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"As when th' autumnal morne with ruddy hue
Looks through the glen besprent with silver hore,
Across the stubble, brushing off the dew,
The younkling fowler gins the fieldes explore,
And, wheeling oft, his pointer veres afore,
And oft, sagacious of the tainted gale,

The fluttering bird betrays; with thondring rore
The shott resounds, loud echoing through the dale;
But still the younkling kills nor partridge, snipe,
nor quail.

"Yet still the queint excuse is at command;
The dog was rash, a swallow twitterd by,
The gun hung fire, and keenness shook his hand,
And there the wind or bushes hurt his eye.
So can the knight his mind still satisfye:
A lazie fiend, Self-Imposition hight,
Still whispers some excuse, some gilden lye,
Himselfe did gild to cheat himselfe outright:
God help the man bewitchd in such ungracious
plight!

"On Dissipation still this treachor waits,
Obsequiously behind at distance due;
And still to Discontents accursed gates,
The house of sorrow, these ungodly two,
Conduct their fainty thralls-Great things to do
The knight resolvd, but never yet could find
The proper time, while still his miseries grew:
And now these demons of the captive mind
Him to the drery cave of Discontent resignd.

"Deep in the wyldes of Faerie Lond it lay;
Wide was the mouth, the roofe all rudely rent;
Some parts receive, and some exclude the day,
For deepe beneath the hill its caverns went:
The ragged walls with lightning seemd ybrent,
And loathlie vermin ever crept the flore:
Yet all in sight, with towres and castles gent,
A beauteous lawnskepe rose afore the dore,
The which to view so fayre the captives grieved sore.

"All by the gate, beneath a pine shade bare,
An owl-frequented bowre, some tents were spred;
Here sat a throng, with eager furious stare
Rattling the dice; and there, with eyes halfe dead,
Some drowsie dronkards, looking b'ack and red,
Dozd out their days: and by the path-way green
A sprightlie troupe still onward heedlesse sped,
In chace of butterflies alert and keen;
Honours, and wealth, and powre, their butterflies
I ween.

"And oft, disgustfull of their various cares,
Into the cave they wend with sullen pace;
Each to his meet apartment dernly fares:
Here, all in raggs, in piteous plight most bace,
The drunkard sitts; there, shent with foul disgrace,
The thriftlesse heir; and o'er his reeking blade
Red with his friends heart gore, in woefull cace
The duellist raves; and there, on vetchie bed,
Crazd with his vaine pursuits, the maniack bends

his head.

"Yet round his gloomy cell, with chalk he scrawls; Ships, couches, crownes, and eke the gallow tree All that he wishd or feard his ghastlie walls; Present him still, and mock his miserie.

And there, self-doomd, his cursed selfe to flee,
The gamester hangs in corner murk and dread;
Nigh to the ground bends his ungratious knee;
His drooping armes and white-reclining head
Dim seen, cold horrour gleams athwart th' unhal-
lowd shade.

"Near the dreare gate, beneath the rifted rock,
The keeper of the cave all haggard sate,
His pining corse a restlesse ague shook,
And blistering sores did all his carkas frett:
All with himselfe he seemd in keen debate;
For still the muscles of his mouthe he drew
Ghastly and fell; and still with deepe regrate
He lookd him round, as if his heart did rew
His former deeds, and mournd full sure his sores
to view.

"Yet not himselfe, but Heavens great king he blamd,
And dard his wisdom and his will arraign;
For boldly he the ways of God blasphemd,
Aud of blind governaunce did loudly plain,
While vild self-pity would his eyes distain;
As when an wolfe, entrapt in village ground,
In dread of death gnaws his limb in twain,
And views with scalding teares his bleeding wound:
Such fierce selfe-pity still this wights dire portaunce
crownd.

"Near by there stood an hamlet in the dale,
Where, in the silver age, Content did wonne ;
This now was his; yet all mote nought avail,
His loathing eyes that place did ever shun;
But ever through his neighbours lawns would run,
Where every goodlie fielde thrice goodlie seemd,
Such was this weary wight all woe-begone;
Such was his life; and thus of things he deemd;
And suchlike was his cave, that all with sorrowes
teemd.

"To this fell carle gay Dissipation led,
And in his drery purlieus left the knight.
From the dire cave fain would the knight have fled,
And fain recalld the treachrous nymphe from flight
But now the late obtruder shuns his sight,
And dearly must be wooed: hard by the den,
Where listless Bacchus had his tents ypight,
A transient visit sometimes would he gain,
While wine and merry song beguild his inward pain.

