrong Affects the knight: his inmost harts desire Gleams through his eyes; yet all confusd, and stung With inward pain, he looks, and silence guards his tongue.

"See, while his friend entreats and urges still,
See, how with sidelong glaunce and haviour shy
He steals the look to read his lemmans will,
Watchful the dawn of an assent to spy.
Look as he will, yet will she not comply.
His friend with scorn beholds his awkward pain;
From him even pity turns her tear-dewd eye.
And hardlie can the bursting laugh restrain,
While manlie honour frowns on his unmanly stain.

"Let other scenes now rise," the wizard said: He wavd his hand, and other scenes arose. "See there," quoth he, "the knight supinely laid Invokes the household houres of learnd repose: An auncient song its manly joys bestows: The melting passion of the nutt-brown mayde Glides through his breast; his wandering fancy Till into wildest reveries betrayd, [glows. He hears th' imagind faire, and wooes the lovely shade.

"Transported he repeats her constant vow, How to the green wode shade, betide whateer, She with her banishd love would fearlesse goe, And sweet would be with him the hardest cheer. 'O Heaven!' he sighs,' what blessings dwell sincere In love like this!'-But instant as he sighd, Bursting into the room, loud in his ear

His lemman thonders, Ah! fell dole betide The girl that trusts in man before she bees his bride!

"And must some lemman of a whiffling song Delight your fancy?' she disdainful cries; When straight her imps all brawling round her throng,

And, bleard with teares, each for revenge applies: Him chiefe in spleene the father means chastise, But from his kindlie hand she saves him still; Yet for no fault, anon, in furious wise

Yon yellow elfe she little spares to kill; And then, next breath, does all to coax its stubborn will.

"Pale as the ghoste that by the gleaming moon
Withdraws the curtain of the murderers bed,
So pale and cold at heart, as halfe aswoon
The knight stares round; yet good nor bad he sed.
Alas! though trembling anguish inward bled,
His best resolve soon as a meteor dies:

His present peace and ease mote chance have fled, He deems; and, yielding, looks most wondrous wise, As from himself he hopd his grief and shame disguise.

"Woe to the wight whose hated home no more
The hallowd temple of content may be !
While now his days abroad with groomes he wore,
His mistresse with her liefest companie,
A rude unletterd herd! with dearest glee,
Enjoys each whisper of her neighbours shame ;
And still anon the flask of ratifie

Improves their tales, till certes not a name Escapes their blasting tongue, or goody, wench, or dame."

NATHANIEL COTTON.

[Born, 1707. Died, 1788.]

NATHANIEL COTTON was a physician, who paid particular attention to the subject of mental disorders; and kept a receptacle for insane patients

at St. Albans. Cowper was for some time under his care.

THE FIRESIDE.

DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In folly's maze advance;
Though singularity and pride
Be call'd our choice, we'll step aside,
Nor join the giddy dance.

From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs ;
No noisy neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,
To spoil our heartfelt joys.
If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies,
And they are fools who roam;
The world hath nothing to bestow,
From our own selves our bliss must flow,
And that dear hut our home.

Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wing she left

That safe retreat, the ark;
Giving her vain excursions o'er,
The disappointed bird once more
Explored the sacred bark.

Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers,
We, who improve his golden hours,

By sweet experience know,
That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good
A paradise below.

Our babes shall richest comforts bring;
If tutor❜d right they'll prove a spring

Whence pleasures ever rise;

We'll form their minds with studious care,
To all that's manly, good, and fair,

And train them for the skies.

While they our wisest hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, support our age,
And crown our hoary hairs;
They'll grow in virtue every day,
And they our fondest loves repay,
And recompense our cares.

["Cotton's well-known stanzas entitled The Fireside, still hold and are likely to retain a place in popular selections."-SOUTHEY, Life of Cowper, vol. i. p. 148.

No borrow'd joys! they're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown,

Or by the world forgot :
Monarchs! we envy not your state,
We look with pity on the great,
And bless our humble lot.

Our portion is not large, indeed,
But then how little do we need,

For nature's calls are few!
In this the art of living lies,
To want no more than may suffice,
And make that little do.

