VERSES,

SAID TO BE WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR ON HIMSELF, WHEN HE
WAS IN A CONSUMPTION.

WHY, Damon, with the forward day,
Dost thou thy little spot survey,
From tree to tree, with doubtful cheer,
Pursue the progress of the year,

What winds arise, what rains descend,
When thou before that year shalt end?

What do thy noon-day walks avail,
To clear the leaf, and pick the snail,
Then wantonly to death decree
An insect usefuller than thee?

Thou and the worm are brother-kind,
As low, as earthy, and as blind.

Vain wretch! canst thou expect to see
The downy peach make court to thee?
Or that thy sense shall ever meet
The beau-flower's deep-embosom'd sweet,
Exhaling with an evening blast!
Thy evenings then will all be past.
Thy narrow pride, thy fancied green,
(For vanity's in little seen)

All must be left when death appears,
In spite of wishes, groans, and tears;
Nor one of all thy plants that grow,
But rosemary will with thee go.

SIR JOHN VANBRUGH,* the poet and architect, was the oldest son of Mr. Giles Vanbrugh, of London, merchant; he was born in the parish of St. Stephen, Walbrook, 1666. He received a very liberal education, and at the age of nineteen was sent by his father to France, where he continued several years. In 1703, he was appointed Clarencieux King of Arms, and in 1706 was commissioned by Queen Anne to carry the habit and ensigns of the order of the garter to King George

the First, then at Hanover. He was also made comptroller-general of the board of works, and surveyor of the gardens and waters. In 1714, he received the order of knighthood, and in 1719 married Henrietta Maria, daughter of Colonel Yarborough. Sir John died of a quinsey at his house in Scotland-yard, and is interred in the family vault under the church of St. Stephen, Walbrook. He left only one son, who fell at the battle of Fontenoy.†

FABLE, RELATED BY A BEAU TO ESOP.

A BAND, a Bob-wig, and a Feather,
Attack'd a lady's heart together.
The Band, in a most learned plea,
Made up of deep philosophy,

Told her, if she would please to wed
A reverend beard, and take instead

Of vigorous youth,
Old solemn truth,
With books and morals, into bed,
How happy she would be.

The Bob, he talked of management,
What wond'rous blessings heaven sent
On care, and pains, and industry:
And truly he must be so free
To own he thought your airy beaux,
With powder'd wigs, and dancing shoes,

[*The family of Sir John Vanbrugh is stated, in the Biographia Dramatica, to have come originally from France; but my friend, the Rev. George Vanbrugh, rector of Aughton. in Lancashire, the only surviving descendant of the family, informs me that his ancestors were eminent merchants of Antwerp, and fled out of Flanders when the Duke of Alva tried to establish the inquisition in those provinces. They first took refuge in Holland, and from thence came over to England to enjoy the protestant protection of Queen Elizabeth.

Were good for nothing (mend his soul!)
But prate, and talk, and play the fool.
He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirth,
And that to be the dearest wife
Of one, who labour'd all his life
To make a mine of gold his own,

And not spend sixpence when he'd done,
Was heaven upon earth.

When these two blades had done, d'ye see,
The Feather (as it might be me,)

Steps out, sir, from behind the skreen,
With such an air and such a mien-
Look you, old gentlemen,-in short
He quickly spoil'd the statesman's sport.

It proved such sunshine weather
That you must know, at the first beck
The lady leap'd about his neck,

And off they went together.

[ No man who has been satirized by Swift, and praised by Reynolds, could have much chance of being forgotten; but the fame of him who was at once the author of "The Relapse" and "The Provoked Wife," and the architect of Castle Howard and Blenheim, stands independent of even such subsidiaries.-ALLAN CUNNINGHAM'S Lives of British Artists, vol. iv. p. 253.]

FROM "THE MOURNING BRIDE." Almeria meeting her husband Alphonso, whom she had imagined to be dead, now disguised as the captive Osmyn, at the tomb of his father Anselmo.

Enter ALMERIA and LEONORA.

Alm. It was a fancied noise, for all is hush'd.
Leon. It bore the accent of a human voice.
Alm. It was thy fear, or else some transient
wind

Whistling through hollows of this vaulted aisle.
We'll listen-

Leon. Hark!

[dreadful! Alm. No, all is hush'd, and still as death-'tis How reverend is the face of this tall pile, Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, To bear aloft its arch'd and ponderous roof, By its own weight made steadfast and immovable, Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice; Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear Thy voice-my own affrights me with its echoes.* Leon. Let us return; the horror of this place, And silence, will increase your melancholy.

