No More Learning

Gibbons, to have been neither indigent nor illiterate.

Isaac, the eldest of nine children, was given to books from his infancy;
and began, we are told, to learn Latin when he was four years old, I
suppose, at home. He was afterwards taught Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, by
Mr. Pinhorn, a clergyman, master of the free-school at Southampton, to
whom the gratitude of his scholar afterwards inscribed a Latin ode.

His proficiency at school was so conspicuous, that a subscription was
proposed for his support at the university; but he declared his
resolution of taking his lot with the dissenters. Such he was as every
Christian church would rejoice to have adopted.

He, therefore, repaired, in 1690, to an academy taught by Mr. Rowe,
where he had for his companions and fellow-students Mr. Hughes the poet,
and Dr. Horte, afterwards archbishop of Tuam. Some Latin essays,
supposed to have been written as exercises at this academy, show a
degree of knowledge, both philosophical and theological, such as very
few attain by a much longer course of study.

He was, as he hints in his Miscellanies, a maker of verses from fifteen
to fifty, and, in his youth, appears to have paid attention to Latin
poetry. His verses to his brother, in the _glyconick_ measure, written
when he was seventeen, are remarkably easy and elegant. Some of his
other odes are deformed by the Pindarick folly then prevailing, and are
written with such neglect of all metrical rules, as is without example
among the ancients; but his diction, though, perhaps, not always exactly
pure, has such copiousness and splendour, as shows that he was but a
very little distance from excellence.

His method of study was to impress the contents of his books upon his
memory by abridging them, and by interleaving them to amplify one system
with supplements from another.

With the congregation of his tutor Mr. Rowe, who were, I believe,
independents, he communicated in his nineteenth year.

At the age of twenty he left the academy, and spent two years in study
and devotion at the house of his father, who treated him with great
tenderness; and had the happiness, indulged to few parents, of living to
see his son eminent for literature, and venerable for piety.

He was then entertained by sir John Hartopp five years, as domestick
tutor to his son: and in that time particularly devoted himself to the
study of the holy scriptures; and, being chosen assistant to Dr.
Chauncey, preached the first time on the birthday that completed his
twenty-fourth year; probably considering that as the day of a second
nativity, by which he entered on a new period of existence.

In about three years he succeeded Dr. Chauncey; but, soon after his
entrance on his charge, he was seized by a dangerous illness, which sunk
him to such weakness, that the congregation thought an assistant
necessary, and appointed Mr. Price. His health then returned gradually;
and he performed his duty till, 1712, he was seized by a fever of such
violence and continuance, that from the feebleness which it brought upon
him he never perfectly recovered.

This calamitous state made the compassion of his friends necessary, and
drew upon him the attention of sir Thomas Abney, who received him into
his house; where, with a constancy of friendship and uniformity of
conduct not often to be found, he was treated for thirty-six years with
all the kindness that friendship could prompt, and all the attention
that respect could dictate. Sir Thomas died about eight years
afterwards; but he continued with the lady and her daughters to the end
of his life. The lady died about a year after him.

A coalition like this, a state in which the notions of patronage and
dependence were overpowered by the perception of reciprocal benefits,
deserves a particular memorial; and I will not withhold from the reader
Dr. Gibbon's representation; to which regard is to be paid, as to the
narrative of one who writes what he knows, and what is known likewise to
multitudes besides.

"Our next observation shall be made upon that remarkably kind providence
which brought the doctor into sir Thomas Abney's family, and continued
him there till his death, a period of no less than thirty-six years. In
the midst of his sacred labours for the glory of God, and good of his
generation, he is seized with a most violent and threatening fever,
which leaves him oppressed with great weakness, and puts a stop, at
least, to his publick services for four years. In this distressing
season, doubly so to his active and pious spirit, he is invited to sir
Thomas Abney's family, nor ever removes from it till he had finished his
days. Here he enjoyed the uninterrupted demonstrations of the truest
friendship. Here, without any care of his own, he had every thing which
could contribute to the enjoyment of life, and favour the unwearied
pursuits of his studies. Here he dwelt in a family, which for piety,
order, harmony, and every virtue, was an house of God. Here he had the
privilege of a country recess, the fragrant bower, the spreading lawn,
the flowery garden, and other advantages, to sooth his mind, and aid his
restoration to health; to yield him, whenever he chose them, most
grateful intervals from his laborious studies, and enable him to return
to them with redoubled vigour and delight. Had it not been for this most
happy event, he might, as to outward view, have feebly, it may be
painfully, dragged on through many more years of languor, and inability
for publick service, and even for profitable study, or, perhaps, might
have sunk into his grave under the overwhelming load of infirmities in
the midst of his days; and thus the church and world would have been
deprived of those many excellent sermons and works, which he drew up and
published during his long residence in this family. In a few years after
his coming hither, sir Thomas Abney dies; but his amiable consort
survives, who shows the doctor the same respect and friendship as
before, and most happily for him and great numbers besides; for, as her
riches were great, her generosity and munificence were in full
proportion; her thread of life was drawn out to a great age, even beyond
that of the doctor's; and thus this excellent man, through her kindness,
and that of her daughter, the present Mrs. Elizabeth Abney, who in a
like degree esteemed and honoured him, enjoyed all the benefits and
felicities he experienced at his first entrance into this family, till
his days were numbered and finished; and, like a shock of corn in its
season, he ascended into the regions of perfect and immortal life and
joy. "

If this quotation has appeared long, let it be considered that it
comprises an account of six-and-thirty years, and those the years of Dr.
Watts.

From the time of his reception into this family, his life was no
otherwise diversified than by successive publications. The series of his
works I am not able to deduce; their number and their variety show the
intenseness of his industry, and the extent of his capacity.

He was one of the first authors that taught the dissenters to court
attention by the graces of language. Whatever they had among them
before, whether of learning or acuteness, was commonly obscured and
blunted by coarseness, and inelegance of style. He showed them, that
zeal and purity might be expressed and enforced by polished diction.

He continued to the end of his life the teacher of a congregation; and
no reader of his works can doubt his fidelity or diligence. In the
pulpit, though his low stature, which very little exceeded five feet,
graced him with no advantages of appearance, yet the gravity and
propriety of his utterance made his discourses very efficacious. I once
mentioned the reputation which Mr. Foster had gained by his proper
delivery, to my friend Dr. Hawkesworth, who told me, that in the art of
pronunciation he was far inferiour to Dr. Watts.

Such was his flow of thoughts, and such his promptitude of language,
that in the latter part of his life he did not precompose his cursory
sermons, but having adjusted the heads, and sketched out some
particulars, trusted for success to his extemporary powers.

