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Nor Baiæ now, nor Umbria's plain they love,
Nor on the banks of Nar, or Mincia rove;
To Thames's flowery borders they retire,
And kindle in thy breast the Roman fire.
So in the shades, where cheer'd with summer rays
Melodious linnets warbled sprightly lays,
Soon as the faded, falling leaves complain
Of gloomy winter's unauspicious reign,
No tuneful voice is heard of joy or love,
But mournful silence saddens all the grove.
Unhappy Italy! whose alter'd state
Has felt the worst severity of fate:
Not that barbarian hands her fasces broke,
And bow'd her haughty neck beneath their yoke ;
Nor that her palaces to earth are thrown,
Her cities desert, and her fields unsown;
But that her ancient spirit is decay'd,
That sacred Wisdom from her bounds is fled,
That there the source of science flows no more,
Whence its rich streams supplied the world before.

Illastrious names ! that once in Latium shin’d,
Born to instruct, and to command mankind;
Chiefs, by whose virtue mighty Rome was rais'd,
And poets, who those chiefs sublimely prais'd!
Oft I the traces you have left explore,
Your ashes visit, and your urns adore;
Oft kiss, with lips devout, some mouldering stone,
With ivy's venerable shade o'ergrown;
Those hallow'd ruins better pleas'd to see,
Than all the pomp of modern luxnry.

As late on Virgil's tomb fresh flowers I strow'd, While with the inspiring Muse my bosom glow'd, Crown'd with eternal bays my ravish'd eyes Bebeld the poet's awful form arise :

* Stranger,' he said, “whose pious hand has paid
These gratefół rites to my attentive sbade,
When thou shalt breathe thy happy native air,
To Pope tliis message from his master bear :
« Great Bard, whose numbers I myself inspire,
To whom I gave my own harmonious lyre,
If high exalted on the throne of wit,
Near me and Homer thou aspire to sit,
No more let meaner satire dim the rays,
That flow majestic from thy nobler bays;
In all the flowery paths of Pindas stray,
But shun that thorny, that unpleasiug way;
Nor, when each soft engaging Muse is thine,
Address the least attractive of the Nine.
Of thee more worthy were the task, to raise
A lasting column to thy country's praise,
To sing the land, which yet alone can boast
That liberty corrupted Rome has lost;
Where Science in the arms of Peace is laid,
And plants her palm beneath the olive's shade.
Sach was the theme for which my lyre I stçung,
Such was the people whose exploits I sung;
Brave, yet refin’d, for arms and arts renown'd,
With different bays by Mars and Phæbus, crown'd,
Dauntless opposers of tyrannic sway,
But pleas’d, a mild Augustus to obey.
If these commands submissive thou receive,
Immortal and unblam'd thy name shall live:
Envy to black Cocytus shall retire,
And howl with furies, in tormenting fire;
Approving Time shall consecrate thy lays,
And join the patriot's to the poet's praise."



By Simon Harcourt.
He comes, he comes! bid


The song of triumph, and attend his car.
Great Sheffield's Muse the long procession heads,
And throws a lustre o'er the pomp she leads,
First gives the palm she fir'd bim to obtain,
Crowns his gay brow, and shows him how to reign.
Thus young Alcides, by old Chiron taught,
Was form’d for all the miracles he wrought:
Thus Chiron did the youth he taught applaud,
Pleas'd to behold the earnest of a god.

[joice! But hark! what shouts, what gathering crowds reUostain'd their praise by any venal voice, Such as the ambitious vainly think their due, When prostitutes or needy flatterers sue, And see the chief! before him lavrels borne ; Trophies from undeserving temples torn; Here Rage, enchain'd, reluctant raves, and there Pale Envy dumb and sickening with despair; Prone to the earth she bends her loathing eye, Weak to support the blaze of majesty. But what are they that turn the sacred page ? Tluvee lovely virgins, and of equal age ! Intent they read, and all enamour'd seem, As be that met his likeness in the stream: The Graces these ; and see how they contend, Who most shall praise, who best shall recommend. The chariot now the painful steep ascends, The pæans cease, thy glorious labour ends. Here fix’d, the bright eternal temple stands, Its prospect an unbounded view commands : Say, wondrous youth, what column wilt thou choose, What laureld arch for thy triumphant Muse? Though each great ancient court thee to bis shrine, Though every laurel through the dome be thine, (From the proud epic, down to those that shade The gentler brow of the soft Lesbian maid) Go to the good and just, an awful train, Thy soul's delight and glory of the fane : While through the earth thy dear remembrance flies, Sweet to the world, and grateful to the skies.'


I Am inclined to think that both the writers of books, and the readers of them, are generally not a little unreasonable in their expectations. The first seem to fancy that the world must approve whatever they produce, and the latter to imagine that authors are obliged to please them at any rate. Methinks, as on the one hand no single man is born with a right of controlling the opinions of all the rest; so, on the other, the world has no title to demand that the whole care and time of any particular person should be sacrificed to its entertainment: therefore, I cannot but believe that writers and readers are under equal obligations, for as niuch fame or pleasure as each affords the other.

Every one acknowledges, it would be a wild notion to expect perfection in any work of man ; and yet one would think the contrary was taken for granted, by the judgment commonly passed upon poems. A critic supposes he has done his part if he proves a writer to have failed in an expression, or erred in any particular point; and can it then be wondered at if the poets in general seem resolved not to own themselves in any error? For as long as one side will make no allow. ances, the other will be brought to do acknowledgments.

I am afraid this extreme zeal on both sides is ill placed; Poetry and Criticism being by no means

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