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is said to have been stimulated to write his Rosciad, in which he descended from general to personal criticism. The subjects, however, were so alike, that Lloyd was for some time supposed to be the author of the Rosciad, which he took an early opportunity to deny, and not only acknowledged his inferiority, but attached himself more closely than ever to the fame and fortunes of Churchill.

In the same year he attempted a small piece of the musical kind, called, The Tears and Triumphs of Parnassus, and the following season had another little opera performed at Drury-lane Theatre in honour of their present majesties' nuptials, entitled, Arcadia; or, The Shepherd's Wedding. The profit arising from these pieces was not great, but probably enough to induce him to become an author by profession, although no man ever ventured on that mode of life with fewer qualifications. His poetical productions were of such a trifling cast as to bring him very small supplies, and he had neither taste nor industry for literary employment.

In 1762, he attempted to establish a periodical work, The St. James's Magazine, which was to be the depository of his own effusions, aided by the contributions of his friends: the latter, however, came in tardily; Churchill, from whom he had great expectations, contributed nothing, although such of his poems as he published during the sale of the magazine were liberally praised. Thornton gave a very few prose essays, and poetical pieces were furnished by Dennis and Emily, two versifiers of forgotten reputation. Lloyd himself had none of the steady industry which a periodical work requires, and his magazine was often made up, partly from books, and partly from the St. James's Chronicle, of which Colman and Thornton were proprietors and regular contributors. Lloyd also translated some of Marmontel's Tales for the magazine, and part of a French play, in order to fix upon Murphy the clrarge of plagiarism. This magazine, after existing about a year, was dropt for want of encouragement, as far as Lloyd was concerned; but was continued for some time longer by Dr. Kenrick, a man of much general knowledge and acuteness, but of an irritable temper, and coarse and acrimonious in his resentments.

Lloyd's imprudence and necessities were now beyond relief or forbearance, and his creditors confined him within the Fleet prison, where he afforded a melancholy instance of the unstable friendship of wits. Dr. Kenrick informs us that even Thornton, though his bosom friend from their infancy, refused to be his security for the liberty of the rules; a circumstance, which, giving rise to some ill-natured altercation, induced this quondam friend to become an inveterate enemy in the quality of his most inexorable creditor.

As Dr. Kenrick has carefully avoided dates in his account of Lloyd, I can only conjecture that it was during his imprisonment that he published a very indifferent translation of Klopstock's Death of Adam. After that, his Capricious Lovers, a comic opera, was acted for a few nights at Drury-lane Theatre. This is an adaptation of Favart's Ninette à la Cour to the English stage, but Lloyd had no original powers in dramatic composition. Churchill and Wilkes are said to have afforded him a weekly stipend from the commencement of his imprisonment until his final release. How this was paid we know not: Wilkes had been long out of the kingdom, and Churchill, who left Lloyd in a gaol when he went to France, bequeathed him a ring only as a remembrance. It is

2 Among other expedients for his relief, Churchill promoted, with considerable success, a subscription for an edition of his collected poems. From this and other circumstances, it may be conjectured that Lloyd's imprisonment commenced in the latter end of the year 1763.

more probable that his father assisted him on this occasion, although it might not be in his power to pay his debts. He had in vain tried every means to reclaim him from idleness and intemperance, and had long borne "the drain or burthen" which he was to his family. The known abilities of this unhappy son "rendered this blow the more grievous to so good a father," who is characterized as a man that " with all his troubles and disappointments, with all the sickness and distress of his family, still preserved his calm, placid countenance, his easy cheerful temper, and was at all times an agreeable friend and companion, in all events a true Christian philosopher3.

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Deserted by his associates, Lloyd became careless of his health, and fled for temporary relief to the exhilarating glass, which brought on fits of despondency. His recollections must indeed have been truly painful, when he remembered for what and for whom he had given up the fairer prospects of his youth. He appears to have been wholly undeserving the neglect of those with whom he loved to associate. In his friendships he was warm, constant, and grateful, more sinned against than suming;" and it would be difficult to find an apology for the conduct of those prosperous friends to whose reputation he had contributed in no inconsiderable degree by his writings. Among those, however, Hogarth appears to have been unjustly ranked. An irreconcileable quarrel had long subsisted between this artist and Churchill's friends, and, much decayed in health, Hogarth languished for some time at Chiswick, where he died nearly two months before Lloyd.