We'll therefore relish with content,
Whate'er kind Providence has sent,
Nor aim beyond our power;
For, if our stock be very small,
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,

Nor lose the present hour.

To be resign'd when ills betide,
Patient when favours are denied,

And pleased with favours given ;
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part,
This is that incense of the heart,

Whose fragrance smells to heaven. We'll ask no long protracted treat, Since winter-life is seldom sweet;

But when our feast is o'er, Grateful from table we'll arise, Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes, The relics of our store.

Thus hand in hand through life we'll go ; Its checker'd paths of joy and woe

With cautious steps we'll tread ; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble, or a fear,

Aud mingle with the dead.

While conscience like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel whisper peace,

And smooth the bed of death.

A poem like this, which depends altogether upon its truthfulness, should have nothing to do with Chloe or with Hymen.]

TIMOTHY DWIGHT.

Of this American poet I am sorry to be able to give the British reader no account. I believe

his personal history is as little known as his poetry on this side of the Atlantic.

FROM HIS "CONQUEST OF CANAAN," BOOK V.
LOND. REPRINTED 1788.

DEATH OF IRAD, AND LAMENTATION OF SELIMA OVER HIS BODY.

MID countless warriors Irad's limbs were spread,
Even there distinguish'd from the vulgar dead:
Fair as the spring, and bright as rising day,
His snowy bosom open'd as he lay :
From the deep wound a little stream of blood
In silence fell, and on the javelin glow'd.
Grim Jabin, frowning o'er his hapless head,
Deep in his bosom plunged the cruel blade;
Foes even in death his vengeance ne'er forgave,
But hail'd their doom insatiate as the grave;
No worth, no bravery, could his rage disarm,
Nor smiling love could melt, nor beauty warm.

But now th' approaching clarions' dreadful sound
Denounces flight, and shakes the banner'd ground.
From clouded plains increasing thunders rise,
And drifted volumes roll along the skies;
At once the chief commands th' unnumber'd throng,
Like gathering tempests darkly pour'd along ;
High on the winds, unfurl'd in purple pride,
The imperial standard cast the view aside;
A hero there sublimely seem'd to stand,

To point the conquest, and the flight command;
In arms of burnish'd gold the warrior shone,
And waved and brighten'd in the falling sun.

But now sublime, in crimson triumph borne,
The sacred standard mock'd th' etherial morn;
Wide on the winds its waving splendours flow'd,
And call'd the warriors from the distant wood.
Behind great Joshua, Hazor's sons to dare,
Pour the bold thousands to the western war;
Beyond Ai's wall the less'ning heathen train
In well-form'd squadrons cross the distant plain;
Part still in sight their shady files extend,
Part fill the wood, and part the hills ascend;
To cease from toil the prudent chief commands,
And balmy quiet soothes the wearied bands.

Half lost in mountain groves the sun's broad ray
Shower'd a full splendour round his evening way.
Slow Joshua strode the lovely youth to find,
Th' unwilling bands more slowly moved behind.
Soon as the matchless form arose to view,
O'er their sad faces shone the sorrowing dew:

Silent they stood; to speak the leader tried, But the choked accents on his palate died— His bleeding bosom beat.

"Ah! best and bravest of thy race," he said, And gently raised the pale reclining head, "Lost are thy matchless charms; thy glory gone, Gone is the glory which thy hand hath won. In vain on thee thy nation cast her eyes, In vain with joy beheld thy light arise, In vain she wish'd thy sceptre to obey."

Borne by six chiefs, in silence o'er the plain,
Fair Irad moved; before the mournful train
Great Joshua's arm sustain'd his sword and shield,
Th'affected thousands length'ning through the field;
When, crown'd with flow'rs, the maidens at her side,
With gentle steps advanced great Caleb's pride;
Her snowy hand, inspired by restless love,
Of the lone wild-rose two rich wreaths inwove,
Fresh in her hands the flowers rejoiced to bloom,
And round the fair one shed a mild perfume.
O'er all the train her active glances roved,
She gazed, and gazing miss'd the youth she loved.
Some dire mischance her boding heart divined,
And thronging terrors fill'd her anxious mind.
As near the host her quick'ning footsteps drew,
The breathless hero met her trembling view!
From her chill'd hand the headlong roses fell,
And life's gay beauty bade her cheeks farewell,
And sunk to earth.