"Yet, ever as he reard his slombering head,
The ghastly tyrant at his couch stood near;
And ay with ruthless clamour gan upbraid,
And words that would his very heartstrings tear:
'See now,' he sayes, 'where setts thy vain career;
Approching elde now wings its cheerlesse way,
Thy fruitlesse autumn gins to blanch thy heare,
And aged winter asks from youth its stay;
But thine comes poore of joy, comes with unho-
nourd gray.

"Thou hast no friend !-still on the worthlesse traine

Thy kindnesse flowd, and still with scorne repaid;
Even she on whom thy favours heapt remain,
Even she regards thee with a bosome dead
To kindly passion, and by motives led
Such as the planter of his negroe deems;
What profit still can of the wretch be made
Is all his care, of more he never dreams:
So, farre remote from her, thy troubles she esteems.

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Ah, wretched syre!'-But ever from this scene
The wretched syre precipitates his flight,

And in the bowls wylde fever shuns his teene.

So pass his dayes, while what he might have beene
Its beauteous views does every morne present:
So pass his dayes, while still the raven Spleen
Croaks in his eares, 6
The brightest parts mispent
Beget an hoarie age of griefe and discontent.'

"But boast not of superiour shrewd addresse,
Ye who can calmly spurn the ruind mayd,
Ye who unmov'd can view the deepe distresse
That crushes to the dust the parents head,
And rends that easie heart by you betrayd,
Boast not that ye his numerous woes eskew;
Ye who unawd the nuptial couch invade,
Boast not his weaknesse with contempt to view;
For worthy is he still compard, perdie, to you."

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Bale, harm, sorrow.

dicative imperfect of the verb to be.

Beseene, becoming.

Geer, furniture, tackle.
Gent, fine, noble.

Gin, gan, begin, began.

Glen, a dell, a hollow between two hills.
Goody, a countrywoman.

Han, preterite plural of the verb to have.
Heare, hair. Often used by Spenser.
Hight, called, is called, was called, or named.
Hoyden, slattern, coarse

Imp, infant, child.

Jolliment, merriment.

Ken, v. to see.

Knare, a knotty arm of a tree. Dryd.

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Nathlesse, nevertheless, nathles. Sax.

Beene, frequently used by the old poets for the in- Native, natural.

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Ne, nor.

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The letter y in all the old English poets is frequently prefixed to verbs and verbal adjectives, but without any particular signification. The use of it is purely Saxon, though after the conquest the ge gave place to the Norman y. It is always to be pronounced as the pronoun ye.

Spenser has also frequently followed the Saxon formation, in adding the letter n to his verbs, as tellen, worken, &c. When affixed to a substantive, it forms the plural number, as eyen, eyes, &c.

ON

THE NEGLECT OF POETRY.

AN IMITATION OF SPENSER.

HENCE, Vagrant Minstrel, from my thriving farm;
Far hence, nor ween to shed thy poison here:
My hinds despise thy lyre's ignoble charm;
Seek in the sluggards bower thy ill-earn'd cheer:
There while thy idle chanting soothes their ear,
The noxious thistle choaks their sickly corn;
Their apple boughs, ungraff'd, sour wildlings bear,
And o'er the ill-fenced dales with fleeces torn
Unguarded from the fox, their lambkins stray for-
lorn.

Such ruin withers the neglected soil

When to the song the ill-starr'd swain attendsAnd well thy meed repays thy worthless toil; Upon thy houseless head pale want descends

In bitter shower: and taunting scorn still rends,
And wakes thee trembling from thy golden dream:
In vetchy bed, or loathly dungeon ends
Thy idled life- -What fitter may beseem!
Who poisons thus the fount, should drink the poi-
son'd stream.

"And is it thus," the heart-stung minstrel cry'd, While indignation shook his silver'd head; "And is it thus, the groos-fed lordling's pride, And hind's base tongue the gentle bard upbraid? And must the holy song be thus repaid By sun-bask'd ignorance, and churlish scorn? While listless drooping in the languid shade Of cold neglect, the sacred bard must mourn, Though in his hallow'd breast Heaven's purest ardours burn.

Yet how sublime, O bard, the dread behest, The awful trust to thee by Heaven assign'd! "T is thine to humanize the savage breast, And form in virtue's mould the youthful mind; Where lurks the latent spark of generous kind, 'T is thine to bid the dormant ember blaze: Heroic rage with gentlest worth combin'd Wide through the land thy forming power displays: So spread the olive boughs beneath Dan Phoebus' rays.

