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With that dull, rooted, callous impudence,
Which, dead to shame, and every nicer sense,
Ne'er blush'd, unless, in spreading vice's snares,
She blunder'd on some virtue unawares:
With all these blessings, which we seldom find
Lavish'd by nature on one happy mind,
A motley figure, of the fribble tribe,

Which heart can scarce conceive, or pen describe,
Came simp'ring on: to ascertain whose sex
Twelve sage impannel'd matrons would perplex.
Nor male, nor female, neither and yet both;
Of neuter gender, though of Irish growth;
A six-foot suckling, mincing in its gait;
Affected, peevish, prim, and delicate;
Fearful it seem'd, though of athletic make,
Lest brutal breezes should too roughly shake
Its tender form, and savage motion spread
O'er its pale cheeks the horrid manly red.

Much did it talk, in its own pretty phrase,
Of genius and of taste, of play'rs and plays;
Much too of writings, which itself had wrote,
Of special merit, though of little note;
For fate, in a strange humour, had decreed
That what it wrote, none but itself should read;
Much too it chatter'd of dramatic laws,
Misjudging critics, and misplaced applause,
Then with a self-complacent jutting air,
It smiled, it smirk'd, it wriggled to the chair;
And, with an awkward briskness not its own,
Looking around, and perking on the throne,
Triumphant seem'd, when that strange savage
dame,

Known but to few, or only known by name, Plain Common Sense, appear'd, by nature there Appointed, with plain truth, to guard the chair. The pageant saw, and blasted with her frown, To its first state of nothing melted down.

Nor shall the Muse (for even there the pride
Of this vain nothing shall be mortified)
Nor shall the Muse (should fate ordain her
rhymes,

Fond, pleasing thought! to live in after times)
With such a trifler's name her pages blot;
Known be the character, the thing forgot;
Let it, to disappoint each future aim,
Live without sex, and die without a name!

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Far be it from the candid Muse to tread Insulting o'er the ashes of the dead, But, just to living merit, she maintains, And dares the test, whilst Garrick's genius reigns; Ancients in vain endeavour to excel, Happily praised, if they could act as well. But though prescription's force we disallow, Nor to antiquity submissive bow; Though we deny imaginary grace, Founded on accident of time and place; Yet real worth of every growth shall bear Due praise, nor must we, Quin, forget thee there. His words bore sterling weight, nervous and In manly tides of sense they roll'd along. [strong Happy in art, he chiefly had pretence To keep up numbers, yet not forfeit sense. No actor ever greater heights could reach In all the labour'd artifice of speech.

Speech! Is that all?-And shall an actor found
A universal fame on partial ground?
Parrots themselves speak properly by rote,
And, in six months, my dog shall howl by note.
I laugh at those, who when the stage they tread
Neglect the heart to compliment the head;
With strict propriety their care's confined
To weigh out words, while passion halts behind.
To syllable-dissectors they appeal,

Allow them accent, cadence,-fools may feel;
But, spite of all the criticising elves,
Those who would make us feel, must feel them-
selves.

His eyes, in gloomy socket taught to roll,
Proclaim'd the sullen habit of his soul.
Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the stage,
Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage.
When Hector's lovely widow shines in tears,
Or Rowe's gay ráke dependent virtue jeers,
With the same cast of features he is seen
To chide the libertine, and court the queen.
From the tame scene, which without passion
flows,

With just desert his reputation rose;
Nor less he pleased, when, on some surly plan,
He was, at once, the actor and the man.

In Brute he shone unequall'd: all agree
Garrick's not half so great a brute as he.
When Cato's labour'd scenes are brought to view,
With equal praise the actor labour'd too;
For still you'll find, trace passions to their root,
Small difference 'twixt the stoic and the brute.
In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan,
He could not, for a moment, sink the man.
In whate'er cast his character was laid,
Self still, like oil, upon the surface play'd.
Nature, in spite of all his skill, crept in:
Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff,-still 'twas Quin.

Next follows Sheridan-a doubtful name, As yet unsettled in the rank of fame. This, fondly lavish in his praises grown, Gives him all merit; that allows him none. Between them both we'll steer the middle course, Nor, loving praise, rob judgment of her force. Just his conceptions, natural and great: His feelings strong, his words enforced with weight.