He did not endeavour to assist his eloquence by any gesticulations; for,
as no corporeal actions have any correspondence with theological truth,
he did not see how they could enforce it.

At the conclusion of weighty sentences he gave time, by a short pause,
for the proper impression.

To stated and publick instruction he added familiar visits, and personal
application, and was careful to improve the opportunities which
conversation offered of diffusing and increasing the influence of
religion.

By his natural temper he was quick of resentment; but, by his
established and habitual practice, he was gentle, modest, and
inoffensive. His tenderness appeared in his attention to children and to
the poor. To the poor, while he lived in the family of his friend, he
allowed the third part of his annual revenue, though the whole was not a
hundred a year; and for children he condescended to lay aside the
scholar, the philosopher, and the wit, to write little poems of
devotion, and systems of instruction, adapted to their wants and
capacities, from the dawn of reason, through its gradations of advance
in the morning of life. Every man acquainted with the common principles
of human action, will look with veneration on the writer, who is at one
time combating Locke, and at another making a catechism for children in
their fourth year. A voluntary descent from the dignity of science is,
perhaps, the hardest lesson that humility can teach.

As his mind was capacious, his curiosity excursive, and his industry
continual, his writings are very numerous, and his subjects various.
With his theological works I am only enough acquainted to admire his
meekness of opposition, and his mildness of censure. It was not only in
his book, but in his mind, that orthodoxy was united with charity.

Of his philosophical pieces, his Logick has been received into the
universities, and, therefore, wants no private recommendation; if he
owes part of it to Le Clerc, it must be considered that no man, who
undertakes merely to methodise or illustrate a system, pretends to be
its author.

In his metaphysical disquisitions, it was observed by the late learned
Mr. Dyer, that he confounded the idea of _space_ with that of _empty
space_, and did not consider, that though space might be without matter,
yet matter, being extended, could not be without space.

Few books have been perused by me with greater pleasure than his
Improvement of the Mind, of which the radical principles may, indeed, be
found in Locke's Conduct of the Understanding; but they are so expanded
and ramified by Watts, as to confer upon him the merit of a work, in the
highest degree, useful and pleasing. Whoever has the care of instructing
others, may be charged with deficience in his duty if this book is not
recommended.

I have mentioned his treatises of theology as distinct from his other
productions; but the truth is, that whatever he took in hand was, by his
incessant solicitude for souls, converted to theology. As piety
predominated in his mind, it is diffused over his works: under his
direction it may be truly said, "theologiae philosophia ancillatur,"
philosophy is subservient to evangelical instruction: it is difficult to
read a page without learning, or at least wishing, to be better. The
attention is caught by indirect instruction, and he that sat down only
to reason is, on a sudden, compelled to pray.

It was, therefore, with great propriety that, in 1728, he received from
Edinburgh and Aberdeen an unsolicited diploma, by which he became a
doctor of divinity. Academical honours would have more value, if they
were always bestowed with equal judgment.

He continued many years to study and to preach, and to do good by his
instruction and example: till at last the infirmities of age disabled
him from the more laborious part of his ministerial functions, and,
being no longer capable of publick duty, he offered to remit the salary
appendant to it; but his congregation would not accept the resignation.

By degrees his weakness increased, and at last confined him to his
chamber and his bed; where he was worn gradually away without pain, till
he expired, Nov. 25, 1748, in the seventy-fifth year of his age.

Few men have left behind such purity of character, or such monuments of
laborious piety. He has provided instruction for all ages, from those
who are lisping their first lessons, to the enlightened readers of
Malbranche and Locke; he has left neither corporeal nor spiritual nature
unexamined; he has taught the art of reasoning, and the science of the
stars.

His character, therefore, must be formed from the multiplicity and
diversity of his attainments, rather than from any single performance;
for it would not be safe to claim for him the highest rank in any single
denomination of literary dignity; yet, perhaps, there was nothing in
which he would not have excelled, if he had not divided his powers to
different pursuits.

As a poet, had he been only a poet, he would probably have stood high
among the authors with whom he is now associated. For his judgment was
exact, and he noted beauties and faults with very nice discernment; his
imagination, as the Dacian Battle proves, was vigorous and active, and
the stores of knowledge were large by which his fancy was to be
supplied. His ear was well-tuned, and his diction was elegant and
copious. But his devotional poetry is, like that of others,
unsatisfactory. The paucity of its topicks enforces perpetual
repetition, and the sanctity of the matter rejects the ornaments of
figurative diction. It is sufficient for Watts to have done better than
others what no man has done well.

His poems on other subjects seldom rise higher than might be expected
from the amusements of a man of letters, and have different degrees of
value as they are more or less laboured, or as the occasion was more or
less favourable to invention.

He writes too often without regular measures, and too often in blank
verse; the rhymes are not always sufficiently correspondent. He is
particularly unhappy in coining names expressive of characters. His
lines are commonly smooth and easy, and his thoughts always religiously
pure; but who is there that, to so much piety and innocence, does not
wish for a greater measure of sprightliness and vigour? He is, at least,
one of the few poets with whom youth and ignorance may be safely
pleased; and happy will be that reader whose mind is disposed, by his
verses or his prose, to imitate him in all but his nonconformity, to
copy his benevolence to man, and his reverence to God.




A. PHILIPS.


Of the birth, or early part of the life, of Ambrose Philips, I have not
been able to find any account. His academical education he received at
St. John's college, in Cambridge[169], where he first solicited the
notice of the world by some English verses, in the collection, published
by the university, on the death of queen Mary.

From this time, how he was employed, or in what station he passed his
life, is not yet discovered. He must have published his Pastorals before
the year 1708, because they are, evidently, prior to those of Pope.

He afterwards, 1709, addressed to the universal patron, the duke of
Dorset, a poetical Letter from Copenhagen, which was published in the
Tatler, and is, by Pope, in one of his first letters, mentioned with
high praise, as the production of a man "who could write very nobly. "

Philips was a zealous whig, and, therefore, easily found access to
Addison and Steele; but his ardour seems not to have procured him any
thing more than kind words; since he was reduced to translate the
Persian Tales for Tonson, for which he was afterwards reproached, with
this addition of contempt, that he worked for half-a-crown. The book is
divided into many sections, for each of which, if he received
half-a-crown, his reward, as writers then were paid, was very liberal;
but half-a-crown had a mean sound.

He was employed in promoting the principles of his party, by epitomising
Hacket's Life of Archbishop Williams. The original book is written with
such depravity of genius, such mixture of the fop and pedant, as has not
often appeared. The epitome is free enough from affectation, but has
little spirit or vigour[170].