When Heaven decreed to soothe the feuds that tore
The wolf-ey'd barons, whose unletter'd rage
Spurn'd the fare Muse; Heaven bade on Avon's shore
A Shakspeare rise, and soothe the barbarous age:
A Shakspeare rose; the barbarous heats asswage-
At distance dew how many bards attend!
Enlarg'd and liberal from the narrow cage
Of blinded zeal new manners wide extend,
And o'er the generous breast the dews of Heaven
descend.

And fits it you, ye sons of hallow'd power,
To hear, unmov'd, the tongue of scorn upbraid
The Muse neglected in her wintery bower;
While proudly flourishing in princely shade
Her younger sisters lift the laurel'd head-
And shall the pencil's boldest mimic rage,
Or softest charms, fore-doom'd in time to fade,
Shall these be vaunted o'er th' immortal page,
Where passion's living fires burn unimpair'd by age?

And shall the warbled strain or sweetest lyre,
Thrilling the palace roof at night's deep hour;
And shall the nightingales in woodland choir
The voice of Heaven in sweeter raptures pour?
Ah, no! their song is transient as the flower
Of April morn: in vain the shepherd boy
Sits listening in the silent autumn bower;
The year no more restores the short-liv'd joy ;
And never more his harp shall Orpheus' hands em-
ploy.

Eternal silence in her cold deaf ear
Has clos'd his strain; and deep eternal night
Has o'er Appelles' tints, so bright while-ere,
Drawn her blank curtains-never to the sight
More to be given-But cloth'd in Heaven's own light
Homer's bold painting shall immortal shine;
Wide o'er the world shall ever sound the might,
The raptur'd music of each deathless line: [vine.
For death nor time may touch their living souls di-

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From Bashan and the desert shore
To blooming fields, and cities fair,
While sacred songsters march before,
And Jacob's princes faint no more,
Shalt thou the way prepare.

Lo! Egypt's kings and wisest men
Shall bend the duteous knee,
And Ethiopia, wide and great,
Through all her vast extended state,
Shall stretch her hands to thee.

But, awful sov'reign! who can stand
Before the terrours of thy hand,
When thy right hand impends the blow
To strike a proud obdurate foe?
Yet to thy saints, O God of pray'r,

How mild thy mercies shine!
The tenderest father's ardent care
But ill resembles thine:
Thy mercies far, oh, far above
Thy other wonders shine,
A mother's ever watchful love
But ill resembles thine!

AN EPITHALAMIUM.

WRITTEN IN HEBREW BY ABRAM DEPAS, ON THE MARRIAGE OF JACOB FRANCO, ESQ. TO MISS ABIGAIL D'AGUILAR, DAUGHTER OF THE LATE BARON D'AGUILAR. THE voice of joy this happy day demands; Resound the song and in our God confide: Beneath his canopy the bridegroom stands,

In all her beauty shines the lovely bride. O may their joys still blossom, ever new, Fair as a garden to the ravish'd view!

Rejoice, O youth, and if thy thoughts aspire

To Heaven's pure bliss, the sacred law revere; The stranger's wants, the needy soul's desire

Supply, and humbly with thy neighbour bear: So shall thy father's grateful heart rejoice, And thy fair deeds inspire thy people's voice.

Sing from your bowers, ye daughters of the song, Behold the bride with star-like glory shine; May each succeeding day still glide along

Fair as the first, begirt with grace divine: Far from her tent may care and sorrow fly, While she o'erjoy'd beholds her numerous progeny. Ye happy parents, shout with cheerful voice, See, o'er your son the canopy unfold; And thou, O hoary rev'rend sire, rejoice,

May thy glad eyes thy grandson's son behold. The song of joy, ye youthful kindred raise, And let the people join, the living God to praise!

SONNET TO VASCO DE GAMA.

FROM TASSO.

Vasco le cui felici, &c.

VASCO, whose bold and happy bowsprit bore Against the rising morn; and homeward fraught, Whose sails came westward with the day, and The wealth of India to thy native shore; [brought

Ne'er did the Greek such length of seas explore, The Greek, who sorrow to the Cyclops wrought; And he, who, victor, with the Harpies fought, Never such pomp of naval honours wore.