Was speech-famed Quin himself to hear him speak,

Envy would drive the colour from his cheek:
But step-dame nature, niggard of her grace,
Denied the social powers of voice and face.
Fix'd in one frame of features, glare of eye,
Passions, like chaos, in confusion lie;

In vain the wonders of his skill are tried
To form distinctions nature hath denied.
His voice no touch of harmony admits,
Irregularly deep and shrill by fits:

The two extremes appear like man and wife,
Coupled together for the sake of strife.

His action's always strong, but sometimes such,
That candour must declare he acts too much.
Why must impatience fall three paces back?
Why paces three return to the attack?
Why is the right-leg too forbid to stir,
Unless in motion semicircular?
Why must the hero with the nailor vie,
And hurl the close-clench'd fist at nose or eye?
In royal John, with Philip angry grown,

I thought he would have knock'd poor Davies down.

Inhuman tyrant! was it not a shame,
To fright a king so harmless and so tame?
But spite of all defects, his glories rise;
And art, by judgment form'd, with nature vies:
Behold him sound the depth of Hubert's soul,
Whilst in his own contending passions roll:
View the whole scene, with critic judgment scan,
And then deny him merit if you can.
Where he falls short, 'tis nature's fault alone;
Where he succeeds, the merit 's all his own.
Last Garrick came.-Behind him throng a train
Of snarling critics, ignorant as vain.

One finds out-"He's of stature somewhat
low-

Your hero always should be tall, you know.-
True nat'ral greatness all consists in height."
Produce your voucher, critic-"Sergeant Kite."
Another can't forgive the paltry arts
By which he makes his way to shallow hearts;
Mere pieces of finesse, traps for applause--
"Avaunt, unnat'ral start, affected pause."

For me, by nature form'd to judge with phlegm,
I can't acquit by wholesale, nor condemn.
The best things carried to excess are wrong:
The start may be too frequent, pause too long;
But, only used in proper time and place,
Severest judgment must allow them grace.
If bunglers, form'd on imitation's plan,
Just in the way that monkeys mimic man,
Their copied scene with mangled arts disgrace,
And pause and start with the same vacant face,
We join the critic laugh; those tricks we scorn,
Which spoil the scenes they mean them to adorn.
But when, from nature's pure and genuine source,
These strokes of acting flow with gen'rous force,
When in the features all the soul's portray'd,
And passions, such as Garrick's, are display'd,
To me they seem from quickest feelings caught:
Each start is nature; and each pause is thought.
When reason yields to passion's wild alarms,
And the whole state of man up in arms;

What but a critic could condemn the play'r,
For pausing here, when cool sense pauses there?
Whilst, working from the heart, the fire I trace,
And mark it strongly flaming to the face;
Whilst, in each sound, I hear the very man ;
I can't catch words, and pity those who can.

Let wits, like spiders, from the tortured brain
Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain;
The gods, a kindness I with thanks must pay,-
Have form'd me of a coarser kind of clay;
Nor stung with envy, nor with spleen diseased,
A poor dull creature, still with nature pleased;
Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree,

And, pleased with nature, must be pleased with thee.

Now might I tell, how silence reign'd throughout, And deep attention hush'd the rabble rout! How ev'ry claimant, tortured with desire, Was pale as ashes, or as red as fire: But, loose to fame, the Muse more simply acts, Rejects all flourish, and relates mere facts.

The judges, as the several parties came, With temper heard, with judgment weigh'd each claim,

And, in their sentence happily agreed,

In name of both, great Shakspeare thus decreed.
"If manly sense; if nature link'd with art;
If thorough knowledge of the human heart;
If pow'rs of acting vast and unconfined;
If fewest faults with greatest beauties join'd;
If strong expression, and strange pow'rs which lie
Within the magic circle of the eye;

If feelings which few hearts, like his, can know,
And which no face so well as his can show;
Deserve the pref'rence;-Garrick, take the chair;
Nor quit it-till thou place an equal there."

FROM THE PROPHECY OF FAMINE.

A SCOTS PASTORAL.

Two boys, whose birth beyond all question springs
From great and glorious, though forgotten, kings,
Shepherds of Scottish lineage, born and bred
On the same bleak and barren mountain's head,

By niggard nature doom'd on the same rocks
To spin out life, and starve themselves and flocks,
Fresh as the morning, which, enrobed in mist,
The mountain's top with usual dulness kiss'd,
Jockey and Sawney to their labours rose;

Soon clad, I ween, where nature needs no clothes,
Where, from their youth, inured to winter skies,
Dress and her vain refinements they despise.

