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Full many a peevish, envious, flandering elf,
Is, in his works, Benevolence itfelf.

For all mankind, unknown, his bofom heaves,
He only injures thofe with whom he lives.
Read then the man: does truth his actions guide, -
Exempt from petulance, exempt from pride?
To focial duties does his heart attend,

As fun, as father, huíband, brother, friend?
Do thofe who know him love him? If they do,
You've my permiffion, you may love him too.

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We are forry to think there is fo much reafon, as we believe there is, for entertaining fo unfavourable an idea of the prevailing manners and morals of our Writers by profeffion or trade, as Mr. Ralph ftyles them, in his ingenious Cafe of Authors; but this certainly is the true idea, that ought to beformed of too many of them. It is, however, fome confolation to the lovers of literature, to reflect, that fuch worthlefs characters are chiefly among the lower claffes; men, whose talents are entirely confonant to their lives, and whom nature never qualified to do honour to any profeffion and therefore no profeffion ought to be scandalized on account of the misbehaviour of fuch unworthy followers of it. For, after all, thefe people are not bad men, because they are Authors, but Authors because they are bad, men. They look upon Writing to be a fine idle trade; eafily fet up; and when all other schemes have failed, the pen, is feized, as a fafer weapon than a piftol, and lefs dangerous to make use of in raifing contributions on the public. Hence our numerous catch-penny productions,-the offsprings of indigence, the fpawn of profligacy,-or the fweepings of jails. But the public feems now to know them pretty well, and they generally meet with the reception they deserve.

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Return we now to Mr. Archdeacon Whitehead's Charge to the Clergy of his poetic diocefe.-But on reviewing what we have written, it seems to be enough, in relation to so small a pamphlet. Yet we cannot conclude without remarking the Author's pleafant manner of mentioning us Reviewers.

Admire true beauties, and flight faults excufe, Nor learn to dance from Journals and Reviews. "Learn to DANCE!-What, then, are these learned Re"viewers, after all, no better than a fociety of Dancing

* Mr. Whitehead declares, in a Note, that he does not intend this a Reflection on the Reviewers, &c, and that it is not the Mafters but the Scholars, the grawn Gentlemen, at whom the Author fmiles. "masters ?"

"mafters ?" Be not deceived, however, courteous Reader; the gentleman means no fuch thing: it is only an arch allufion to Mr. N. Hart's advertising to teach grown gentlemen to cut capers fecundum artem, in the Old Baily.

Erratum in the CHARGE. Page 9, 1. 2. for dance read think.

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Epifle from Lady Jane Grey to Lord Guilford Dudley. 4to. I s. DodЛley.

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HAT fpecies of Poetry which is fometimes mistakenly called the heroic Epiftle, and which might more properly be termed the Love, or the elegiac Epiftle, is capable of great beauty and variety. All the fine fenfations of the heart; all that can be collected in the different provinces of hope and fear, of defpair and forrow, the melancholy of the hopelefs lover, and the joyous images of fuccessful love: in short, whatever is tender, paffionate, pathetic, ftriking, or graceful, may properly be introduced in this kind of Poetry. The Epiftles of Óvid have a great many beauties of this kind, but they are fo obfcured and intermixed with affected turns of expreffion, and little epigrammatic points, that inftead of being delighted with the happy fancy of the Poet, you are difgufted with the puerility and affectation of the man. However, when these faults are overlooked, his Epistles have many fine ftrokes of nature and paffion, that never fail to make their way to the heart. Of these we fhall quote fome paffages to illuftrate our obfervations on this fpecies of Poetry, and contraft them by others in Mr. Pope's Epiftle from Eloifa to Abelard, which is the fineft performance of the kind, and upon the whole infinitely fuperior to any of the Epiftles of the Roman Bard.

The plaintive and delicate expoftulation of Sappho to Phaon, in the following lines, is a beautiful inftance of the true pathetic.

Huc ades, inque finus, formofe, relabere noftros:

Non ut ames oro, verum ut amare finas.

Scribimus, et lacrymis oculi rorantur obortis :
Afpice, quam fit in hoc multa litura loco.
Si tam certus eras hinc ire, modeftius îffes,
Et modo dixiffes, Lefbi puella, vale!

Non tecum lacrymas, non ofcula fumma tulifti.

Thefe

Thefe lines are extremely beautiful, and fearce equalled by the following pathetic Verfes of Eloifa, which fhe is fuppofed to have conceived upon reading the letters that Abelard had written to his friend, containing a relation of their misfor

tunes.

Soon as thy Letters trembling I unclafe,

That well-known name awakens all my woes.
O name for ever fad! for ever dear!
Still breath'd in fighs, ftill ufher'd with a tear.
I tremble too where'er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Line after line, my gushing eyes o'erflow,
Led thro' a fad variety of woe:

Tears fill are mine, and thofe I need not fparë,
Love but demands what else were fhed in prayer.
No happier talk these faded eyes purfue;

To read and weep is all they have to do.