In 1712, he brought upon the stage the Distrest Mother, almost a
translation of Racine's Andromaque. Such a work requires no uncommon
powers; but the friends of Philips exerted every art to promote his
interest. Before the appearance of the play, a whole Spectator, none,
indeed, of the best, was devoted to its praise; while it yet continued
to be acted, another Spectator was written, to tell what impression it
made upon sir Roger; and, on the first night, a select audience, says
Pope[171], was called together to applaud it.

It was concluded with the most successful epilogue that was ever yet
spoken on the English theatre. The three first nights it was recited
twice; and not only continued to be demanded through the run, as it is
termed, of the play, but, whenever it is recalled to the stage, where,
by peculiar fortune, though a copy from the French, it yet keeps its
place, the epilogue is still expected, and is still spoken.

The propriety of epilogues in general, and, consequently, of this, was
questioned by a correspondent of the Spectator, whose letter was
undoubtedly admitted for the sake of the answer, which soon followed,
written with much zeal and acrimony. The attack and the defence equally
contributed to stimulate curiosity and continue attention. It may be
discovered, in the defence, that Prior's epilogue to Phædra had a little
excited jealousy; and something of Prior's plan may be discovered in the
performance of his rival. Of this distinguished epilogue the reputed
author was the wretched Budgel, whom Addison used to denominate[172]
"the man who calls me cousin;" and when he was asked, how such a silly
fellow could write so well, replied, "the epilogue was quite another
thing when I saw it first. " It was known in Tonson's family, and told to
Garrick, that Addison was himself the author of it, and that, when it
had been at first printed with his name, he came early in the morning,
before the copies were distributed, and ordered it to be given to
Budgel, that it might add weight to the solicitation which he was then
making for a place.

Philips was now high in the ranks of literature. His play was applauded;
his translations from Sappho had been published in the Spectator; he was
an important and distinguished associate of clubs, witty and political;
and nothing was wanting to his happiness, but that he should be sure of
its continuance.

The work which had procured him the first notice from the publick, was
his Six Pastorals, which, flattering the imagination with Arcadian
scenes, probably found many readers, and might have long passed as a
pleasing amusement, had they not been, unhappily, too much commended.

The rustick poems of Theocritus were so highly valued by the Greeks and
Romans, that they attracted the imitation of Virgil, whose eclogues seem
to have been considered as precluding all attempts of the same kind;
for, no shepherds were taught to sing by any succeeding poet, till
Nemesian and Calphurnius ventured their feeble efforts in the lower age
of Latin literature.

At the revival of learning in Italy, it was soon discovered, that a
dialogue of imaginary swains might be composed with little difficulty;
because the conversation of shepherds excludes profound or refined
sentiment; and, for images and descriptions, satyrs and fawns, and
naiads and dryads, were always within call; and woods and meadows, and
hills and rivers, supplied variety of matter, which; having a natural
power to sooth the mind, did not quickly cloy it.

Petrarch entertained the learned men of his age with the novelty of
modern pastorals in Latin. Being not ignorant of Greek, and finding
nothing in the word _eclogue_, of rural meaning, he supposed it to be
corrupted by the copiers, and, therefore, called his own productions
_oeglogues_, by which he meant to express the talk of goatherds, though
it will mean only the talk of goats. This new name was adopted by
subsequent writers, and, amongst others, by our Spenser.

More than a century afterwards, 1498, Mantuan published his Bucolicks
with such success, that they were soon dignified by Badius with a
comment, and, as Scaliger complained, received into schools, and taught
as classical; his complaint was vain, and the practice, however
injudicious, spread far, and continued long. Mantuan was read, at least
in some of the inferiour schools of this kingdom, to the beginning of
the present century. The speakers of Mantuan carried their disquisitions
beyond the country, to censure the corruptions of the church; and from
him Spenser learned to employ his swains on topicks of controversy.

The Italians soon transferred pastoral poetry into their own language:
Sannazaro wrote Arcadia in prose and verse: Tasso and Guarini wrote
Favole Boschareccie, or sylvan dramas; and all nations of Europe filled
volumes with Thyrsis and Damon, and Thestylis and Phyllis.

Philips thinks it somewhat strange to conceive "how, in an age so
addicted to the muses, pastoral poetry never comes to be so much as
thought upon. " His wonder seems very unseasonable; there had never, from
the time of Spenser, wanted writers to talk occasionally of Arcadia and
Strephon; and half the book, in which he first tried his powers,
consists of dialogues on queen Mary's death, between Tityrus and
Corydon, or Mopsus and Menalcas. A series or book of pastorals, however,
I know not that any one had then lately published.

Not long afterwards, Pope made the first display of his powers in four
pastorals, written in a very different form. Philips had taken Spenser,
and Pope took Virgil for his pattern. Philips endeavoured to be natural,
Pope laboured to be elegant.

Philips was now favoured by Addison, and by Addison's companions, who
were very willing to push him into reputation. The Guardian gave an
account of pastoral, partly critical, and partly historical; in which,
when the merit of the moderns is compared, Tasso and Guarini are
censured for remote thoughts and unnatural refinements; and, upon the
whole, the Italians and French are all excluded from rural poetry; and
the pipe of the pastoral muse is transmitted, by lawful inheritance,
from Theocritus to Virgil, from Virgil to Spenser, and from Spenser to
Philips.

With this inauguration of Philips, his rival Pope was not much
delighted; he, therefore, drew a comparison of Philips's performance
with his own, in which, with an unexampled and unequalled artifice of
irony, though he has himself always the advantage, he gives the
preference to Philips. The design of aggrandizing himself he disguised
with such dexterity, that, though Addison discovered it, Steele was
deceived, and was afraid of displeasing Pope by publishing his paper.
Published, however, it was, (Guardian, 40,) and from that time Pope and
Philips lived in a perpetual reciprocation of malevolence.

In poetical powers, of either praise or satire, there was no proportion
between the combatants; but Philips, though he could not prevail by wit,
hoped to hurt Pope with another weapon, and charged him, as Pope
thought, with Addison's approbation, as disaffected to the government.

Even with this he was not satisfied; for, indeed, there is no appearance
that any regard was paid to his clamours. He proceeded to grosser
insults, and hung up a rod at Button's, with which he threatened to
chastise Pope, who appears to have been extremely exasperated; for, in
the first edition of his letters, he calls Philips "rascal," and in the
last still charges him with detaining, in his hands, the subscriptions
for Homer, delivered to him by the Hanover club.