Jockey, whose manly high-boned cheeks to crown With freckles spotted flamed the golden down, With mickle art could on the bagpipes play, E'en from the rising to the setting day; Sawney as long without remorse could bawl Home's madrigals, and ditties from Fingal.

[* Heartily as Churchill hated the Scotch, he was himself of the half-blood. This appears from a passage in The Prophecy of Famine, remarkable also for containing an equivocal intimation that he had renounced not only his orders, but his belief, v. 217-234-SOUTHEY'S Life of Cowper, vol. ii. p. 355.)

Oft at his strains, all natural though rude,
The Highland lass forgot her want of food,
And, whilst she scratch'd her lover into rest,
Sunk pleased, though hungry, on her Sawney's

breast.

Far as the eye could reach, no tree was seen, Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively green. The plague of locusts they secure defy, For in three hours a grasshopper must die. No living thing, whate'er its food, feasts there, But the cameleon, who can feast on air. No birds, except as birds of passage, flew, No bee was known to hum, no dove to coo. No streams as amber smooth, as amber clear, Were seen to glide, or heard to warble here.* Rebellion's spring, which through the country ran, Furnish'd, with bitter draughts, the steady clan. No flow'rs embalm'd the air but one white rose, Which on the tenth of June by instinct blows, By instinct blows at morn, and when the shades Of drizzly eve prevail, by instinct fades.

One, and but one poor solitary cave, Too sparing of her favours, nature gave; That one alone (hard tax on Scottish pride!) Shelter at once for man and beast supplied. Their snares without entangling briars spread, And thistles, arm'd against th' invader's head, Stood in close ranks all entrance to oppose, Thistles now held more precious than the rose. All creatures which, on nature's earliest plan, Were form'd to loathe, and to be loathed by man, Which owed their birth to nastiness and spite, Deadly to touch and hateful to the sight, Creatures, which when admitted in the ark, Their saviour shunn'd, and rankled in the dark, Found place within: marking her noisome road With poison's trail, here crawl'd the bloated toad; There webs were spread of more than common size,

And half-starved spiders prey'd on half-starved

flies;

In quest of food, efts strove in vain to crawl;
Slugs, pinch'd with hunger, smear'd the slimy wall;
The cave around with hissing serpents rung;
On the damp roof unhealthy vapour hung;
And Famine, by her children always known,
As proud as poor, here fix'd her native throne.
Here, for the sullen sky was overcast,
And summer shrunk beneath a wint'ry blast,
A native blast, which arm'd with hail and rain,
Beat unrelenting on the naked swain,-
The boys for shelter made; behind, the sheep,
Of which those shepherds every day take keep,
Sickly crept on, and with complainings rude,
On nature seem'd to call, and bleat for food.

Jock. Sith to this cave, by tempest we're con-
fined,

And within ken our flocks, under the wind,
Safe from the pelting of this perilous storm,
Are laid among yon thistles, dry and warm,

[The severity of satire is in its truth; and however treeless her clime may be, or cold her hills, or naked her inhabitants-her streams are as clear as crystal, and dance, and bicker to a music all their own.] [The Pretender's birth-day.]

What, Sawney, if by Shepherd's art we try
To mock the rigour of this cruel sky?
What if we tune some merry roundelay!
Well dost thou sing, nor ill doth Jockey play.
Saw. Ah, Jockey, ill advisest thou, I wis,
To think of songs at such a time as this.
Sooner shall herbage crown these barren rocks,
Sooner shall fleeces clothe these ragged flocks,
Sooner shall want seize shepherds of the south,
And we forget to live from hand to mouth,
Than Sawney, out of season, shall impart
The songs of gladness with an aching heart.

Jock. Still have I known thee for a silly swain:
Of things past help, what boots it to complain?
Nothing but mirth can conquer fortune's spite;
No sky is heavy, if the heart be light:
Patience is sorrow's salve; what can't be cured,
So Donald right areeds, must be endured.

Saw. Full silly swain, I wot, is Jockey now; How didst thou bear thy Maggy's falsehood? how, When with a foreign loon she stole away, Didst thou forswear thy pipe and shepherd's lay? Where was thy boasted wisdom then, when I Applied those proverbs, which you now apply?

Jock. O she was bonny! All the Highlands Was there a rival to my Maggy found? [round Nore precious (though that precious is to all) Than the rare med'cine which we brimstone call, Or that choice plant, so grateful to the nose, Which in I know not what far country grows, Was Maggy unto me; dear do I rue, A lass so fair should ever prove untrue.

