Sad dearth of Virtue! "In all Charles's days,
ROSCOMMON only, boasts unspotted lays;"

With Brunswick's smile a purer day arrives,
With POMFRET, WEST, and PARNELL, she revives.

All hail! thou mightiest of the virtuous train! My raptur'd spirit turns to Thee again,

Unrivall'd MILTON! borne on seraph wings,

To instruct frail man how Heav'n's Orchestra sings; Bereft of vision, but that purer light

Might rest, unscatter'd, on thy mental sight!

Of man's first disobedience,” and the “fall”

To "Death and woe," and "sin's" tremendous thrall, Thy Muse hath sung. How, then, "One greater”

came,

Our woes to heal, our Paradise reclaim,

KLOPSTOCK'S "Messiah" tells; (the best assay,
In theme so great, for feeble mortal's lay.)

Such boundless goodness! such stupendous scheme
Lost man to save, a ruin'd world redeem,-

* See Pope, on Roscommon.

"Tis what on earth no "vain pretender dares;"
Archangels falter, "Gabriel's harp despairs;"

Yet may the sons of darkling earth obtain
Divinest views in Klopstock's fervid strain.

His name recalls the immortal GESSNER's praise, A second Virgil clad with holiest rays:

His mind, dissolv'd in Nature's tenderest ties,

(What heart-string breaks not when his “Abel” dies?)

Free from bombast, from turgid episode,

In sweet simplicity's divinest mode,

The purest form of sacred Epic chose,

That e'er adorn'd the harmonies of prose.

Thee, let me hail, once more, seraphic YOUNG!

(Thy praise already but too meanly sung,)

How glows, with Heav'n's unbounded love, thy pen! Depicts the agony of Christ for men!

Revives in "paraphrase" the dazzling "JOB,"

And paints the Day that wakes the slumb'ring globe.

Thy trackless genius takes unfetter'd bound,

Like blazing comet's perihelion round.

Throughout thy "Thoughts," perus'd in riper years,

At every step some splendid light appears.
Had thy great genius but directed been

With nice design, and well-adjusted scene,
And chasten'd fire,—to me few doubts remain,
If loftier Bard did e'er to earth pertain.

His part doth courtly ADDISON supply, Lifts to "the spacious firmament on high;" While there transcendently our BARBAULD sings Of Heav'n's vast empire, and the King of Kings. A BLAIR conducts us to the gloomy "Grave," A PORTEUS teaches from that " Death" to save. The good man's favourite, still, his CowPER shines; Time only adds fresh beauty to his lines. The "Day of Rest" hath GRAHAME well portray'd, For which a Harp hath WATTS divinely made: MONTGOM'RY adds his Muse of heavenly wing, And thousands more their humbler tribute bring.

Be these, sweet Poesy! thy constant guard!
On them bestow the highest style of Bard!
And, while Britannia lists to Virtue's praise,
Attune her Harps to still sublimer lays!

ETHEREAL ESSENCE! which, of all thy train, That heard, of late, the too enchanting strain Of thy fell votary, would again inspire

The LORDLY BARD that sweeps the Attic lyre?
Sure the sweet NINE, aye linkt in heavenly thrall,
Must wail the gifts they cannot now recall;
Unless he sings from influence, like their own
In harmony, but prostrate from it's throne;
Such as might prompt the dark Plutonian lay
When Tartarus gulps the new-descended prey.

Sad prostituted Genius! fit, alone,

In some foul planet to erect his throne,
Such as He best describes; some orb of fire,

Where all, but beams of wretchedness, expire;

The burning wreck of some demolish'd sphere,
A "wand'ring hell" that wheels it's high career.
His Alpine genius, towering,-varied,—bold,-
Sublime in Fancy, as in Virtue cold,

Like a fell Avalanche, comes wasting down
On PIETY's warm plain. Still worse the frown
Of kindred SHELLEY on fair Mercy's reign.*
O! righteous GOD! how long wilt thou refrain?

Angel of verse! assert thy sacred cause!
Maintain thy good, thy venerable laws!
Summon thy chaste, thy well-affected train,
And bid them sing of PIETY again!
In vain shall then the too-voluptuous Muse,
With syren melodies, her victims choose;
Or BYRON laud his deeds of crimson dye,
Sing meretricious love and chivalry;

Since writing the above, we have learned from the public prints, that Mr. Shelley and Mr. Williams were lost when sailing, by boat, in the vicinity of Pisa. I leave the reader to make his own reflections.

I