Great as thou art, and peerless in renown,
Yet thou to Camoens ow'st thy noblest fame;
Further than thou didst sail, his deathless song
Shall bear the dazzling splendour of thy name;
And under many a sky thy actions crown,
While Time and Fame together glide along.

SONNET.

FROM PETRARCH.

AH! how, my friend, has foul gorg'd luxurie, And bloated slumber on the slothful down, From the dull world all manly virtue thrown, And slaved the age to custom's tyrannie.

The blessed lights so lost in darkness be,
Those lights by Heaven to guide our minds bestown,
Mad were he deem'd who brought from Helicon
The hallow'd water, or the laurel tree.

"Philosophy, ah! thou art cold and poor,"
Exclaim the crowd, on sordid gain intent;
Few will attend thee on thy lofty road;
Yet, I, my friend, would fire thy zeal the more:
Ah, gentle spirit! labour on unspent,
Crown thy fair toils, and win the smile of God.

THE SIEGE OF MARSEILLES.

A TRAGEDY.

THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE.

He who offers his writings to the public, tacitly confesses that he believes them to deserve its attention. Though to deny this were an affectation of modesty which would obtain no credit, yet it will easily be allowed, that at a time when the stage is so indulgent to dramatic writers, no man would venture to publish a rejected play without some better test of its value than his own judgment. The author of The Siege of Marseilles may truly assert, that in this publication he is influenced and guided by some who hold no ordinary rank in the republic | of letters. From their favourable opinion (a circumstance not unknown to Mr. Garrick) he had once every reason to hope that his play would be honoured with representation. He also flattered himself, that the novelty of a drama, no part whereof was borrowed from a foreign stage, and a moral, designedly pointed against a vice, which at present may be said to characterise the age, might have proved circumstances in his favour. But he now finds that an author, in writing a play, however well he may execute it, has done very little: that if he meant to write for the stage, his most necessary qualification was an acquaintance with the politics and temporary arts of the green-room.

It is not long since that a friend of mine, having an inclination to write a tragedy, applied himself for some instruction to a gentleman who had often composed for the theatre. "My dear sir," says the author, "you conceive not half the trouble and vexation you must undergo to bring your play upon the stage. Believe a man who has learned, by too much experience, that

Between the acting of a tragedy

And the first writing, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream. "You must cabal with the players, you must attend upon the manager, you must flatter him, and perhaps write verses upon him; you must suffer a hundred little indignities besides, and after all your play may be rejected. For you are mistaken if you think that literary merit is a passport to representation. The manager must serve himself first, and he has always some pieces on his hands, seldom so few as half a dozen, which are his own property. Besides, you are a stranger to the management of the theatre: do you know what is the trim of the stage?"-"So far from it," replied my friend," that I do not remember to have heard the phrase before, nor am I able to comprehend what it means."" The meaning," says the old author, " contains nothing critical, has nothing to do with the unities; but however the scholar may affect to despise it, let me assure you, that unless you are acquainted with the character and capacity of each actor and actress in the house, and know something too of the scenery and dresses, you can't write a play worth a farthing."

The unequalled abilities of Mr. Garrick, as an actor, fill us at once with pleasure and admiration; which, improved by the feelings of the generous mind, rise into a sort of general esteem and prepossession in his favour. When I bear this testimony to Mr. Garrick's excellence, I trust the public will not take offence, and that Mr. Garrick himself will forgive me, if I say that, as a manager, he has been generally unhappy or ill-advised in his choice of the dramas exhibited in Drury Lane.

But I cannot speak of the pieces themselves. It is cruel to insult the memory of the departed; it is ungenerous to attack the dead. These, alas! have no patron, no defender. Mr. Garrick, their friend, as long as he could keep them alive, even Garrick bas deserted them. Let them rest in their obscurity; and let me assure their sometime protector, that I have too much humanity to drag them thence, with any view of comparison or competition. Not that I mean to impute to Mr. Garrick's want of taste, all the despised and forgotten plays which have appeared on his stage. Some of them he was obliged to introduce through gratitude, through friendship, sometimes through generosity; and though he could not give them a lasting reputation, the indulgence of the public usually favoured the representation. But gratitude, friendship, and even generosity, however favourite virtues, cannot have been with Mr. Garrick his only principle of action. His judgment, unbiased by any interest, must frequently have directed his choice. Yet by some, not unaccountable, ill fortune, these select pieces have generally shared the fate of the others; and at this day you may as well hope to trace them in the closets of the ingenious, as you may the former in the memory of the playhouse critic.

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