I suppose it was never suspected that he meant to appropriate the money;
he only delayed, and with sufficient meanness, the gratification of him
by whose prosperity he was pained.

Men sometimes suffer by injudicious kindness; Philips became ridiculous,
without his own fault, by the absurd admiration of his friends, who
decorated him with honorary garlands, which the first breath of
contradiction blasted.

When upon the succession of the house of Hanover every whig expected to
be happy, Philips seems to have obtained too little notice; he caught
few drops of the golden shower, though he did not omit what flattery
could perform. He was only made a commissioner of the lottery, 1717,
and, what did not much elevate his character, a justice of the peace.

The success of his first play must naturally dispose him to turn his
hopes towards the stage: he did not, however, soon commit himself to the
mercy of an audience, but contented himself with the fame already
acquired, till after nine years he produced, 1722, the Briton, a tragedy
which, whatever was its reception, is now neglected; though one of the
scenes, between Vanoc, the British prince, and Valens, the Roman
general, is confessed to be written with great dramatick skill, animated
by spirit truly poetical.

He had not been idle, though he had been silent: for he exhibited
another tragedy the same year, on the story of Humphry, duke of
Gloucester. This tragedy is only remembered by its title.

His happiest undertaking was of a paper, called the Freethinker, in
conjunction with associates, of whom one was Dr. Boulter, who, then only
minister of a parish in Southwark, was of so much consequence to the
government, that he was made, first, bishop of Bristol, and, afterwards,
primate of Ireland, where his piety and his charity will be long
honoured.

It may easily be imagined that what was printed under the direction of
Boulter would have nothing in it indecent or licentious; its title is to
be understood as implying only freedom from unreasonable prejudice. It
has been reprinted in volumes, but is little read; nor can impartial
criticism recommend it as worthy of revival.

Boulter was not well qualified to write diurnal essays; but he knew how
to practise the liberality of greatness and the fidelity of friendship.
When he was advanced to the height of ecclesiastical dignity, he did not
forget the companion of his labours. Knowing Philips to be slenderly
supported, he took him to Ireland, as partaker of his fortune; and,
making him his secretary[173], added such preferments, as enabled him to
represent the county of Armagh in the Irish parliament.

In December, 1726, he was made secretary to the lord chancellor; and in
August, 1733, became judge of the prerogative court.

After the death of his patron he continued some years in Ireland; but at
last longing, as it seems, for his native country, he returned, 1748, to
London, having, doubtless, survived most of his friends and enemies, and
among them his dreaded antagonist, Pope. He found, however, the duke of
Newcastle still living, and to him he dedicated his poems, collected
into a volume.

Having purchased an annuity of four hundred pounds, he now certainly
hoped to pass some years of life in plenty and tranquillity; but his
hope deceived him; he was struck with a palsy, and died June 18, 1749,
in his seventy-eighth year[174].

Of his personal character, all that I have heard is, that he was eminent
for bravery and skill in the sword, and that in conversation he was
solemn and pompous. He had great sensibility of censure, if judgment may
be made by a single story which I heard long ago from Mr. Ing, a
gentleman of great eminence in Staffordshire. "Philips," said he, "was
once at table, when I asked him, how came thy king of Epirus to drive
oxen, and to say 'I'm goaded on by love? ' After which question he never
spoke again[175]. "

Of the Distrest Mother, not much is pretended to be his own, and,
therefore, it is no subject of criticism: his other two tragedies, I
believe, are not below mediocrity nor above it. Among the poems
comprised in the late collection, the Letter from Denmark may be justly
praised; the Pastorals, which, by the writer of the Guardian, were
ranked as one of the four genuine productions of the rustick muse,
cannot surely be despicable. That they exhibit a mode of life which does
not exist, nor ever existed, is not to be objected: the supposition of
such a state is allowed to pastoral. In his other poems he cannot be
denied the praise of lines sometimes elegant; but he has seldom much
force, or much comprehension. The pieces that please best are those
which from Pope and Pope's adherents procured him the name of _Namby
Pamby_, the poems of short lines, by which he paid his court to all ages
and characters, from Walpole, "the steerer of the realm," to Miss
Pulteney in the nursery. The numbers are smooth and sprightly, and the
diction is seldom faulty. They are not loaded with much thought, yet, if
they had been written by Addison, they would have had admirers: little
things are not valued but when they are done by those who can do
greater.

In his translations from Pindar, he found the art of reaching all the
obscurity of the Theban bard, however he may fall below his sublimity;
he will be allowed, if he has less fire, to have more smoke.

He has added nothing to English poetry, yet, at least, half his book
deserves to be read: perhaps he valued most himself that part which the
critick would reject.

-----

[Footnote 169: He took his degrees, A. B. 1696, A. M. 1700. ]

[Footnote 170: This ought to have been noticed before. It was published
in 1700, when he appears to have obtained a fellowship of St. John's. ]

[Footnote 171: Spence. ]

[Footnote 172: Ibid. ]

[Footnote 173: The archbishop's letters, published in 1760, (the
originals of which are now in Christ-church library, Oxford,) were
collected by Mr. Philips. ]

[Footnote 174: At his house in Hanover-street, and was buried in Audley
chapel. ]

[Footnote 175: Mr. Ing's eminence does not seem to have been derived
from his wit. That the _men_ who drive _oxen_ are goaded, seems to be a
custom peculiar to Staffordshire. J. B. ]




WEST.


Gilbert West is one of the writers of whom I regret my inability to give
a sufficient account; the intelligence which my inquiries have obtained
is general and scanty.

He was the son of the reverend Dr. West; perhaps[176] him who published
Pindar, at Oxford, about the beginning of this century. His mother was
sister to sir Richard Temple, afterwards lord Cobham. His father,
purposing to educate him for the church, sent him first to Eton, and
afterwards to Oxford; but he was seduced to a more airy mode of life, by
a commission in a troop of horse, procured him by his uncle.

He continued some time in the army; though it is reasonable to suppose
that he never sunk into a mere soldier, nor ever lost the love, or much
neglected the pursuit, of learning; and, afterwards, finding himself
more inclined to civil employment, he laid down his commission, and
engaged in business under the lord Townshend, then secretary of state,
with whom he attended the king to Hanover.

His adherence to lord Townshend ended in nothing but a nomination, May,
1729, to be clerk extraordinary of the privy council, which produced no
immediate profit; for it only placed him in a state of expectation and
right of succession, and it was very long before a vacancy admitted him
to profit.

