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The Jealous Wife! on that thy trophies raise,
Inferior only to the author's praise.

From Dublin, fam'd in legends of romance
For mighty magic of enchanted lance,
With which her heroes arm'd victorious prove,
And like a flood rush o'er the land of Love,
Mossop and Barry came-names ne'er design'd
By Fate in the same sentence to be join'd.
Rais'd by the breath of popular acclaim,
They mounted to the pinnacle of Fame;

There the weak brain, made giddy with the height,
Spurr'd on the rival chiefs to mortal fight.
Thus sportive boys, around some bason's brim,
Behold the pipe-drawn bladders circling swim:
But if from lungs more potent, there arise
Two bubbles of a more than common size,
Eager for honor they for fight prepare,
Bubble meets bubble, and both sink to air.
Mossop, attach'd to military plan,

Still kept his eye fix'd on his right-hand man. Whilst the mouth measures words with seeming skill,

The right-hand labors, and the left lies still;
For he resolv'd on scripture-grounds to go,
What the right doth, the left-hand shall not know.
With studied impropriety of speech,

He soars beyond the hackney critic's reach;
To epithets allots emphatic state,

Whilst principals, ungrac'd, like lackeys wait;
In ways first trodden by himself excels,
And stands alone in indeclinables;

Conjunction, preposition, adverb join

To stamp new vigor on the nervous line:

In monosyllables his thunders roll,

For how should moderns, mushrooms of the day,
Who ne'er those masters knew, know how to play?
Grey-bearded vet'rans, who, with partial tongue,
Extol the times when they themselves were young,
Who, having lost all relish for the stage,
See not their own defects, but lash the age,
Receiv'd with joyful murmurs of applause,
Their darling chief, and lin'd his fav'rite cause.
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 endeavor to excel,
Happily prais'd, 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 accidents of time and place;
Yet real worth of ev'ry 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.
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 labor'd artifice of speech.

Speech! Is that all?-And shall an actor found
An 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 cares confin'd

HE, SHE, IT, AND, WE, YE, THEY, fright the soul. To weigh out words, while passion halts behind.

In person taller than the common size,

Behold where Barry draws admiring eyes!
When lab'ring passions, in his bosom pent,
Convulsive rage, and struggling heave for vent;
Spectators, with imagin'd terrors warm,
Anxious expect the bursting of the storm:
But, all unfit in such a pile to dwell,

His voice comes forth, like Echo from her cell;
To swell the tempest needful aid denies,
And all adown the stage in feeble murmur dies.
What man, like Barry, with such pains can err
In elocution, action, character?

What man could give, if Barry was not here,
Such well-applauded tenderness to Lear?
Who else can speak so very, very fine,
That sense may kindly end with ev'ry line?

Some dozen lines before the ghost is there,
Behold him for the solemn scene prepare.
See how he frames his eyes, poises each limb,
Puts the whole body into proper trim.-
From whence we learn, with no great stretch of art,
Five lines hence comes a ghost, and ha! a start.
When he appears most perfect, still we find
Something which jars upon, and hurts the mind.
Whatever lights upon a part are thrown,
We see too plainly they are not his own.
No flame from Nature ever yet he caught;
Nor knew a feeling which he was not taught;
He rais'd his trophies on the base of art,
And conn'd his passions, as he conn'd his part.
Quin, from afar, lur'd by the scent of fame,
A stage Leviathan, put in his claim,
Pupil of Betterton and Booth. Alone,

Sullen he walk'd, and deem'd the chair his own.

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 themselves.
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 rake dependent virtue jeers,
With the same cast of feature 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 pleas'd, 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 labor'd scenes are brought to view,
With equal praise the actor labor'd too;
For still you'll find, trace passions to their root,
Small diff'rence '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 enforc'd with weight.
Was speech-fam'd Quin himself to hear him speak,
Envy would drive the color from his cheek:
But stepdame Nature, niggard of her grace,
Denied the social pow'rs 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 candor 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

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

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 us'd 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; whose 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 is 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 tortur'd 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;
Not stung with envy, nor with pain diseas'd,
A poor dull creature, still with Nature pleas'd;
Hence to thy praises, Garrick, I agree,
And, pleas'd with Nature, must be pleas'd with thee
Now I might tell, how silence reign'd throughou
And deep attention hush'd the rabble rout⚫
How ev'ry claimant, tortur'd 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, [ciaim,
With temper heard, with judgment weigh'd each
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 unconfin'd;
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."


