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 warrior's 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,
Deap 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,
Pours 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:

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-Oh! 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.

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.
Oh! 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;
In lofty walls the moving rocks ascend,
See sudden harvest dress the plains in gold;

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.

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.

To morn's fair 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.

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 was descended from an ancient family, whose residence was at Beverly, 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

[* 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 made among the shepherds oppressed by the war in Germany. They were published in 1745, and ascribed to him on the competent

his subsequent poetry did not fulfil. It was professedly written in his seventeenth, but published in his nineteenth year, so that it must be considored as testifying the state of his genius at the latter period; for until his work had passed through the press, he would continue to improve it. In the year 1749, he published his “ "Triumph of Isis," in answer to Mason's poetical attack on the loyalty of Oxford. The best passage in this piece, beginning with the lines,

"Ye fretted pinnacles, ye fanes sublime,

Ye towers, that wear the mossy vest of time, discovers that fondness for the beauties of architecture, which was an absolute passion in the breast of Warton. Joseph Warton relates, that, at an early period of their youth, his brother and he were taken by their father to see Windsor Castle.† Old Dr. Warton complained, that whilst the rest of the party expressed delight at the magnificent spectacle, Thomas made no remarks; but Joseph Warton justly observes, that the silence of his brother was only a proof of the depth of his pleasure; that he was really absorbed in the enjoyment of the sight: and that his subsequent fondness for "castle imagery," he believed, might be traced to the impression which he then received from Windsor Castle.

In 1750 he took the degree of a master of arts; and in the following year succeeded to a fellowship. In 1754 he published his "Observations

authority of Isaac Reed. They are certainly remarkable productions for a youth of eighteen."-Quar. Kev. vol. xi. p. 501.]

[† See the father's poem upon viewing Windsor Castle, ante, p. 446.]

on Spenser's Faery Queen," in a single volume, which he afterward expanded into two volumes, in the edition of 1762. In this work he minutely analyses the Classic and Romantic sources of Spenser's fiction; and so far enables us to estimate the power of the poet's genius, that we can compare the scattered ore of his fanciful materials, with their transmuted appearance in the Faery Queen. This work, probably, contributed to his appointment to the professorship of poetry, in the university, in 1757, which he held, according to custom, for ten years. While possessed of that chair, he delivered a course of lectures on poetry, in which he introduced his translations from the Greek Anthology, as well as the substance of his remarks on the Bucolic poetry of the Greeks, which were afterward published in his edition of Theocritus. In 1758 he assisted Dr. Johnson in the Idler, with Nos. 33, 93, and 96. About the same time, he published, without name or date, "A Description of the City, College, and Cathedral of Winchester," and a humorous account of Oxford, intended to burlesque the popular description of that place, entitled, “A Companion to the Guide, or a Guide to the Companion." He also published anonymously in 1758, "A Selection of Latin Metrical Inscriptions."

Warton's clerical profession forms no very prominent part of his history. He had an indistinct and hurried articulation, which was peculiarly unfavourable to his pulpit oratory. His ambition was directed to other objects than preferment in the church, and he was above solicitation. After having served the curacy of Woodstock for nine years, as well as his avocations would permit, he was appointed, in 1774, to the small living of Kiddington, in Oxfordshire; and, in 1785, to the donative of Hill Farrance, in Somersetshire, by his own college.

The great work to which the studies of his life were subservient, was his "History of English Poetry," an undertaking which had been successively projected by Pope and Gray. Those writers had suggested the imposing plan of arranging the British poets, not by their chronological succession, but by their different schools. Warton deliberately relinquished this scheme; because he felt that it was impracticable, except in a very vague and general manner. Poetry is of too spiritual a nature, to admit of its authors being exactly grouped, by a Linnæan system of classification. Striking resemblances and distinctions will, no doubt, be found among poets; but the shades of variety and gradation are so infinite, that to bring every composer within a given line of resemblance, would require a new language in the philosophy of taste. Warton, therefore,

[* As Warton's plan excluded the drama, his work very ill merited its title of a History of English Poetry. Johnson's Lives of the Poets, where Shakspeare and Spenser are omitted, is not a greater misnomer. Such has been the effect of Warton's plan that no collection of our poets has ever included even a portion of the drama; and till Mr. Campbell selected his, there were no Specimens where they were: always excepting the Elegant Extracts, and

adopted the simpler idea of tracing our poetry by its chronological progress. The work is certainly provokingly digressive, in many places, and those who have subsequently examined the same subject have often complained of its inaccuracies; but the chief cause of those inaccuracies was that boldness and extent of research, which makes the work so useful and entertaining. Those who detected his mistakes have been, in no small degree, indebted to him for their power of detecting them. The first volume of his History appeared in 1774; the second in 1778; and the third in 1781. Of the fourth volume only a few sheets were printed; and the account of our poetry, which he meant to have extended to the last century, was continued only to the reign of Elizabeth.*

In the year 1785, he was appointed to the Camden Professorship of History, in which situation he delivered only one inaugural dissertation. In the same year, upon the death of Whitehead, he received the laureateship. His odes were subjected to the ridicule of the Rolliad; but his head filled the laurel with more learning than it had encompassed for 100 years.

In his sixty-second year, after a life of uninterrupted good health, he was attacked by the gout; went to Bath for a cure, and returned, as he imagined, perfectly recovered; but his appearance betrayed that his constitution had received a fatal shock. At the close of an evening, which he had spent with more than ordinary cheerfulness, in the common-hall of his college, he was seized with a paralytic stroke, and expired on the following day.