[ear,

Saw. Whether with pipe or song to charm the Through all the land did Jamie find a peer? Cursed be that year by ev'ry honest Scot, And in the shepherd's calendar forgot, That fatal year, when Jamie, hapless swain, In evil hour forsook the peaceful plain. Jamie, when our young laird discreetly fled, Was seized and hang'd till he was dead, dead, dead.

Jock. Full sorely may we all lament that day; For all were losers in the deadly fray, Five brothers had I on the Scottish plains, Well dost thou know were none more hopeful

swains;

[clad

Five brothers there I lost, in manhood's pride,
Two in the field, and three on gibbets died:
Ah! silly swains, to follow war's alarms!
Ah! what hath shepherds' life to do with arms!
Saw. Mention it not-There saw I strangers
In all the honours of our ravish'd plaid,
Saw the ferrara too, our nation's pride,
Unwilling grace the awkward victor's side.
There fell our choicest youth, from that day
Mote never Sawney tune the merry lay;
Bless'd those which fell! cursed those which still
To mourn fifteen renew'd in forty-five. [survive,
Thus plain'd the boys, when from her throne

of turf,

With boils emboss'd, and overgrown with scurf, Vile humours, which, in life's corrupted well, Mix'd at the birth, not abstinence could quell, Pale Famine rear'd the head: her eager eyes, Where hunger ev'n to madness seem'd to rise,

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Speaking aloud her throes and pangs of heart,
Strain'd to get loose, and from their orbs to start;
Her hollow cheeks were each a deep-sunk cell,
Where wretchedness and horror loved to dwell;
With double rows of useless teeth supplied,
Her mouth, from ear to ear, extended wide,
Which, when for want of food her entrails pined,
She oped, and, cursing, swallow'd naught but
wind;

All shrivell'd was her skin, and here and there
Making their way by force, her bones lay bare:
Such filthy sight to hide from human view,
O'er her foul limbs a tatter'd plaid she threw.
Cease, cried the goddess, cease despairing
swains,

And from a parent hear what Jove ordains!

Pent in this barren corner of the isle,
Where partial fortune never deign'd to smile;
Like Nature's bastards, reaping for our share
What was rejected by the lawful heir;
Unknown among the nations of the earth,
Or only known to raise contempt and mirth;
Long free, because the race of Roman braves
Thought it not worth their while to make us
slaves,

Then into bondage by that nation brought,
Whose ruin we for ages vainly sought;

Whom still with unslack'd hate we view, and still,

The pow'r of mischief lost, retain the will;
Consider'd as the refuse of mankind,

A mass till the last moment left behind,
Which frugal nature doubted, as it lay,
Whether to stamp with life, or throw away;
Which, form'd in haste, was planted in this nook,
But never enter'd in creation's book;
Branded as traitors, who for love of gold
Would sell their God, as once their king they
sold;

Long have we born this mighty weight of ill,
These vile injurious taunts, and bear them still.
But times of happier note are now at hand,
And the full promise of a better land:

There, like the sons of Israel, having trod,
For the fix'd term of years ordain'd by God,
A barren desert, we shall seize rich plains,
Where milk with honey flows, and plenty reigns.
With some few natives join'd, some pliant few,
Who worship int'rest and our track pursue,
There shall we, though the wretched people
grieve,

Ravage at large, nor ask the owner's leave.

For us, the earth shall bring forth her increase; For us, the flocks shall wear a golden fleece; Fat beeves shall yield us dainties not our own, And the grape bleed a nectar yet unknown; For our advantage shall their harvests grow, And Scotsmen reap what they disdain'd to sow; For us, the sun shall climb the eastern hill; For us, the rain shall fall, the dew distil; When to our wishes nature cannot rise, Art shall be task'd to grant us fresh supplies. His brawny arm shall drudging labour strain, And for our pleasure suffer daily pain; Trade shall for us exert her utmost pow'rs, Hers all the toil, and all the profit ours; For us, the oak shall from his native steep Descend, and fearless travel through the deep; The sail of commerce, for our use unfurl'd, Shall waft the treasures of each distant world; For us, sublimer heights shall science reach, For us their statesmen plot, their churchmen

preach;

Their noblest limbs of counsel we'll disjoint,
And, mocking, new ones of our own appoint;
Devouring War, imprison'd in the north,
Shall, at our call, in horrid pomp break forth,
And when, his chariot wheels with thunder
hung,

Fell Discord braying with her brazen tongue,
Death in the van, with Anger, Hate and Fear,
And Desolation stalking in the rear,
Revenge, by Justice guided, in his train,
He drives impetuous o'er the trembling plain,
Shall at our bidding, quit his lawful prey,
And to meek, gentle, gen'rous Peace give way.

