But what can slaves? What can the nerveless arm,
Shrunk by that soft emasculating clime,
What the weak dart against the mailed breast
Of Europe's martial sons? On sea, on shore
Great Almeed triumph'd, and the rival sword
Of Albuquerque, invincible in arms,
Wasted the nations, humbling to the yoke
Kings, whom submissive myriads in the dust
Prostrate ador'd, and from the solar blaze
Of majesty retreating veil'd their eyes.

"As when a roaming vulture on the wing
From Mauritania or the cheerless waste
Of sandy Thibet, by keen hunger prest,
With eye quick glancing from his airy height
Haply at utmost need descries a fawn,
Or kid, disporting in some fruitful vale,
Down, down at once the greedy felon drops
With wings close cow'ring in his hollow sides
Full on the helpless victim; thence again
Tow'ring in air he bears his luscious prize,
And in his native wild enjoys the feast:
So these forth issuing from the rocky shore
Of distant Tagus on the quest for gain

In realms unknown, which feverish fancy paints
Glittering with gems and gold, range the wide seas,
Till India's isthmus, rising with the sun

To their keen sight, her fertile bosom spreads,
Period and palm of all their labours past;
Whereat with avarice and ambition fir'd,
Eager alike for plunder and for fame,
Onward they press to spring upon their prey;
There every spoil obtain'd, which greedy haste
By force or fraud could ravish from the hands
Of Nature's peaceful sons, again they mount
Their richly freighted bark; she, while the cries
Of widows and of orphans rend the strand,
Striding the billows, to the venal winds
Spreads her broad vans, and flies before the gale.
"Here as by sad necessity I tell

Of human woes to rend the hearer's heart,
Truth be my Muse, and thou, my bosom's star,

The planetary mistress of my birth,
Parent of all my bliss, of all my pain,
Inspire me, gentle Pity, and attune

Thy numbers, heavenly cherub, to my strain!
Thou, too, for whom my heart breathes every wish,
That filial love can form, fairest of isles,
Albion, attend and deign to hear a son,
Who for afflicted millions, prostrate slaves
Beneath oppression's scourge, and waining fast
By ghastly famine and destructive war,
No venal suit prefers; so may thy fleets,
Mistress of commerce, link the Western world
To thy maternal bosom, chase the sun
Up to his source, and in the bright display
Of empire and the liberal search of fame

Belt the wide globe-but mount, ye guardian waves,
Stand as a wall before the spoiler's path!
Ye stars, your bright intelligence withdraw,
And darkness cover all, whom lust of gold,
Fell rapine, and extortion's guilty hope
Rouse from their native dust to rend the thrones
Of peaceful princes, and usurp that soil,
Where late as humble traffickers they sought
And found a shelter: thus what they obtain'd

By supplication they extend by force,
Till in the wantonness of power they grasp
Whole provinces, where millions are their slaves.
Ah whither shall I turn to meet the face

Of love and human kindness in this world,

On which I now am ent'ring? Gracious heaven,

If, as I trust, thou hast bestow'd a sense

Of thy best gift benevolence on me,
Oh visit me in mercy, and preserve

That spark of thy divinity alive,

Till time shall end me! So when all the blasts

Of malice and unkindness, which my fate

May have in store, shall vent their rage upon me, Feeling, but still forgiving, the assault,

I may persist with patience to devote

My life, my love, my labours to mankind."

Somewhere about this time Lord Halifax lost his wife, in whom Cumberland also lost a sincere and tender friend. She was not of noble birth, but she possessed virtues which might have ennobled any birth. Her advancement to a title never elated her mind beyond the due dignity of her station; she knew herself accurately, nor wished to act beyond her sphere; and she studied successfully to contribute to her husband's happiness and welfare, both by her affection and her prudence. His grief for her loss was vehement and sincere, and his friends regretted her death because the calm serenity of her temper had always proved an admirable counterpoise to the fiery qualities of her lord's,

The duties of his station called him off from unavailing grief however, and Cumberland attended him to London at the beginning of the winter season. His situation with Lord Halifax must have been at this time rather nominal than real, for he represents himself as passing his time in all the solitude of a hermit, devoted only to his books, and visited only by one friend of the name of Higgs. But that friend could not supply every want of his heart. His separations from his family were long and frequent; and accustomed as he had been to all the endearing intercourse of a parent's roof, he found nothing in the metropolis which could supply its loss. Luckily, however, at the very moment when these thoughts were acquiring

a paramount domination, and were leading him to the project of renouncing his post for retirement and home, his good and amiable father, actuated by similar impressions, had concluded an exchange for his living at Stanwick, with the Rev. Mr. Samuel Knight, and, with permission of the Bishop of London, took the vicarage of Fulham as an equivalent. Thus the wishes, most ardently entertained by him, were at once gratified, and his situation rendered less irksome, by being compatible with a nearer and more frequent intercourse with his family.

At this time, Sherlock was Bishop of London, but he was in the last stage of bodily decay. Cumberland was occasionally admitted to his presence, in company with his father. He found him in a state awfully calculated to humble our pride, if any thing could humble it, save our own calamities, and even they cannot always do it. His speech was almost unintelligible, and his features hideously distorted by the palsy. But his mind was entire amid the general wreck of his corporeal faculties, for in this state he arranged the last volumes of his sermons for publication: nor did the selection diminish aught of that high fame which his preceding volumes had obtained.

In the adjoining parish of Hammersmith, lived the celebrated Bubb Dodington, at a splendid villa, which he fantastically enough denominated La Trappe: an appellation bestowed with as much

propriety as if a man should call Newgate the Elysian Fields. Here he was surrounded by a train of needy dependants, artists, authors, and physicians, who kept their stations about him by a subserviency not always very reputable, I suspect. Ralph was one of these: a man noted only for his political venality, and as one of the heroes of the Dunciad*. Paul Whitehead was another, and Dodington would willingly have associated Johnson with them, as we learn from a curious note preserved in Hawkins' life of him; but Johnson declined the honour, and ridiculed him who proffered it, in one of his Ramblers.

These, indeed, were not the only visitors at this celebrated mansion. Men of virtue and talent sometimes assembled there, and diversified a scene which else had presented nothing but wealthy arrogance on one side, and dependent meanness on the other. Of these better associates Cumberland has given a picture so lively and amusing, that my readers will thank me for its transcription here. may be observed, indeed, that Cumberland never appears to greater advantage than as the narrator of familiar scenes of life. His delineations are so accurate, and his colouring so vivid, that the picture is placed before us with all the strong characters of reality. This was a talent which he eminently possessed; and it is, in fact, so nearly allied to

It

* Silence, ye wolves! while Ralph to Cynthia howls,
And makes night hideous-answer him ye owls.