Soon afterwards he married, and settled himself in a very pleasant house
at Wickham, in Kent, where he devoted himself to learning and to piety.
Of his learning, the late collection exhibits evidence, which would have
been yet fuller, if the dissertations which accompany his version of
Pindar had not been improperly omitted.
Of his piety, the influence has,
I hope, been extended far by his Observations on the Resurrection,
published in 1747, for which the university of Oxford created him a
doctor of laws by diploma, March 30,1748, and would, doubtless, have
reached yet further, had he lived to complete what he had for some time
meditated, the Evidences of the Truth of the New Testament. Perhaps it
may not be without effect to tell, that he read the prayers of the
publick liturgy every morning to his family, and that on Sunday evening
he called his servants into the parlour, and read to them first a
sermon, and then prayers. Crashaw is now not the only maker of verses to
whom may be given the two venerable names of poet and saint.

He was very often visited by Lyttelton and Pitt, who, when they were
weary of faction and debates, used at Wickham to find books and quiet, a
decent table, and literary conversation. There is at Wickham a walk made
by Pitt; and, what is of far more importance, at Wickham, Lyttelton
received that conviction which produced his Dissertation on St. Paul.

These two illustrious friends had for awhile listened to the
blandishments of infidelity; and when West's book was published, it was
bought by some who did not know his change of opinion, in expectation of
new objections against christianity; and as infidels do not want
malignity, they revenged the disappointment by calling him a methodist.

Mr. West's income was not large; and his friends endeavoured, but
without success, to obtain an augmentation. It is reported, that the
education of the young prince was offered to him, but that he required a
more extensive power of superintendence than it was thought proper to
allow him.

In time, however, his revenue was improved; he lived to have one of the
lucrative clerkships of the privy council, 1752: and Mr. Pitt at last
had it in his power to make him treasurer of Chelsea hospital.

He was now sufficiently rich; but wealth came too late to be long
enjoyed; nor could it secure him from the calamities of life: he lost,
1755, his only son; and the year after, March 26, a stroke of the palsy
brought to the grave one of the few poets to whom the grave might be
without its terrours.

Of his translations, I have only compared the first Olympick Ode with
the original, and found my expectation surpassed, both by its elegance
and its exactness. He does not confine himself to his author's train of
stanzas: for he saw that the difference of the languages required a
different mode of versification. The first strophe is eminently happy:
in the second he has a little strayed from Pindar's meaning, who says,
"if thou, my soul, wishest to speak of games, look not in the desert sky
for a planet hotter than the sun; nor shall we tell of nobler games than
those of Olympia. " He is sometimes too paraphrastical. Pindar bestows
upon Hiero an epithet, which, in one word, signifies "delighting in
horses;" a word which, in the translation, generates these lines:

Hiero's royal brows, whose care
Tends the courser's noble breed,
Pleas'd to nurse the pregnant mare,
Pleas'd to train the youthful steed.

Pindar says of Pelops, that "he came alone in the dark to the White
Sea;" and West,

Near the billow-beaten side
Of the foam-besilver'd main,
Darkling, and alone, he stood:

which, however, is less exuberant than the former passage.

A work of this kind must, in a minute examination, discover many
imperfections; but West's version, so far as I have considered it,
appears to be the product of great labour and great abilities.

His Institution of the Garter, 1742, is written with sufficient
knowledge of the manners that prevailed in the age to which it is
referred, and with great elegance of diction; but, for want of a process
of events, neither knowledge nor elegance preserve the reader from
weariness.

His Imitations of Spenser are very successfully performed, both with
respect to the metre, the language, and the fiction; and being engaged
at once by the excellence of the sentiments, and the artifice of the
copy, the mind has two amusements together. But such compositions are
not to be reckoned among the great achievements of intellect, because
their effect is local and temporary; they appeal not to reason or
passion, but to memory, and pre-suppose an accidental or artificial
state of mind. An imitation of Spenser is nothing to a reader, however
acute, by whom Spenser has never been perused. Works of this kind may
deserve praise, as proofs of great industry, and great nicety of
observation; but the highest praise, the praise of genius, they cannot
claim. The noblest beauties of art are those of which the effect is
coextended with rational nature, or, at least, with the whole circle of
polished life; what is less than this can be only pretty, the plaything
of fashion, and the amusement of a day.

* * * * *

There is, in the Adventurer, a paper of verses given to one of the
authors as Mr. West's, and supposed to have been written by him. It
should not be concealed, however, that it is printed with Mr. Jago's
name in Dodsley's collection, and is mentioned as his in a letter of
Shenstone's. Perhaps West gave it without naming the author; and
Hawkesworth, receiving it from him, thought it his; for his he thought
it, as he told me, and as he tells the publick.

-----

[Footnote 176: Certainly him. It was published in 1697. ]




COLLINS.


William Collins was born at Chichester, on the 25th of December, about
1720. His father was a hatter of good reputation. He was, in 1733, as
Dr. Warton has kindly informed me, admitted scholar of Winchester
college, where he was educated by Dr. Burton. His English exercises were
better than his Latin.

He first courted the notice of the publick by some verses to a Lady
Weeping, published in the Gentleman's Magazine.

In 1740, he stood first in the list of the scholars to received in
succession at New college, but unhappily there was no vacancy. This was
the original misfortune of his life. He became a commoner of Queen's
college, probably with a scanty maintenance; but was, in about half a
year, elected a demy of Magdalen college, where he continued till he had
taken a bachelor's degree, and then suddenly left the university; for
what reason I know not that he told.

He now, about 1744, came to London a literary adventurer, with many
projects in his head, and very little money in his pocket. He designed
many works; but his great fault was irresolution; or the frequent calls
of immediate necessity broke his schemes, and suffered him to pursue no
settled purpose. A man doubtful of his dinner, or trembling at a
creditor, is not much disposed to abstracted meditation, or remote
inquires. He published proposals for a History of the Revival of
Learning; and I have heard him speak with great kindness of Leo the
tenth, and with keen resentment of his tasteless successour. But
probably not a page of the history was ever written. He planned several
tragedies, but he only planned them. He wrote now and then odes and
other poems, and did something, however little.

About this time I fell into his company. His appearance was decent and
manly; his knowledge considerable, his views extensive, his conversation
elegant, and his disposition cheerful. By degrees I gained his
confidence; and one day was admitted to him when he was immured by a
bailiff, that was prowling in the street. On this occasion recourse was
had to the booksellers, who, on the credit of a translation of
Aristotle's Poeticks, which he engaged to write with a large commentary,
advanced as much money as enabled him to escape into the country. He
showed me the guineas safe in his hand. Soon afterwards his uncle, Mr.
Martin, a lieutenant-colonel, left him about two thousand pounds; a sum
which Collins could scarcely think exhaustible, and which he did not
live to exhaust. The guineas were then repaid, and the translation
neglected.