The Verfes that follow are inimitably tender, both in the Latin and the English Poet.

Invenio Sylvam, quæ fæpe cubilia nobis

Præbuit, et multa texit opaca coma.

At non invenio Dominum fylvæque, meumque.
Vile folum locus eft; dos erat ille loci.
Agnovi preffas noti mihi cefpitis herbas ;

De noftro curvum pondere gramen erat.
Incubui, tetigique locum qua parte fuifti:
Grata prius lacrymas combibit herba, meas.

Sappho Phaoni

While proftrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind virtuous drops juft gathering in my eye:
While praying, trembling in the dult I roll,
And dawning Grace is opening on my foul:
Come, if thou dar'ft, all charming as thou art!
Oppofe thyself to Heaven; difpute my heart;
Come, with one glance of thofe deluding eyes,
Blot out each bright idea of the skies.

Elifa to Abelard.

The tranfition of paffion are not the leaft beauties of thefe elegiac Epiftles.

No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole;
Rife Alps between us, and whole oceans roll!
Ah! come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor fhare one pang of all I felt for thee.
Thy oaths I quit; thy memory I resign;
Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine.

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El. te Ab.

Efficit

Efficite ut redeat, &c.

Ecquid ago precibus? Pectufne agrefte movetur ?
An riget? Et Zephyri verba caduca ferunt?

Sappho Phacni. It is not fufficient that this fpecies of Poetry be tender and pathetic; it must be paffionate too.

Tu mihi cura, Phaon; te fomnia noftra reducunt,
Somnia formofo candidiora die,

Illic te invenio, quanquam regionibus abfis;
Sed non longa fatis gaudia fomnus habet.
Sæpe tuos noftrâ cervice onerare lacertos,
Sæpe tuæ videor fuppofuiffe meos.
Blandior interdum; verifque fimillima verba,
Eloquor; et vigilant fenfibus ora meis.
Ofcula cognofco; quæ tu committere linguæ,
Aptaque confueras accipere, apta dare.

O curft, dear horrors of all confcious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking dæmons all restraint remove,
And ftir within me every fource of Love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glew my clafping arms:

Sa. Ph.

Ela. to Ab.

After thefe quotations we are afraid the performance before us may appear to difadvantage; but without confidering it comparatively, let us fee whether it be diftinguished by the above-mentioned characteristics.

The Author (Mr. Keate) thinks that the ftory of Lady Jane Grey is a very proper fubject for this kind of epiftolary Poetry; and in fome circumftances, indeed, it might be fo.But, in our opinion, he has "put the pen into her hands" at an unfavourable time; because, as fhe was under fentence of death, she had nothing to hope, and confequently her Epiftle, under thefe circumftances, was not capable of that variety it might otherwife have contained.

He fets out fomewhat incorrectly with a confufion of metaphors.

-Suffolk's Daughter finks not with her woe.
Beneath its weight I feel myfelf refign'd,

Tho' strong the Tempeft, ftronger till my Mind.

Here is a weight of woe, which, in the next line, is a Tempeft. In the following couplet there is a redundancy. · Nor in thefe lines fufpect that I complain, "Tho' Memory loves to tread back Time again.

This

!

This Epiftle is not deftitute of the pathetic, an inftance of which is this paffage :

Hark! the dread fignal that completes our woes!
Hark! the loud fhoutings of our barb'rous foes!
1 fee the axe rear'd high above thy head.

It falls!and Guilford's 'number'd with the dead.
Alas! how ghaftly! every vein ftreams blood,
And the pale corpfe finks in the crimson flood.-
Could that fad form be once my foul's delight?
Quick take the mad'ning phantom from my fight.
Hold, hold your hands, ye minifters of fate,
Sufpend the blow, left mercy come too late,
Let innocence at last your pity move,

And fpare my lord, my husband, and my love.

The Verses that follow are both tender and paffionate.
Ha! meet no more!How cruel the decree!
Heart-rending fentence! No-it must not be.
Down prifon walls! each obftacle remove,
And let me clafp once more the man I love.
One parting look a wretched wife defires;
One parting kifs, the feal of death, requires..

Her charge to Guilford, not to fave his life by renouncing his Religion, is truly noble.

O, then, my Hufband, I conjure thee, hear,
If Suffolk's Daughter e'er to thee was dear,
By every wish of Happiness to come,

By every hope beyond the mouldering tomb;
If anxious that thy better fame fhou'd foar,
And shine applauded when the man's no more,
Let not the wily Churchman win thine ear,
Or footh thy weakness by his fraudful care.

Page 16. What's in the grave the virtuous have to fear? is very unhappily, if not unjustly expreffed; but it may eafily be altered. Perhaps it might be better thus:

What from the grave can virtue have to fear?

We do not think the third repetition of the word long, at the end of the Poem, a beauty, because it seems too much pointed.

Upon the whole, though many of these Verses are incorrect, fome of them enervate, and others unharmonious, the Poem is not without fome degree of merit; and if it be the firft publication of a young Author, better things may be expected from him.

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