With anguish Caleb saw her faded charms,
And caught the favourite in his hast'ning arms.
Revived, with piercing voice that froze his soul,
She forced the big round tear unwish'd to roll:
By all his love besought him soon to lead
Where cruel friendship snatch'd the lovely dead.
In vain the chief his anguish strove to hide,
Sighs rent his breast and chill'd the vital tide.

To Joshua then, whose heart beside her mourn'd,
With gaze of keen distress the charmer turn'd.
"Oh! generous chief, to misery ever kind,
Thou lovest my sire-support his sinking mind.

Thy friendly wish delights to lessen woe,
See how his tears for fallen Irad flow.

He claims thy friendship-Generous hero! see,
Lost to himself, his fondness bleeds for me.
To view the hapless youth distress'd, he fears
Would wound my soul, and force too copious tears;
But lead-O! lead me where the youth is borne—
Calm is my heart, nor will my bosom mourn :
So cold that heart it yields no pitying sigh;
And see, no tear bedews this marbled eye!

She said;

reclined
On Joshua's arm, she forced his melting mind.
Pressing her hand, he traced a gentle way,
Where breathless Irad, lost in slumbers, lay.
From the pale face his chilling hand withdrew
The decent veil, and gave the youth to view.
Fix'd o'er the form with solemn gaze she hung,
And strong deep sighs burst o'er her frozen tongue.
On Joshua then she cast a wistful look—
Wild was her tearless eye, and rolling spoke
Anguish unutterable-thrice she tried

To vent her woes, and thrice her efforts died.
At length, in accents of ecstatic grief,
Her voice, bewilder'd, gave her heart relief.

"Is this the doom we dread? Is this to die?
To sleep, to feel no more, to close the eye?
Slight is the change-how vain the childish fear
That trembles and recoils when death is near.
I too, methinks, would share the peaceful doom,
And seek a calm repose in Irad's tomb.

This breath, I know, this useless breath must fail,
These eyes be darken'd, and this face grow pale—
But thou art pale, O youth! thy lot I crave,
And every grief shall vanish in the grave!"

She ceased the tender chief without delay,
Soft pressing, kindly forced her steps away.
Slow toward the camp with solemn pace they drew.
The corse moves on, the mournful bands pursue.
Unnumber'd tears their hapless fate bewail,
And voice to voice resounds the dreadful tale.
Unhappy, to their tents the host retired,
And gradual o'er the mountains day expired.

FROM THE SAME.

Prediction made by the angel to Joshua of the future discovery and happiness of America - and of the Millennium.

FAR o'er yon azure main thy view extend,
Where seas and skies in blue confusion blend :
Lo, there a mighty realm, by Heav'n design'd
The last retreat for poor oppress'd mankind ;
Form'd with that pomp which marks the hand
divine,

And clothes yon vault where worlds unnumber'd shine.

Here spacious plains in solemn grandeur spread, Here cloudy forests cast eternal shade;

Rich valleys wind, the sky-tall mountains brave,
And inland seas for commerce spread the wave.
With nobler floods the sea-like rivers roll,
And fairer lustre purples round the pole.
Here, warm'd by happy suns, gay mines unfold
The useful iron and the lasting gold;
Pure, changing gems in silence learn to glow,
And mock the splendours of the covenant bow.
On countless hills, by savage footsteps trod,
That smile to see the future harvest nod,
In glad succession plants unnumber'd bloom,
And flowers unnumber'd breathe a rich perfume.
Hence life once more a length of days shall claim,
And health, reviving, light her purple flame.

Far from all realms this world imperial lies,
Seas roll between, and threat'ning tempests rise.
Alike removed beyond ambition's pale,
And the bold pinions of the vent'rous sail;
Till circling years the destined period bring,
And a new Moses lift the daring wing;
Through trackless seas an unknown flight explores,
And hails a new Canaan's promised shores.