But man is not born for happiness. Collins, who, while he _studied to
live_, felt no evil but poverty, no sooner _lived to study_ than his
life was assailed by more dreadful calamities, disease and insanity.

Having formerly written his character[177], while, perhaps, it was yet
more distinctly impressed upon my memory, I shall insert it here.

"Mr. Collins was a man of extensive literature, and of vigorous
faculties. He was acquainted not only with the learned tongues,
but with the Italian, French, and Spanish languages. He had
employed his mind chiefly upon works of fiction, and subjects of
fancy; and, by indulging some peculiar habits of thought, was
eminently delighted with those flights of imagination which pass
the bounds of nature, and to which the mind is reconciled only
by a passive acquiescence in popular traditions. He loved
fairies, genii, giants, and monsters; he delighted to rove
through the meanders of enchantment, to gaze on the magnificence
of golden palaces, to repose by the waterfalls of elysian
gardens.

"This was, however, the character rather of his inclination than
his genius; the grandeur of wildness, and the novelty of
extravagance, were always desired by him, but not always
attained. Yet, as diligence is never wholly lost, if his efforts
sometimes caused harshness and obscurity, they likewise
produced, in happier moments, sublimity and splendour. This idea
which he had formed of excellence, led him to oriental fictions
and allegorical imagery, and, perhaps, while he was intent upon
description, he did not sufficiently cultivate sentiment. His
poems are the productions of a mind not deficient in fire, nor
unfurnished with knowledge either of books or life, but somewhat
obstructed in its progress by deviation in quest of mistaken
beauties.

"His morals were pure, and his opinions pious; in a long
continuance of poverty, and long habits of dissipation, it
cannot be expected that any character should be exactly uniform.
There is a degree of want, by which the freedom of agency is
almost destroyed; and long association with fortuitous
companions will, at last, relax the strictness of truth, and
abate the fervour of sincerity. That this man, wise and virtuous
as he was, passed always unentangled through the snares of life,
it would be prejudice and temerity to affirm; but it may be said
that at least he preserved the source of action unpolluted, that
his principles were never shaken, that his distinctions of right
and wrong were never confounded, and that his faults had nothing
of malignity or design, but proceeded from some unexpected
pressure, or casual temptation.

"The latter part of his life cannot be remembered but with pity
and sadness. He languished some years under that depression of
mind which enchains the faculties without destroying them, and
leaves reason the knowledge of right without the power of
pursuing it. These clouds which he perceived gathering on his
intellects, he endeavoured to disperse by travel, and passed
into France; but found himself constrained to yield to his
malady, and returned. He was, for some time, confined in a house
of lunaticks, and afterwards retired to the care of his sister
in Chichester, where death, in 1756, came to his relief[178].

"After his return from France, the writer of this character paid
him a visit at Islington, where he was waiting for his sister,
whom he had directed to meet him: there was then nothing of
disorder discernible in his mind by any but himself; but he had
withdrawn from study, and travelled with no other book than an
English testament, such as children carry to the school: when
his friend took it into his hand, out of curiosity, to see what
companion a man of letters had chosen, 'I have but one book,'
said Collins, 'but that is the best. '"

Such was the fate of Collins, with whom I once delighted to converse,
and whom I yet remember with tenderness.

He was visited at Chichester, in his last illness, by his learned
friends, Dr. Warton and his brother; to whom he spoke with
disapprobation of his Oriental Eclogues, as not sufficiently expressive
of Asiatick manners, and called them his Irish Eclogues. He showed them,
at the same time, an ode inscribed to Mr. John Hume, on the
superstitions of the Highlands; which they thought superiour to his
other works, but which no search has yet found[179].

His disorder was not alienation of mind, but general laxity and
feebleness, a deficiency rather of his vital than intellectual powers.
What he spoke wanted neither judgment nor spirit; but a few minutes
exhausted him, so that he was forced to rest upon the couch, till a
short cessation restored his powers, and he was again able to talk with
his former vigour.

The approaches of this dreadful malady he began to feel soon after his
uncle's death; and, with the usual weakness of men so diseased, eagerly
snatched that temporary relief, with which the table and the bottle
flatter and seduce.

But his health continually declined, and he grew more and more
burdensome to himself.

To what I have formerly said of his writings may be added, that his
diction was often harsh, unskilfully laboured, and injudiciously
selected. He affected the obsolete when it was not worthy of revival;
and he puts his words out of the common order, seeming to think, with
some later candidates for fame, that not to write prose is certainly to
write poetry. His lines commonly are of slow motion, clogged and impeded
with clusters of consonants. As men are often esteemed who cannot be
loved, so the poetry of Collins may, sometimes, extort praise when it
gives little pleasure.

* * * * *

Mr. Collins's first production is added here from the Poetical Calendar.

TO MISS AURELIA C----R,
ON HER WEEPING AT HER SISTER'S WEDDING.

Cease, fair Aurelia, cease to mourn;
Lament not Hannah's happy state;
You may be happy in your turn,
And seize the treasure you regret.

With love united hymen stands,
And softly whispers to your charms,
"Meet but your lover in my bands,
You'll find your sister in his arms. "

-----

[Footnote 177: In the Poetical Calendar, a collection of poems by Fawkes
and Woty, in several volumes, 1763, &c. ]

[Footnote 178: A monument of exquisite workmanship, by Flaxman, is
erected in Chichester to Collins's memory. ]

[Footnote 179: It is printed in the late collection. ]




DYER.


John Dyer, of whom I have no other account to give than his own letters,
published with Hughes's correspondence, and the notes added by the
editor, have afforded me, was born in 1700, the second son of Robert
Dyer, of Aberglasney, in Caermarthenshire, a solicitor of great capacity
and note.

He passed through Westminster school under the care of Dr. Freind, and
was then called home to be instructed in his father's profession. But
his father died soon, and he took no delight in the study of the law;
but having always amused himself with drawing, resolved to turn painter,
and became pupil to Mr. Richardson, an artist then of high reputation,
but now better known by his books than by his pictures.

Having studied awhile under his master, he became, as he tells his
friend, an itinerant painter, and wandered about South Wales, and the
parts adjacent; but he mingled poetry with painting, and, about 1727,
printed Grongar Hill in Lewis's Miscellany.

Being, probably, unsatisfied with his own proficiency, he, like other
painters, travelled to Italy; and coming back in 1740, published the
Ruins of Rome.