66 I

The news of Churchill's death being announced somewhat abruptly to Lloyd, while he was sitting at dinner, he was seized with a sudden sickness, and saying, shall follow poor Charles," took to his bed, from which he never rose. It is added by his biographer, that during his last illness he was attended with great affection by Miss Patty Churchill, a sister of the poet, to whom he was betrothed, and who died of grief soon after. This story is not very probable; and it is certain that the lady did not die till September 1768.

Lloyd's short and unhappy life terminated December 15, 1764, and his remains were deposited, without ceremony, on the 19th, in the churchyard of St. Bride's parish. Ten years afterwards, his poetical works were published in two handsome volumes, by Dr. Kenrick, who prefixed some memoirs, written in a negligent manner, and without a single date of birth, death, events, or publications. Some additional pieces were inserted in the last edition of Dr. Johnson's poets; but The Law Student, hitherto printed as Lloyd's, was afterwards claimed by Colman, and is now omitted. The Ballad, also," Hark, hark, 'tis a Voice from the Tomb," is omitted, as belonging to Moore, and printed in his own edition of his works, in 1756. Lloyd borrowed it for the St. James's Magazine, and was so imprudent or forgetful as to affix his name to it in the table of contents.

As Lloyd's poems have already been added to the works of the English poets, it may be improper to discard what has once received the public sanction; but he certainly merits no very distinguished rank among men of real genius. His chief excellence was the facility with which he wrote a number of smooth and pleasing lines, tinctured with gay humour, on any topic which presented itself. But he has no where attempted, or afforded us much reason to think, that by any diligence or effort, he could have attained the higher species of his art. He has neither originality of thought, nor

3 Bp. Newton's Life. P. 168.

elegance of expression. It has been observed that those poets who have been degraded by the licentiousness of their lives have rarely surpassed the excellence, of whatever degree, which first brought them into notice. Lloyd, however, had not the excuse which has been advanced in some recent instances. He was neither spoilt by patronage, nor flattered into indolence by injudicious praise, and extravagant hopes. The friends of his youth were those of his mature years, and of the few whom he lost, he had only the melancholy recollection that some of them had quitted him from shame, and some from ingratitude.

The Actor was his most favoured piece, and which he never surpassed, but it sunk before the Rosciad: the rest of his poems are effusions addressed to friends on subjects which relate principally to himself, and with a distinction which friends only would think valuable. They have not, like Churchill's, the advantage of being connected with public men or measures, which may be remembered or sought for. In translation he might probably have succeeded, if he had not lost perseverance; but he does not appear to have attempted it, until compelled by distress, when his spirit was broken by anxiety, or poorly cheered by intemperance.

He was a professed imitator of Prior; and Cowper, who was once his associate, in an Epistle published by Mr. Hayley, compliments him as

born sole heir and single

Of dear Mat. Prior's easy jingle.

Mr. Wilkes's character of Lloyd must not be omitted. "Mr. Lloyd was mild and affable in private life, of gentle manners, and very engaging in conversation. He was an excellent scholar, and an easy natural poet. His peculiar excellence was the dressing up an old thought in a new, neat, and trim manner. He was contented to scamper round the foot of Parnassus on his little Welsh poney, which seems never to have tired. He left the fury of the winged steed and the daring heights of the sacred mountain to the sublime genius of his friend Churchill.”

Much of this character Lloyd himself anticipated, particularly in these lines:

I cannot strive with daring flight

To reach the bold Parnassian height:
But at its foot, content to stray,
In easy unambitious way,

Pick up those flowers the Muses send,
To make a nosegay for my friend.-
You, ever in this easy vein,

This prose in verse, this measur'd talk,

This pace, that's neither trot nor walk,
Aim at no flight, nor strive to give
A real poem fit to live.

