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admiration and gratitude) towards the old man who holds the little rolls in the folding of his garment; and he stretches out his arm, as if he meant to present him with a book, lettered on the back “ Telemaque.” Not far off is drawn a large group of men; some with buskins on their legs; others with a particular kind of slight pumps on their feet; and two or three with vizard masks on their faces. At some distance up in the air is seen a figure with a human face, and the legs and body and wings of a swan; it seems to direct its flight to the clouds; and beneath, on a plain, are represented some games of exercise, as, running, wrestling, horse and chariot races, with crowds of spectators. .

In the third pannel, the figure that first engages

the

eye is Astrea, sitting on a broad blue arch of a circle, in which are shadowed out darkly in miniature, the likenesses of several animals: in her hand she holds the balance, of which she was the inventress. In the scales are human figures lessened in due proportion : in the descending scale is only one person, bearing in his lap a sphere, and upon it lies the draught of a city besieged, with several engines of an ancient form planted on the walls. He beckons to a man of a studious aspect, who seems intent upon a prism of glass, and holds a book

marked, however, that the figures of Homer and Virgil, which possess several characteristic touches in accordance with the general opinion of criticism, are, nevertheless, inferior to the succeeding sketches of Pope, who, in his Temple of Fame, having placed these masters of the Epopea on lofty columns, thus gives us, in bold relief, their attitudes and attributes:

High on the first the mighty Homer shone ;
Eternal adamant compos'd his throne ;
Father of verse! in holy fillets drest,
His silver beard wav'd gently o'er his breast.
Tho' blind, a boldness in his looks appears ;
In years he seem'd, though not impair'd by years,
The wars of Troy were round the pillar seen :
Here fierce Tydides wounds the Cyprian Queen;
Here Hector, glorious from Patroclus' fall;
Here dragg’d in triumph round the Trojan wall.
Motion and life did every part inspire,
Bold was the work, and prov'd the master's fire :
A strong expression most he seem'd t' affect,
And here and there disclos'd a brave neglect.

A golden column next in rank appear'd,
On which a shrine of purest gold 'was rear'd ,
Finish'd the whole, and labour'd ev'ry part,
With patient touches of unweary'd art;
The Mantuan there in sober triumph sate,
Compos'd his posture, and his looks sedate;
On Homer still he fix'd a rev'rend eye,
Great without pride, in modest majesty.
In living sculpture on the sides were spread
The Latian wars, and hanghty Turnus dead;
Eliza stretch'd upon the fun’ral pyre;
Æneas bending with his agad sire.
Troy flam'd in burning gold ; and o'er the throne,
" Arms and the Man" in goldep cyphers shone.

No. XXIII.

Cinis, et manes, et fabula fies.

PERSIUS,

A name, a shade, alas! thy lot shall be,
And dust and ashes all that's left of thee.

when my

Ever since I was a school-boy, I have been fond of walking in Westminster-abbey, where,

heart is heated by the violence of some unruly passion, I enjoy a cool composure, and a kind of venerable refreshment. Its dusky cloisters, majestic ailes, quire, organs, royal tombs, and reverend variety of strong, impressive images, have a never-failing power to reduce my mind from transport, when hope, prosperity, or pleasure, have betrayed it into vanity; or to relieve it, when disordered by a weight of anguish or oppression.

“ Death and the sun (says a French writer) are two things not to be looked upon with a steady eye.”—Though there is something in his observation rather pretty than just, yet so far is certainly true, that we are unqualified to think serenely on our dissolution, while we are surrounded by the noise and hurry of the world, in its ambitious scenes; or softened into sensual wishes, by the languor of an idle solitude. While we are part of our own prospect, we can never view it justly: but, in such a situation as the abbey, we are placed as it were out of ourselves, and, from this ancient stand of death, look back upon a country which we seem no longer to have any concern in; and which, therefore, we can judge of with the necessary clearness and impartiality.

The mind that is steadfast enough to meditate calmly on death, will be armed to resist the strength and the flattery of human passions : such thoughts, if they make us not better, will at least make us wiser ; since that must moderate our wishes, which puts us out of countenance at their levity; and who can reflect without being ashamed, that while every thing in life is accidental, and death the only certainty; we go on to act notwithstanding, as if all things else were infallible, and death but accidental.

I sometimes suffer myself to be shut up for five or six hours among the tombs, where I sit down, without ceremony or apprehension, among the proudest of those princes, who were once too stately to be conversed with, but at a distance, and with fear and reverence. I possess, in common with the spiders (their companions and most constant servants, who spread network over their trophies), the unenvied privilege of surrounding those last beds of forgotten majesty. Here I bury myself in solemn silence, and imprint my imagination with images which awaken thought, and prepare me for humility : the stained and melancholy light that enters faintly through the painted windows, as if it wore a decent mourning, to become the scene it

opens to me, guides me slowly, by the cloistered alleys, dusty tombs, and weeping statues, till I am lost in that still pomp of figured sorrow which on every side incloses me.

From finish'd prayer the flock disperse apace,
And each glad foot forsakes the dreary place:
The hooded prebend plods along before,
And the last verger claps the ringing door.
Then, thoughtful, lingering, curious, and alone,
In the dark temple, when the rest are gone,
No noise invades my ear, no murm'ring breath,
Not one low whisper in the hall of death ;
No trampling sound swims o'er the silent floor,
But the slow clock that counts the sliding hour.

Here, indulging contemplation, I forget my cares and misfortunes, and disencumber myself from the forms and embarrassments of converse. I become the inhabitant of a quiet and unbusy world, where all is serene and peaceful: I am

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