JOHN CUNNINGHAM. Dublin. 1729-1773. Cunningham's father was a wine-cooper at Dublin, who won a prize in the Lottery, and was ruined by it, for he commenced wine-merchant with his new capital, and became a bankrupt. His son, who was then at the grammar-school at Drogheda, was taken from his studies in consequence, and began, like many young men in hopeless circumstances, to look to the Theatre for support. Voice, figure, manner, every thing was against him; he became sensible of his own unfitness for this way of life, but there was no alternative; and having made one unsuccessful effort to better himself, by attempting the trade of authorship in London, he returned contentedly to the stage. The places where he was employed were Edinburgh, Newcastle, and Alnwick, where, in spite of his situation, he seems to have been regarded with that respect which his worth and talents deserved. Cunningham was an interesting man, he had a true love for the beauties of nature, his life was innocent, and, humble as his lot was, he was contented and happy. His Poems have obtained considerable popularity, and are not unworthy of it. EVENING. O'ER the heath the heifer strays Now the village windows blaze, Now he hides behind the hill, Trudging as the ploughmen go, Where the rising forest spreads As the lark, with varied tune, Now the hermit howlet peeps From the barn, or twisted brake: And the blue mist slowly creeps, Curling on the silver lake. As the trout in speckled pride, Playful from its bosom springs; To the banks, a ruffled tide Verges in successive rings. Tripping through the silken grass, Linnets, with unnumber'd notes, And the cuckoo bird with two, Tuning sweet their mellow throats, Bid the setting sun adieu. EPIGRAM. A MEMBER of the modern great But Sawney shall receive the praise His lordship would parade for ; One's debtor for his dapple greys, And t'other's shoes are paid for. CONTENT: A Pastoral. O'ER moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, and bare, As wilder'd and weary'd I roam, A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair, And leads me-o'er lawns-to her home: Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crown'd, Green rushes were strew'd on her floor, Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round, And deck'd the sod seats at her door. We sate ourselves down to a cooling repast, cast, Love slily stole into my breast. I told my soft wishes: she sweetly reply'd, I've rich ones rejected, and great ones deny'd, Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek, Now jocund together we tend a few sheep, Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills, Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils, To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire, The cottager, Peace, is well known for her sire, The Sheep and the Bramble Bush. A Fable. A thick twisted brake, in the time of a storm, Seem'd kindly to cover a sheep: So snug, for a while, he lay shelter'd and warm, It quietly soothed him asleep. |