Some amusing eccentricities of his character are mentioned by the writer of his life, (Dr. Mant,) which the last editor of the British Poetst blames that biographer for introducing. I am far from joining in this censure. It is a miserable system of biography, that would never allow us to smile at the foibles and peculiarities of its subject. The historian of English poetry would sometimes forget his own dignity, so far as to drink ale, and smoke tobacco with men of vulgar condition; either wishing, as some have gravely alleged, to study undiguised and unlettered human nature, or, which is more probable, to enjoy a heartier laugh, and broader humour than could be found in polite society. He was also passionately fond (not of critical, but) of military reviews and delighted in martial music. The same strength of association which made him enjoy the sound of "the spirit-stirring drum," led him to be a constant and curious explorer of the architectural monuments of chivalrous times; and during his summer excursions into the country, he always committed to paper the remarks which he had

Mr. Lamb's tasteful Selections, which is scarce an instance in point.]

[t The late Alexander Chalmers. Sir Walter Scott and Mr. Campbell were to have edited this collection; which fell, as many a noble project has done, into the hands of a mere hack in literature; not destitute of knowledge, Lut without the means of using it properly, and without taste. -See Lockhart's Life of Scott, vol. ii. p. 240, 2d ed.]

make on ancient buildings. During his visits to his brother, Dr. J. Warton, the reverend professor became an associate and confidant in all the sports of the schoolboys. When engaged with them in some culinary occupation, and when alarmed by the sudden approach of the master, he has been known to hide himself in a dark corner of the kitchen; and has been dragged from thence by the Doctor, who had taken him for some great boy. He also used to help the boys in their exercises, generally putting in as many faults as would disguise the assistance.

Every Englishman who values the literature of his country, must feel himself obliged to Warton as a poetical antiquary. As a poet, he is ranked by his brother Joseph in the school of Spenser and Milton; but this classification can only be admitted with a full understanding of the immense distance between him and his great masters. He had, indeed, "spelt the fabled rhyme;" he abounds in allusions to the romantic subjects of Spenser, and he is a sedulous imitator of the rich lyrical manner of Milton: but of the tenderness and peculiar harmony of Spenser he has caught nothing; and in his resemblance to Milton, he is the heir of his phraseology more than of his spirit. His imitation of manner, however, is not confined to Milton. His style often exhibits a composite order of poetical architecture. In his verses to Sir Joshua Reynolds, for instance, he blends the point and succinctness of Pope, with the richness of the elder and more fanciful school. It is one of his happiest compositions; and, in this case, the intermixture of styles has no unpleasing effect. In others, he often tastelessly and elaborately unites his affectation of antiquity, with the case-hardened graces of modern polish.

If we judge of him by the character of the majority of his pieces, I believe that fifty out of sixty of them are such, that we should not be anxious to give them a second perusal. From that proportion of his works, I conceive that an unprejudiced reader would pronounce him a florid, unaffecting describer, whose images are

plentifully scattered, but without selection or relief. To confine our view, however, to some seven or eight of his happier pieces, we shall find, in these, a considerable degree of graphic power, of fancy, and animation. His "Verses to Sir Joshua Reynolds" are splendid and spirited. There is also a softness and sweetness in his ode entitled "The Hamlet," which is the more welcome, for being rare in his productions; and his "Crusade," and "Grave of Arthur," have a genuine air of martial and minstrel enthusiasm. Those pieces exhibit, to the best advantage, the most striking feature of his poetical character, which was a fondness for the recollections of chivalry, and a minute intimacy of imagination with its gorgeous residences, and imposing spectacles. The spirit of chivalry, he may indeed be said, to have revived in the poetry of modern times. His memory was richly stored with all the materials for description that can be got from books: and he seems not to have been without an original enthusiasm for those objects which excite strong associations of regard and wonder. Whether he would have ever looked with interest on a shepherd's cottage, if he had not found it described by Virgil or Theocritus, may be fairly doubted; but objects of terror, splendour and magnificence, are evidently congenial to his fancy. He is very impressive in sketching the appearance of an ancient Gothic castle, in the following lines:

"High o'er the trackless heath, at midnight seen, No more the windows, ranged in long array, (Where the tall shaft and fretted nook between Thick ivy twines) the taper'd rites betray." His memory was stored with an uncommon portion of that knowledge which supplies materials for picturesque description; and his universal acquaintance with our poets supplied him with expression, so as to answer the full demand of his original ideas. Of his poetic invention, in the fair sense of the word, of his depth of sensibility, or of his powers of reflection, it is not so easy to say any thing favourable.*

VERSES ON SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS'S PAINTED WINDOW, AT NEW COLLEGE, OXFORD.

Aн, stay thy treacherous hand, forbear to trace Those faultless forms of elegance and grace! Ah, cease to spread the bright transparent mass, With Titian's pencil, o'er the speaking glass! Nor steal, by strokes of art with truth combined, The fond illusions of my wayward mind! For long enamour'd of a barbarous age, A faithless truant to the classic page; Long have I loved to catch the simple chime Of minstrel-harps, and spell the fabling rime; To view the festive rites, the knightly play, That deck'd heroic Albion's elder day; To mark the mouldering halls of barons bold, And the rough castle, cast in giant mould;

With Gothic manners Gothic arts explore,
And muse on the magnificence of yore.

But chief, enraptured have I loved to roam,
A lingering votary, the vaulted dome,
Where the tall shafts, that mount in massy pride,
Their mingling branches shoot from side to side;
Where elfin sculptors, with fantastic clew,
O'er the long roof their wild embroidery drew;
Where Superstition with capricious hand
In many a maze the wreathed window plann'd,
With hues romantic tinged the gorgeous pane,
To fill with holy light the wondrous fane;

[* In the best of Warton's poems there is a stiffness which too often gives them the appearance of imitations from the Greek.-COLERIDGE.

Thomas Warton has sent me his "Inscriptions," which are rather too simple for my taste.-SHENSTONE.]