Alm. It may my fears, but cannot add to that. No, I will on; show me Anselmo's tomb, [earth, Lead me o'er bones and skulls, and mouldering Of human bodies; for I'll mix with them, Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corpse, Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride Of Garcia's more detested bed: that thought Exerts my spirits, and my present fears Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then show me, Lead me, for I am bolder grown: lead on Where I may kneel, and pay my vows again, To him, to Heaven, and my Alphonso's soul. Leon. I go; but Heaven can tell with what regret. [Exeunt. Heli. I wander through this maze of monuments,

Enter HELL.

[* This is the passage that Johnson admired so much. "Congreve," he said, "has one finer passage than any that can be found in Shakspeare. What I mean is, that you can show me no passage where there is simply a description of material objects without any intermixture of moral notions, which produced such an effect."-Croker's Boswell, vol. ii. p. 86. "If I were required," he says, in his life of Congreve, "to select from the whole mass of English poetry the most poetical paragraph. I know not what I could prefer to this. He who reads these lines enjoys for a moment the powers of a poet; he feels what he remembers to have felt before; but he feels it with a great increase of sensibility: he recognises a familiar image, but meets it again amplified and expanded, embellished with beauty and enlarged with majesty." Mr. Croker had much improved his edition of Boswell, if he had illustrated Johnson's conversation by his own writings.]

Yet cannot find him-Hark! sure tis the voice Of one complaining-there it sounds! I'll follow it. [Exit.

SCENE II.-Opening, discovers a place of Tombs: one Monu ment, fronting the view, greater than the rest.

Enter ALMERIA and LEONORA.

Leon. Behold the sacred vault, within whose womb,

The poor remains of good Anselmo rest,
Yet fresh and unconsumed by time or worms.
What do I see? Oh, Heaven! either my eyes
Are false, or still the marble door remains
Unclosed; the iron gates, that lead to death
Beneath, are still wide stretch'd upon their hinge,
And staring on us with unfolded leaves! [me;

Alm. Sure 'tis the friendly yawn of death for
And that dumb mouth, significant in show,
Invites me to the bed, where I alone [weary
Shall rest; shows me the grave where nature,
And long oppress'd with woes and bending cares,
May lay the burthen down, and sink in slumbers
Of peace eternal. Death, grim death, will fold
Me in his leaden arms, and press me close
To his cold, clayey breast! My father, then,
Will cease his tyranny; and Garcia, too,
Will fly my pale deformity with loathing.
My soul, enlarged from its vile bonds, will mount,
And range the starry orbs, and milky-ways,
Of that refulgent world, where I shall swim
In liquid light, and float on seas of bliss,
To my Alphonso's soul. Oh, joy too great!
Oh, ecstasy of thought! Help me, Anselmo;
Help me, Alphonso; take me, reach thy hand;
To thee, to thee I call; to thee, Alphonso;
Oh, Alphonso!

OSMYN ascending from the tomb.
Osm. Who calls that wretched thing that was
Alphonso?

Alm. Angels, and all the host of heaven, support me!

Osm. Whence is that voice, whose shrillness,

Is this a father?

Osm. Look on thy Alphonso.

Thy father is not here, my love, nor Garcia:
Nor am I what I seem, but thy Alphonso. [me?
Wilt thou not know me? Hast thou then forgot
Hast thou thy eyes, yet canst not see Alphonso?
Am I so altered, or art thou so changed,
That, seeing my disguise, thou seest not me?

Alm. It is, it is Alphonso! 'tis his face,
His voice I know him now, I know him all.
Oh, take me to thy arms, and bear me hence,
Back to the bottom of the boundless deep,
To seas beneath, where thou so long hast dwelt.
Oh, how hast thou return'd? How hast thou
charm'd

The wildness of the waves and rocks to this; That, thus, relenting, they have given thee back To earth, to light and life, to love and me?

Osm. Oh, I'll not ask, nor answer, how or why
We both have backward trod the paths of fate,
To meet again in life; to know I have thee,
Is knowing more than any circumstance,
Or means, by which I have thee-

To fold thee thus, to press thy balmy lips,
And gaze upon thy eyes, is so much joy,
I have not leisure to reflect or know,
Or trifle time in thinking.

Alm. Stay awhile

Let me look on thee yet a little more.

Osm. What would'st thou thou dost put me from thee.

Alm. Yes

Osm. And why? What dost thou mean? Why

dost thou gaze so?

Alm. I know not; 'tis to see thy face, I thinkIt is too much! too much to bear and live? To see thee thus again in such profusion Of joy, of bliss-I cannot bear-I must Be mad-I cannot be transported thus.

Osm. Thou excellence, thou joy, thou heaven

of love!

Alm. Where hast thou been? and how art thou

alive?

How is all this? All-powerful Heaven, what are we?

Oh, my strain'd heart-let me again behold thee, For I weep to see thee-Art thou not paler? Much, much; how thou art changed!