On yon far strand behold that little train
Ascending vent❜rous o'er the unmeasured main ;
No dangers fright, no ills the course delay,
'Tis virtue prompts, and God directs the way.
Speed-speed, ye sons of truth! let Heav'n be-
friend,

Let angels waft you, and let peace attend.
O! smile, thou sky serene; ye storms, retire;
And airs of Eden every sail inspire.

Swift o'er the main behold the canvas fly,
And fade and fade beneath the farthest sky:
See verdant fields the changing waste unfold;
See sudden harvest dress the plains in gold;
In lofty walls the moving rocks ascend,
And dancing woods to spires and temples bend.
Meantime, expanding o'er earth's distant ends,
Lo, Slavery's gloom in sable pomp ascends !
Far round each eastern clime her volumes roll,
And pour deep shading to the sadden'd pole.
How the world droops beneath the fearful blast,
The plains all wither'd, and the skies o'ercast.

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Here empire's last and brightest throne shall rise,
And Peace,and Right, and Freedom greet the skies.
To morn's far realms her trading ships shall sail,
Or lift their canvas to the evening gale.
In wisdom's walks her sons ambitious soar,
Tread starry fields, and untried scenes explore.

And hark! what strange, what solemn breaking strain

Swells wildly murm'ring o'er the far, far main ! Down Time's long less'ning vale the notes decay, And, lost in distant ages, roll away.

JAMES

WHYTE.

SIMILE.

FROM A COLLECTION OF POEMS, PRINTED AT DUBLIN, 1789. EDITED BY MR. GRADBERRY.

You say, sir, once a wit allow'd
A woman to be like a cloud,
Accept a simile as soon

Between a woman and the moon ;
For let mankind say what they will,
The sex are heavenly bodies still.

Grant me to mimic human life-
The sun and moon are man and wife :
Whate'er kind Sol affords to lend her,
Is squander'd upon midnight splendour;
And when to rest he lays him down,
She's up, and stared at through the town.

From him her beauties close confining,
And only in his absence shining;
Or else she looks like sullen tapers;
Or else she's fairly in the vapours ;
Or owns at once a wife's ambition,
And fully glares in opposition.

Say, are not these a modish pair,
Where each for other feels no care!
Whole days in separate coaches driving,
Whole nights to keep asunder striving;
Both in the dumps in gloomy weather,
And lying once a month together.
In one sole point unlike the case is,
On her own head the horns she places.

THOMAS WARTON.

[Born, 1728. Died, 1790.]

THOMAS WARTON was descended from an ancient family, whose residence was at Beverley, in Yorkshire. One of his ancestors was knighted in the civil wars, for his adherence to Charles I.; but by the failure of the same cause, the estate of the family was confiscated, and they were unable to maintain the rank of gentry. The toryism of the historian of English poetry was, therefore, hereditary. His father was fellow of Magdalen college, Oxford; professor of poetry in that university; and vicar of Basingstoke, in Hants, and of Cobham, in Surrey. At the age of sixteen, our author was admitted a commoner of Trinity college, Oxford, of which he continued a member, and an ornament, for forty-seven years. His first poetical appearance in print has been traced to five eclogues in blank verse; the scenes of which are laid among the shepherds, oppressed by the wars in Germany. They appeared in Pearch's "Supplement to Dodsley's Collection of Fugitive Pieces." Warton disavowed those

eclogues in his riper years. They are not discreditable to him as the verses of a boy; but it was a superfluous offering to the public, to subjoin them to his other works, in Mr. Chalmers' edition of the British Poets. His poem, "The Pleasures of Melancholy," was written not long

after. As the composition of a youth, it is entitled to a very indulgent consideration; and perhaps it gives promise of a sensibility, which his subsequent poetry did not fulfil. It was professedly written in his seventeenth, but published in his nineteenth year, so that it must be considered as testifying the state of his genius at

[* Mr. Southey in his review of Chalmers' collection, is of a different opinion. "A valuable addition is made," he says, "to T. Warton's works, by the discovery of five pastoral eclogues, the scenes of which are laid among the shepherds oppressed by the war in Germany. They were published in 1745, and ascribed to him on the competent authority of Isaac Reed. They are certainly remarkable productions for a youth of eighteen.”—Quar, Rev. vol. xi. p. 501.]

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