If his poem was written soon after his return, he did not make much use
of his acquisitions in painting, whatever they might be; for decline of
health and love of study determined him to the church. He, therefore,
entered into orders; and, it seems, married, about the same time, a lady
of the name of "Ensor, whose grandmother," says he, "was a Shakespeare,
descended from a brother of every body's Shakespeare;" by her, in 1756,
he had a son and three daughters living.

His ecclesiastical provision was, for a long time, but slender. His
first patron, Mr. Harper, gave him, in 1741, Calthorp, in
Leicestershire, of eighty pounds a year, on which he lived ten years,
and then exchanged it for Belchford, in Lincolnshire, of seventy-five.
His condition now began to mend. In 1751, sir John Heathcote gave him
Coningsby, of one hundred and forty pounds a year; and, in 1755, the
chancellor added Kirkby, of one hundred and ten. He complains that the
repair of the house at Coningsby, and other expenses, took away the
profit. In 1757 he published the Fleece, his greatest poetical work; of
which I will not suppress a ludicrous story. Dodsley, the bookseller,
was one day mentioning it to a critical visiter, with more expectation
of success than the other could easily admit. In the conversation the
author's age was asked; and being represented as advanced in life, "He
will," said the critick, "be buried in woollen. "

He did not, indeed, long survive that publication, nor long enjoy the
increase of his preferments; for in 1758 (July 24th,) he died.

Dyer is not a poet of bulk or dignity sufficient to require an elaborate
criticism. Grongar Hill is the happiest of his productions: it is not,
indeed, very accurately written; but the scenes which it displays are so
pleasing, the images which they raise are so welcome to the mind, and
the reflections of the writer so consonant to the general sense or
experience of mankind, that when it is once read, it will be read again.

The idea of the Ruins of Rome strikes more but pleases less, and the
title raises greater expectation than the performance gratifies. Some
passages, however, are conceived with the mind of a poet; as when, in
the neighbourhood of dilapidating edifices, he says,

The pilgrim oft
At dead of night, mid his orison hears
Aghast the voice of time, disparting tow'rs,
Tumbling all precip'tate down, dash'd,
Rattling around, loud thund'ring to the moon.

Of the Fleece, which never became popular, and is now universally
neglected, I can say little that is likely to recall it to attention.
The woolcomber and the poet appear to me such discordant natures, that
an attempt to bring them together is to _couple the serpent with the
fowl_. When Dyer, whose mind was not unpoetical, has done his utmost, by
interesting his reader in our native commodity, by interspersing rural
imagery, and incidental digressions, by clothing small images in great
words, and by all the writer's arts of delusion, the meanness naturally
adhering, and the irreverence habitually annexed to trade and
manufacture, sink him under insuperable oppression; and the disgust
which blank verse, encumbering and encumbered, superadds to an
unpleasing subject, soon repels the reader, however willing to be
pleased.

Let me, however, honestly report whatever may counterbalance this weight
of censure. I have been told, that Akenside, who, upon a poetical
question, has a right to be heard, said, "That he would regulate his
opinion of the reigning taste by the fate of Dyer's Fleece; for if that
were ill-received, he should not think it any longer reasonable to
expect fame from excellence. "




SHENSTONE.


William Shenstone, the son of Thomas Shenstone and Anne Pen, was born in
November, 1714, at the Leasowes in Hales-Owen, one of those insulated
districts which, in the division of the kingdom, was appended, for some
reason, not now discoverable, to a distant county; and which, though
surrounded by Warwickshire and Worcestershire, belongs to Shropshire,
though, perhaps, thirty miles distant from any other part of it.

He learned to read of an old dame, whom his poem of the Schoolmistress
has delivered to posterity; and soon received such delight from books,
that he was always calling for fresh entertainment, and expected that,
when any of the family went to market, a new book should be brought him,
which, when it came, was in fondness carried to bed and laid by him. It
is said, that, when his request had been neglected, his mother wrapped
up a piece of wood of the same form, and pacified him for the night.

As he grew older, he went for awhile to the grammar-school in
Hales-Owen, and was placed afterwards with Mr. Crumpton, an eminent
schoolmaster at Solihul, where he distinguished himself by the quickness
of his progress.

When he was young, June, 1724, he was deprived of his father, and soon
after, August, 1726, of his grandfather; and was, with his brother, who
died afterwards unmarried, left to the care of his grandmother, who
managed the estate.

From school he was sent, in 1732, to Pembroke college, in Oxford, a
society which, for half a century, has been eminent for English poetry
and elegant literature. Here it appears that he found delight and
advantage; for he continued his name in the book ten years, though he
took no degree. After the first four years he put on the civilian's
gown, but without showing any intention to engage in the profession.

About the time when he went to Oxford, the death of his grandmother
devolved his affairs to the care of the reverend Mr. Dolman, of Brome,
in Staffordshire, whose attention he always mentioned with gratitude.

At Oxford he employed himself upon English poetry; and, in 1737,
published a small miscellany, without his name.

He then for a time wandered about to acquaint himself with life, and was
sometimes at London, sometimes at Bath, or any other place of publick
resort; but he did not forget his poetry. He published, in 1741, his
Judgment of Hercules, addressed to Mr. Lyttelton, whose interest he
supported with great warmth at an election: this was next year followed
by the Schoolmistress.

Mr. Dolman, to whose care he was indebted for his ease and leisure, died
in 1745, and the care of his own fortune now fell upon him. He tried to
escape it awhile, and lived at his house with his tenants, who were
distantly related; but finding that imperfect possession inconvenient,
he took the whole estate into his own hands, more to the improvement of
its beauty, than the increase of its produce.

Now was excited his delight in rural pleasures, and his ambition of
rural elegance: he began, from this time, to point his prospects, to
diversify his surface, to entangle his walks, and to wind his waters;
which he did with such judgment and such fancy, as made his little
domain the envy of the great, and the admiration of the skilful; a place
to be visited by travellers, and copied by designers. Whether to plant a
walk in undulating curves, and to place a bench at every turn where
there is an object to catch the view; to make water run where it will be
heard, and to stagnate where it will be seen; to leave intervals where
the eye will be pleased, and to thicken the plantation where there is
something to be hidden; demands any great powers of mind, I will not
inquire: perhaps a surly and sullen speculator may think such
performances rather the sport than the business of human reason. But it
must be at least confessed, that to embellish the form of nature is an
innocent amusement; and some praise must be allowed, by the most
supercilious observer, to him who does best what such multitudes are
contending to do well.