EDWARD YOUNG, a poet of considerable celebrity, this year that he commenced his famous poem, the was the only son of Dr. Edward Young, fellow of "Night Thoughts." This production is truly original Winchester College, and rector of Upham, Hamp-in design and execution: it imitates none, and has shire. He was born at his father's living, in 1684, no imitators. Its spirit is, indeed, gloomy and seand was educated at Winchester school, whence he vere, and its theology awful and overwhelming. It was removed to New-College, and afterwards to seems designed to pluck up by the roots every conCorpus-Christi College, Oxford. By the favor of solation for human evils, except that founded on the Archbishop Tenison, he obtained a law-fellowship scheme of Christianity which the writer adopted; at All-Souls. At this time his chief pursuit appears yet it presents reflections which are inculcated with to have been poetry; and it is little to his credit, a force of language, and sublimity of imagination, with respect to his choice of patrons, that he has almost unparalleled. It abounds with the faults sought them through all the political changes of the characteristic of the writer, and is spun out to a time. Tragedy was one of his favorite pursuits, in which his "Revenge," dedicated in 1721 to the Duke of Wharton, was regarded as his principal effort. Many other performances, however, took their turn, of which the most noted at this time were his "Paraphrase on Part of the Book of Job;" and "The Love of Fame, or the Universal Passion."

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tedious length, that of nine books; but if not often read through, it will never sink into neglect. It was evidently the favorite work of the author, who ever after wished to be known as the composer of the "Night Thoughts." The numerous editions of the work sufficiently prove the hold which it has taken of the public mind.

Young, now in his forty-fourth year, having given The lyric attempts of Young were singularly unup his prospects as a layman, took orders, and was fortunate, not one of his pieces of that class having nominated one of the Royal Chaplains. He pub- a claim for perusal; and, indeed, many of his other lished some prose works as the fruits of his new poetical writings display inequalities, and defects of profession, of which were, "The True Estimate of taste and judgment, very extraordinary for a writer Human Life," representing only its dark side; and An Apology for Princes, or the Reverence due to Government," a sermon, well suited to a court chaplain. In 1730 he was presented, by his college, to the rectory of Welwyn, in Hertfordshire; and in the following year he married Lady Elizabeth Lee, widow of Colonel Lee, and daughter of the Earl of Lichfield. This lady he lost in 1741, after she had borne him one son. Other affecting family losses occurred about that period, and aggravated his disposition to melancholy; and it was in

of his rank. In an edition of his works, published during his life, in four vols. 8vo., he himself excluded several compositions, which he thought of inferior merit, and expunged many dedications, of which he was doubtless ashamed. A letter to him, from Archbishop Secker, proves, however, that at a late period of life he had not ceased to solicit preferment. He latterly fell under domestic sway, and was entirely subdued to the control of a housekeeper. Young continued to exist till April 1765, when he expired in his 84th year.




THRICE-HAPPY Job long liv'd in regal state,
Nor saw the sumptuous East à prince so great;
Whose worldly stores in such abundance flow'd,
Whose heart with such exalted virtue glow'd.
At length misfortunes take their turn to reign,
And ills on ills succeed! a dreadful train!
What now but deaths, and poverty, and wrong,
The sword wide-wasting, the reproachful tongue,

And spotted plagues, that mark'd his limbs all o'er
So thick with pains, they wanted room for more!
A change so sad what mortal here could bear?
Exhausted woe had left him nought to fear;
But gave him all to grief. Low earth he press'd,
Wept in the dust, and sorely smote his breast.
His friends around the deep affliction mourn'd,
Felt all his pangs, and groan for groan return'd;
In anguish of their hearts their mantles rent,
And seven long days in solemn silence spent!
A debt of reverence to distress so great!
Then JOB contain'd no more; but curs'd his fate
His day of birth, its inauspicious light,
He wishes sunk in shades of endless night,

And blotted from the year; nor fears to crave
Death, instant death; impatient for the grave,
That seat of peace, that mansion of repose,
Where rest and mortals are no longer foes;
Where counsellors are hush'd, and mighty kings
(Oh happy turn!) no more are wretched things.
His words were daring, and displeas'd his friends;
His conduct they reprove, and he defends;
And now they kindled into warm debate,
And sentiments oppos'd with equal heat;
Fix'd in opinion, both refuse to yield,

And summon all their reason to the field:

So high at length their arguments were wrought,
They reach'd the last extent of human thought:
A pause ensued-When, lo! Heaven interpos'd,
And awfully the long contention clos'd.
Full o'er their heads, with terrible surprise,
A sudden whirlwind blacken'd all the skies:
(They saw, and trembled !) from the darkness broke
A dreadful voice, and thus th' Almighty spoke :
"Who gives his tongue a loose so bold and vain,
Consures my conduct, and reproves my reign;
Lifts up his thought against me from the dust,
And tells the World's Creator what is just?
Of late so brave, now lift a dauntless eye,
Face my demand, and give it a reply:-
Where didst thou dwell at Nature's early birth?
Who laid foundations for the spacious Earth?
Who on its surface did extend the line,
Its form determine, and its bulk confine?
Who fix'd the corner-stone? What hand, declare,
Hung it on nought, and fasten'd it on air;
When the bright morning stars in concert sung,
When Heaven's high arch with loud hosannas rung,
When shouting sons of God the triumph crown'd,
And the wide concave thunder'd with the sound?
Earth's numerous kingdoms, hast thou view'd them


And can thy span of knowledge grasp the ball? Who heav'd the mountain, which sublimely stands, And casts its shadow into distant lands?