Although he followed Churchill in some of his prejudices, and learned to rail at colleges, and at men of prudence, we find him generally good-tempered and playful. His satire is seldom bitter, and probably was not much felt. Having consented to yield the palm to Churchill, the world took him at his word; and his enemies, if he had any, must have been those who were very easily provoked.

POEMS

OF

ROBERT LLOYD.

THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY.

My works are advertis'd for sale,

And censures fly as thick as hail; While my poor scheme of publication Supplies the dearth of conversation.

"What will the world say?"-That's your cry. Who is the world? and what am I?

Once, but, thank Heaven, those days are o'er,
And persecution reigns no more,
One man, one hardy man alone,
Usurp'd the critic's vacant throne,
And thence with neither taste nor wit,
By powerful catcall from the pit,
Knock'd farce, and play, and actor down.
Who pass'd the sentence then?—the town.
So now each upstart puny elf

Talks of the world, and means himself.
Yet in the circle there are those
Who hurt e'en more than open foes:
Whose friendship serves the talking turn,
Just simmers to a kind concern,

And with a wond'rous soft expression
Expatiates upon indiscretion;
Flies from the poems to the man,
And gratifies the favourite plan

To pull down other's reputation,

And build their own on that foundation.

The scholar grave, of taste discerning,
Who lives on credit for his learning,
And has no better claim to wit
Than carping at what others writ,
With pitying kindness, friendly fear,
Whispers conjectures in your ear.
"I'm sorry-and he's much to blame-
He might have publish'd-but his name!
The thing might please a few, no doubt,
As handed privately about—
It might amuse a friend or two,
Some partial friend like me and you;
But when it comes to press and print
You'll find, I fear, but little in't.
He stands upon a dangerous brink
Who totters o'er the sea of ink,
Where reputation runs aground,
The author cast away, and drown'd.
"And then-'t was wilful and absurd,
(So well approv'd, so well preferr'd)

Abruptly thus a place to quit
A place which most his genius hit,
The theatre for Latin wit!

With critics round him chaste and terse,
To give a plaudit to his verse!"

Latin, I grant, shows college breeding,
And some school common-place of reading;
But has in moderns small pretension
To real wit or strong invention.
The excellence you critics praise
Hangs on a curious choice of phrase;
Which pick'd and chosen here and there,
From prose or verse no matter where,
Jumbled together in a dish,

Like Spanish olio, fowl, flesh, fish,
You set the classic hodge-podge on

For pedant wits to feed upon.

Your would-be genii vainly seek
Fame for their Latin, verse, or Greek;

Who would for that be most admir'd
Which blockheads may, and have acquir'd.

A mere mechanical connection

Of favourite words, a bare collection
Of phrases,-where the labour'd cento
Presents you with a dull memento,
How Virgil, Horace, Ovid join,
And club together half a line.
These only strain their motley wits

In gathering patches, shreds, and bits,
To wrap their barren fancies in,
And make a classic Harlequin.

-Were I at once impower'd to show
My utmost vengeance on my foe,
To punish with extremest rigour,
I could inflict no penance bigger
Than using him as learning's tool
To make him usher of a school,
For, not to dwell upon the toil
Of working on a barren soil,
And lab'ring with incessant pains
To cultivate a blockhead's brains,
The duties there but ill befit
The love of letters, arts, or wit.
For whosoe'er, though slightly, sips,
Their grateful flavour with his lips,
Will find it leave a smatch behind,
Shall sink so deeply in the mind,
It never thence can be eras'd-
But, rising up, you call it taste.

'T were foolish for a drudge to choose
A gusto which he cannot use,
Better discard the idle whim,

What's he to taste? or taste to him?
For me, it hurts me to the soul
To brook confinement or controul;
Still to be pinion'd down to teach
The syntax and the parts of speech;
Or, what perhaps is drudging worse,
The links, and joints, and rules of verse;
To deal out authors by retail,
Like penny pots of Oxford ale;
-Oh! 'Tis a service irksome more
Than tugging at the slavish oar.

Yet such his task, a dismal truth,
Who watches o'er the bent of youth;
And while, a paltry stipend earning,
He sows the richest seeds of learning,
And tills their minds with proper care,
And sees them their due produce bear,
No joys, alas! his toil beguile,
His own lies fallow all the while.