This praise was the praise of Shenstone; but, like all other modes of
felicity, it was not enjoyed without its abatements. Lyttelton was his
neighbour and his rival, whose empire, spacious and opulent, looked with
disdain on the _petty state_ that _appeared behind it_. For awhile the
inhabitants of Hagley affected to tell their acquaintance of the little
fellow that was trying to make himself admired; but when, by degrees,
the Leasowes forced themselves into notice, they took care to defeat the
curiosity which they could not suppress, by conducting their visitants
perversely to inconvenient points of view, and introducing them, at the
wrong end of a walk to detect a deception; injuries of which Shenstone
would heavily complain. Where there is emulation there will be vanity;
and where there is vanity there will be folly[180].

The pleasure of Shenstone was all in his eye: he valued what he valued
merely for its looks; nothing raised his indignation more than to ask if
there were any fishes in his water.

His house was mean, and he did not improve it; his care was of his
grounds. When he came home from his walks, he might find his floors
flooded by a shower through the broken roof; but could spare no money
for its reparation.

In time his expenses brought clamours about him, that overpowered the
lamb's bleat and the linnet's song; and his groves were haunted by
beings very different from fawns and fairies[181]. He spent his estate
in adorning it, and his death was probably hastened by his anxieties.
He was a lamp that spent its oil in blazing[182]. It is said, that if he
had lived a little longer, he would have been assisted by a pension:
such bounty could not have been ever more properly bestowed; but that it
was ever asked is not certain; it is too certain that it never was
enjoyed.

He died at the Leasowes, of a putrid fever, about five on Friday
morning, February 11, 1763; and was buried by the side of his brother in
the church-yard of Hales-Owen.

He was never married, though he might have obtained the lady, whoever
she was, to whom his Pastoral Ballad was addressed. He is represented,
by his friend Dodsley, as a man of great tenderness and generosity, kind
to all that were within his influence: but, if once offended, not easily
appeased; inattentive to economy, and careless of his expenses; in his
person he was larger than the middle size, with something clumsy in his
form; very negligent of his clothes, and remarkable for wearing his grey
hair in a particular manner; for he held that the fashion was no rule of
dress, and that every man was to suit his appearance to his natural
form[183].

His mind was not very comprehensive, nor his curiosity active; he had no
value for those parts of knowledge which he had not himself cultivated.

His life was unstained by any crime; the Elegy on Jesse, which has been
supposed to relate an unfortunate and criminal amour of his own, was
known by his friends to have been suggested by the story of Miss
Godfrey, in Richardson's Pamela.

What Gray thought of his character, from the perusal of his letters, was
this:

"I have read, too, an octavo volume of Shenstone's letters. Poor man! he
was always wishing for money, for fame, and other distinctions; and his
whole philosophy consisted in living against his will in retirement, and
in a place which his taste had adorned, but which he only enjoyed when
people of note came to see and commend it; his correspondence is about
nothing else but this place and his own writings, with two or three
neighbouring clergymen, who wrote verses too. "

His poems consist of elegies, odes, and ballads, humorous sallies, and
moral pieces.

His conception of an elegy he has in his preface very judiciously and
discriminately explained. It is, according to his account, the effusion
of a contemplative mind, sometimes plaintive, and always serious, and,
therefore, superiour to the glitter of slight ornaments. His
compositions suit not ill to this description. His topicks of praise are
the domestick virtues, and his thoughts are pure and simple; but,
wanting combination, they want variety. The peace of solitude, the
innocence of inactivity, and the unenvied security of an humble station,
can fill but a few pages. That of which the essence is uniformity will
be soon described. His elegies have, therefore, too much resemblance of
each other.

The lines are, sometimes, such as elegy requires, smooth and easy; but
to this praise his claim is not constant; his diction is often harsh,
improper, and affected: his words ill-coined, or ill-chosen; and his
phrase unskilfully inverted.

The lyrick poems are almost all of the light and airy kind, such as trip
lightly and nimbly along, without the load of any weighty meaning. From
these, however, Rural Elegance has some right to be excepted. I once
heard it praised by a very learned lady; and, though the lines are
irregular, and the thoughts diffused with too much verbosity, yet it
cannot be denied to contain both philosophical argument and poetical
spirit.

Of the rest I cannot think any excellent: the Skylark pleases me best,
which has, however, more of the epigram than of the ode.

But the four parts of his Pastoral Ballad demand particular notice. I
cannot but regret that it is pastoral: an intelligent reader, acquainted
with the scenes of real life, sickens at the mention of the _crook_, the
_pipe_, the _sheep_, and the _kids_, which it is not necessary to bring
forward to notice, for the poet's art is selection, and he ought to show
the beauties without the grossness of the country life. His stanza seems
to have been chosen in imitation of Rowe's Despairing Shepherd.

In the first part are two passages, to which if any mind denies its
sympathy, it has no acquaintance with love or nature:

I priz'd ev'ry hour that went by,
Beyond all that had pleas'd me before;
But now they are past, and I sigh,
And I grieve that I priz'd them no more.

When forc'd the fair nymph to forego,
What anguish I felt in my heart!
Yet I thought (but it might not be so)
'Twas with pain that she saw me depart.

She gaz'd, as I slowly withdrew;
My path I could hardly discern;
So sweetly she bade me adieu,
I thought that she bade me return.

In the second, this passage has its prettiness, though it be not equal
to the former:

I have found out a gift for my fair;
I have found where the woodpigeons breed;
But let me that plunder forbear,
She will say 'twas a barbarous deed:

For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd,
Who could rob a poor bird of its young;
And I lov'd her the more when I heard
Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

In the third, he mentions the commonplaces of amorous poetry with some
address:

'Tis his with mock passion to glow!
'Tis his in smooth tales to unfold,
How her face is as bright as the snow,
And her bosom, be sure, is as cold;

How the nightingales labour the strain.
With the notes of his charmer to vie;
How they vary their accents in vain,
Repine at her triumphs and die.

In the fourth, I find nothing better than this natural strain of hope:

Alas! from the day that we met,
What hope of an end to my woes,
When I cannot endure to forget
The glance that undid my repose?

Yet time may diminish the pain:
The flow'r, and the shrub, and the tree,
Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,
In time may have comfort for me.

His Levities are, by their title, exempted from the severities of
criticism; yet it may be remarked, in a few words, that his humour is
sometimes gross, and seldom sprightly.

Of the moral poems, the first is the Choice of Hercules, from Xenophon.
The numbers are smooth, the diction elegant, and the thoughts just; but
something of vigour is still to be wished, which it might have had by
brevity and compression. His Fate of Delicacy has an air of gaiety, but
not a very pointed general moral.