"Who, stretching forth his sceptre o'er the deep, Can that wide world in due subjection keep? I broke the globe, I scoop'd its hollow side, And did a bason for the floods provide; I chain'd them with my word; the boiling sea, Work'd up in tempests, hears my great decree Thus far, thy floating tide shall be convey'd; And here. O main, be thy proud billows stay'd.' "Hast thou explor'd the secrets of the deep, Where, shut from use, unnumber'd treasures sleep? Where, down a thousand fathoms from the day, Springs the great fountain, mother of the sea? Those gloomy paths did thy bold foot e'er tread, Whole worlds of waters rolling o'er thy head?

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'Hath the cleft centre open'd wide to thee? Death's inmost chambers didst thou ever see E'er knock at his tremendous gate, and wade To the black portal through th' incumbent shade? Deep are those shades; but shades still deeper hide My counsels from the ken of human pride. "Where dwells the light? In what refulgent dome?

And where has darkness made her dismal home? Thou know'st, no doubt, since thy large heart is fraught

With ripen'd wisdom, through long ages brought; Since Nature was call'd forth when thou wast by, And into beng, rose beneath thine eye!

"Are mists begotten? Who their father knew? From whom descend the pearly drops of dew? To bind the stream by night, what hand can boast, Or whiten morning with the hoary frost? Whose powerful breath, from northern regions blown, Touches the sea, and turns it into stone: A sudden desert spreads o'er realms defac'd, And lays one-half of the creation waste?

"Thou know'st me not; thy blindness cannot see How vast a distance parts thy God from thee. Canst thou in whirlwinds mount aloft? Canst thou In clouds and darkness wrap thy awful brow? And, when day triumphs in meridian light, Put forth thy hand, and shade the world with night? "Who lanch'd the clouds in air, and bid them roll

Suspended seas aloft, from pole to pole?
Who can refresh the burning sandy plain,
And quench the summer with a waste of rain?
Who, in rough deserts far from human toil,
Made rocks bring forth, and desolation smile?
There blooms the rose, where human face ne'er shone,
And spreads its beauties to the Sun alone.

"To check the shower, who lifts his hand on high,
And shuts the sluices of th' exhausted sky,
When Earth no longer mourns her gaping veins,
Her naked mountains, and her russet plains;
But, new in life, a cheerful prospect yields
Of shining rivers, and of verdant fields;
When groves and forests lavish all their bloom,
And Earth and Heaven are fill'd with rich perfume?
"Hast thou e'er scal'd my wintry skies, and seen
Of hail and snows my northern magazine?
These the dread treasures of mine anger are,
My funds of vengeance for the day of war,
When clouds rain death, and storms at my command
Rage through the world, or waste a guilty land.

"Who taught the rapid winds to fly so fast, Or shakes the centre with his eastern blast? Who from the skies can a whole deluge pour? Who strikes through Nature with the solemn roar Of dreadful thunder, points it where to fall, And in fierce lightning wraps the flying ball? Not he who trembles at the darted fires, Falls at the sound, and in the flash expires.

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"Who drew the comet out to such a size, And pour'd his flaming train o'er half the skies? Did thy resentment hang him out? Does he Glare on the nation, and denounce, from thee? Who on low Earth can moderate the rein, That guides the stars along th' ethereal plain ? Appoint their seasons, and direct their course, Their lustre brighten, and supply their force? Canst thou the skies' benevolence restrain, And cause the Pleiades to shine in vain? Or, when Orion sparkles from his sphere, Thaw the cold season, and unbind the year? Bid Mazzaroth his destin'd station know, And teach the bright Arcturus where to glow? Mine is the night, with all her stars ; I pour Myriads, and myriads I reserve in store.

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Dost thou pronounce where day-light shall be And draw the purple curtain of the morn; Awake the Sun, and bid him come away, And glad thy world with his obsequious ray? Hast thou, enthron'd in flaming glory, driven Triumphant round the spacious ring of Heaven? That pomp of light, what hand so far displays, That distant Earth lies basking in the blaze?

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"Once and again, which I in groans deplore,
My tongue has err'd; but shall presume no more.
My voice is in eternal silence bound,
And all my soul falls prostrate to the ground."