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SONG.

THE PARTING KISS.

ONE kind kiss before we part, Drop a tear and bid adieu: Though we sever, my fond heart Till we meet shall pant for you.

Yet, yet weep not so, my love,
Let me kiss that falling tear,
Though my body must remove,

All my soul will still be here.
All my soul, and all my heart,
And every wish shall pant for you;
One kind kiss then ere we part,
Drop a tear and bid adieu.

ROBERT LLOYD.

[Born, 1733. Died, 1764]

ROBERT LLOYD was the son of one of the masters of Westminster school. He studied at Cambridge, and was for some time usher at Westminster, but forsook that employment for the life of an author and the habits of a man of pleasure. His first publication that attracted any notice was the "Actor," the reputation of which stimulated Churchill to his "Rosciad." He contributed to several periodical works; but was unable by his literary efforts to support the dissipated life which he led with Colman, Thornton, and other gay associates. His debts brought him to the Fleet; and those companions left him to

moralize on the instability of convivial friendships. Churchill, however, adhered to him, and gave him pecuniary relief to prevent him from starving in prison. During his confinement he published a volume of his poems; wrote a comic opera, "The Capricious Lovers ;" and took a share in translating the Contes Moraux of Marmontel. When the death of Churchill was announced to him, he exclaimed, "I shall follow poor Charles!" fell into despondency, and died within a few weeks. Churchill's sister, to whom he was betrothed, died of a broken heart for his loss.*

CHIT CHAT. AN IMITATION OF THEOCRITUS.

IDYLL. XV. 'Evdoi Пpaživóa, &c.

Mrs. B. Is Mistress Scot at home, my dear? Serv. Ma'am, is it you? I'm glad you're here. My missess, though resolved to wait,

Is quite unpatient-'tis so late.

She fancied you would not come down,
-But pray walk in, ma'am-Mrs. Brown.

Mrs. S. Your servant, madam. Well, I swear
I'd given you over.-Child, a chair.
Pray, ma'am, be seated.

Mrs. B.

Lard! my dear,

I vow I'm almost dead with fear.

There is such a scrouging and such squeeging,
The folks are all so disobliging;
And then the wagons, carts, and drays
So clog up all these narrow ways,
What with the bustle and the throng,
I wonder how I got along.
Besides, the walk is so immense—
Not that I grudge a coach expense,
But then it jumbles me to death,

And I was always short of breath.
How can you live so far, my dear?
Its quite a journey to come here.

Mrs. S. Lard! ma'am, I left it all to him,
Husbands, you know, will have their whim.
He took this house.-This house! this den.-
See but the temper of some men.
And I, forsooth, am hither hurl'd,

To live quite out of all the world.
Husband, indeed!

Mrs. B.

Hist! lower, pray,

The child hears every word you say. See how he looks

Mrs. S.

Jacky, come here, There's a good boy, look up, my dear. 'Twas not papa we talk'd about. -Surely he cannot find it out.

Mrs. B. See how the urchin holds his hands! Upon my life he understands.

-There's a sweet child, come, kiss me, come,
Will Jacky have a sugar-plum?

Mrs. S. This person, madam, (call him so
And then the child will never know,)
From house to house would ramble out,
And every night a drunken-bout.
For at a tavern he will spend
His twenty shillings with a friend.
Your rabbits fricasseed and chicken,
With curious choice of dainty picking,
Each night got ready at the Crown,
With port and punch to wash 'em down,
Would scarcely serve this belly-glutton,
Whilst we must starve on mutton, mutton.
Mrs. B. My good man, too-Lord bless us!
Are born to lead unhappy lives,
Although his profits bring him clear
Almost two hundred pounds a year,

[wives

[*To Lloyd and Churchill, Mr. Southey has given, in his Life of Cowper, an undue though interesting im portance.

Lloyd's best productions are his two Odes, to Obscurity and Oblivion, written in ridicule of Gray; and in which the elder Colman had an uncertain share.]

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