"Yet still he's in the road," you say,
"Of learning."-Why, perhaps, he may.
But turns like horses in a mill,
Not getting on, nor standing still:
For little way his learning reaches,
Who reads no more than what he teaches.
"Yet you can send advent'rous youth,
In search of letters, taste, and truth,
Who ride the highway road to knowledge
Through the plain turnpikes of a college."
True.-Like way-posts, we serve to show
The road which travellers should go;
Who jog along in easy pace,
Secure of coming to the place,
Yet find, return whene'er they will,
The post, and its direction still:

Which stands an useful unthank'd guide,
To many a passenger beside.

"Tis hard to carve for others meat,
And not have time one's self to eat.
Though, be it always understood,
Our appetites are full as good.

"But there have been, and proofs appear,
Who bore this load from year to year;
Whose claim to letters, parts and wit,
The world has ne'er disputed yet.
Whether the flowing mirth prevail
In Wesley's song, or humorous tale;
Or happier Bourne's' expression please
With graceful turns of classic ease;
Or Oxford's well-read poet sings
Pathetic to the ear of kings:
These have indulg'd the Muses' flight,
Nor lost their time nor credit by 't;
Nor suffer'd Fancy's dreams to prey
On the due business of the day.
Verse was to them a recreation
Us'd by way of relaxation."

Your instances are fair and true,
And genius I respect with you.
I envy none their honest praise;
I seek to blast no scholar's bays:

Samuel Wesley, and Vincent Bourne, both ushers of Westminster-school, and poets, although of very unequal merit. Bourne excelled in Latin poetry. C.

Still let the graceful foliage spread
Its greenest honours round their head,
Blest if the Muses' hand entwine
A sprig at least to circle mine!

Come,-I admit, you tax me right.
Prudence, 't is true, was out of sight,
And you may whisper all you meet,
The man was vague and indiscreet.
Yet tell me, while you censure me,
Are you from errour sound and free,
Say, does your breast no bias hide,
Whose influence draws the mind aside?

All have their hobby horse you see,
From Tristram down to you and me.
Ambition, splendour, may be thine;
Ease, indolence, perhaps are mine.
Though prudence, and our nature's pride
May wish our weaknesses to hide,
And set their hedges up before 'em,

Some sprouts will branch and straggle o'er 'em.
Strive, fight against her how you will,
Nature will be the mistress still,
And though you curb with double rein,
She'll run away with us again.

But let a man of parts be wrong,
'Tis triumph to the leaden throng,
The fools shall cackle out reproof,
The very ass shall raise his hoof;
And he who holds in his possession,
The single virtue of discretion,
Who knows no overflow of spirit,
Whose want of passions is his merit,
Whom wit and taste and judgment flies,
Shall shake his noddle, and seem wise.

THE ACTOR.

ADDRESSED TO BONNEL THORNTON, ESQ. ACTING, dear Thornton, its perfection draws,

From no observance of mechanic laws:
No settled maxims of a fav'rite stage,
No rules deliver'd down from age to age,
Let players nicely mark them as they will,
Can e'er entail hereditary skill.

If, 'mongst the humble hearers of the pit,
Some curious vet'ran critic chance to sit,
Is he pleas'd more because 't was acted so
By Booth and Cibber thirty years ago?
The mind recalls an object held more dear,
And hates the copy, that it comes so near.
Why lov'd he Wilks's air, Booth's nervous tone
In them 't was natural, 't was all their own.
A Garrick's genius must our wonder raise,
But gives his mimic no reflected praise.

Thrice happy genius, whose unrival'd name
Shall live for ever in the voice of Fame!
'Tis thine to lead with more than magic skill,
The train of captive passions at thy will;
To bid the bursting tear spontaneous flow
In the sweet sense of sympathetic woe:
Through ev'ry vein I feel a chillness creep,
When horrours such as thine have murder'd sleep;
And at the old man's look and frantic stare
'Tis Lear alarms me, for I see him there,
Nor yet confin'd to tragic walks alone,
The comic Muse too claims thee for her own.
| With each delightful requisite to please,
Taste, spirit, judgment, elegance, and case,

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