He ceas'd: when, lo, again th' Almighty spoke; The same dread voice from the black whirlwind broke.

"Can that arm measure with an arm divine? And canst thou thunder with a voice like mine? Or in the hollow of thy hand contain

The bulk of waters, the wide-spreading main,
When, mad with tempests, all the billows rise
In all their rage, and dash the distant skies?

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Fond man! the vision of a moment made! Dream of a dream! and shadow of a shade! What worlds hast thou produc'd, what creatures fram'd;

What insects cherish'd, that thy God is blam'd?
When pain'd with hunger, the wild raven's brood
Loud calls on God, importunate for food:
Who hears their cry, who grants their hoarse request,
And stills the clamor of the craving nest?

"Who in the stupid ostrich has subdued
A parent's care, and fond inquietude?
While far she flies, her scatter'd eggs are found,
Without an owner, on the sandy ground;
Cast out on fortune, they at mercy lie,
And borrow life from an indulgent sky:
Adopted by the Sun, in blaze of day,
They ripen under his prolific ray.
Unmindful she, that some unhappy tread.
May crush her young in their neglected bed.
What time she skims along the field with speed,
She scorns the rider, and pursuing steed.

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How rich the peacock! what bright glories run From plume to plume, and vary in the Sun! He proudly spreads them to the golden ray, Gives all his colors, and adorns the day; With conscious state the spacious round displays, And slowly moves amid the waving blaze. "Who taught the hawk to find, in seasons wise, Perpetual summer, and a change of skies? When clouds deform the year, she mounts the wind, Shoots to the south, nor fears the storm behind; The Sun returning, she returns again,

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Lives in his beams, and leaves ill days to men. Though strong the hawk, though practis'd well to fly,

An eagle drops her in a lower sky;

An eagle, when, deserting human sight,
She seeks the Sun in her unwearied flight:

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Did thy command her yellow pinion lift
So high in air, and set her on the clift,
Where far above thy world she dwells alone,
And proudly makes the strength of rocks her own
Thence wide o'er Nature takes her dread survey,
And with a glance predestinates her prey?
She feasts her young with blood; and, hovering o'er
Th' unslaughter'd host, enjoys the promis'd gore.
Know'st thou how many moons, by me assign'd,
Roll o'er the mountain goat, and forest hind,
While pregnant they a mother's load sustain ?
They bend in anguish, and cast forth their pain.
Hale are their young, from human frailties freed;
Walk unsustain'd, and unassisted feed;
They live at once; forsake the dam's warm side;
Take the wide world, with Nature for their guide,
Bound o'er the lawn, or seek the distant glade;
And find a home in each delightful shade.

"Will the tall reem, which knows no Lord but me,
Low at the crib, and ask an alms of thee?
Submit his unworn shoulder to the yoke,
Break the stiff clod, and o'er thy furrow smoke?
Since great his strength, go trust him, void of care;
Lay on his neck the toil of all the year;
Bid him bring home the seasons to thy doors,
And cast his load among thy gather'd stores.

"Didst thou from service the wild ass discharge, And break his bonds, and bid him live at large, Through the wide waste, his ample mansion, roam And lose himself in his unbounded home? By Nature's hand magnificently fed, His meal is on the range of mountains spread; As in pure air aloft he bounds along, He sees in distant smoke the city throng; Conscious of freedom, scorns the smother'd train, The threatening driver, and the servile rein.

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Survey the warlike horse! didst thou invest With thunder his robust distended chest? No sense of fear his dauntless soul allays; 'Tis dreadful to behold his nostrils blaze; To paw the vale he proudly takes delight, And triumphs in the fullness of his might; High-rais'd he snuffs the battle. from afar, And burns to plunge amid the raging war; And mocks at death, and throws his foam around And in a storm of fury shakes the ground. How does his firm, his rising heart advance Full on the brandish'd sword, and shaken lance: While his fix'd eyeballs meet the dazzling shield, Gaze, and return the lightning of the field! He sinks the sense of pain in generous pride, Nor feels the shaft that trembles in his side; But neighs to the shrill trumpet's dreadful blast Till death; and when he groans, he groans his last "But, fiercer still, the lordly lion stalks, Grimly majestic in his lonely walks; When round he glares, all living creatures fly; He clears the desert with his rolling eye. Say, mortal, does he rouse at thy command, And roar to thee, and live upon thy hand? Dost thou for him in forests bend thy bow, And to his gloomy den the morsel throw, Where bent on death lie hid his tawny brood, And, couch'd in dreadful ambush, pant for blood; Or, stretch'd on broken limbs, consume the day, In darkness wrapt, and slumber o'er their prey? By the pale Moon they take their destin'd round, And lash their sides, and furious tear the ground. Now shrieks and dying groans the desert fill; They rage, they rend; their ravenous jaws distil

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