Osm. Not in my love.

Alm. No, no! thy griefs, I know, have done

this to thee.

Thou hast wept much, Alphonso; and, I fear, Too much, too tenderly, lamented me.

Osm. Wrong not my love, to say too tenderly. No more, my life; talk not of tears or grief; Affliction is no more, now thou art found. Why dost thou weep, and hold thee from my

arms,

My arms which ache to hold thee fast, and grow To thee with twining? Come, come to my heart! Alm. I will, for I should never look enough. They would have married me; but I had sworn To Heaven and thee, and sooner would have

died

Osm. Perfection of all faithfulness and love! Alm. Indeed I would-Nay, I would tell thee

all,

If I could speak; how I have mourn'd and pray'd;
For I have pray'd to thee, as to a saint;
And thou hast heard my prayer; for thou art come
To my distress, to my despair, which Heaven
Could only, by restoring thee, have cured.

Osm. Grant me but life, good Heaven, but length

of days,

To pay some part, some little of this debt,
This countless sum of tenderness and love,
For which I stand engaged to this all-excellence;
Then bear me in a whirlwind to my fate,
Snatch me from life, and cut me short unwarnd:
Then, then 'twill be enough-I shall be old,
I shall have pass'd all æras then

Of yet unmeasured time; when I have made
This exquisite, this most amazing goodness,
Some recompense of love and matchless truth.

Alm. "Tis more than recompense to see thy face.
If Heaven is greater joy, it is no happiness,
For 'tis not to be borne-What shall I say?
I have a thousand things to know and ask,
And speak-That thou art here beyond all hope,
All thought; and all at once thou art before me,
And with such suddenness hast hit my sight,
Is such surprise, such mystery, such ecstasy,
It hurries all my soul, and stuns my sense.
Sure from thy father's tomb thou didst arise?

Osm. I did: and thou, my love, didst call me ;
thou.
[thou alone?
Alm. True; but how camest thou there! Wert
Osm. I was, and lying on my father's lead,
When broken echoes of a distant voice
Disturb'd the sacred silence of the vault,
In murmurs round my head. I rose and listen'd,
And thought I heard thy spirit call Alphonso;
I thought I saw thee too; but, Oh, I thought not
That I indeed should be so blest to see thee-
Alm. But still, how camest thou thither? How
thus?- -Ha?

What's he, who, like thyself, is started here
Ere seen?

Osm. Where? Ha! What do I see, Antonio? I am fortunate indeed-my friend, too, safe!

Heli. Most happily, in finding you thus bless'd.
Alm. More miracles! Antonio escaped!
Osm. And twice escaped; both from the rage
of seas

And war: for in the fight I saw him fall.

Heli. But fell unhurt, a prisoner as yourself, And as yourself made free; hither I came, Impatiently to seek you, where I knew Your grief would lead you to lament Anselmo. Osm. There are no wonders; or else all is wonder. [up,

Heli. I saw you on the ground and raised you When with astonishment I saw Almeria.

Osm. I saw her too, and therefore saw not thee. Alm. Nor I; nor could I, for my eyes were yours.

Osm. What means the bounty of all gracious
Heaven,

That persevering, still, with open hand,
It scatters good, as in a waste of mercy!
Where will this end? But Heaven is infinite
In all, and can continue to bestow,
When scanty number shall be spent in telling.

Leon. Or I am deceived, or I beheld the glimpse
Of two in shining habits cross the aisle;
Who, by their pointing, seem to mark this place.
Alm. Sure I have dreamt, if we must part so

soon.

Osm. I wish at least our parting were a dream, Or we could sleep till we again were met.

Heli. Zara and Selim, sir; I saw and know them:

You must be quick, for love will lend her wings. Alm. What love? Who is she? Why are you alarm'd?

Osm. She's the reverse of thee; she's my unhappiness.

Harbour no thought that may disturb thy peace; But gently take thyself away, lest she

Should come, and see the straining of my eyes To follow thee.

Retire, my love, I'll think how we may meet

To part no more; my friend will tell thee all;
How I escaped, how I am here, and thus;
How I am not called Alphonso, now, but Osmyn;
And he Heli. All, all he will unfold,
Ere next we meet-

Alm. Sure we shall meet again

Osm. We shall; we part not but to meet again. Gladness and warmth of ever-kindling love Dwell with thee, and revive thy heart in absence! [Exeunt ALM. LEON, and HELI. Yet I behold her-yet-and now no more. Turn your lights inward, eyes, and view my thoughts,

So shall you still behold her-'twill not be.
Oh, impotence of sight! Mechanic sense!
Which to exterior objects owest thy faculty,
Not seeing of election, but necessity.
Thus do our eyes, as do all common mirrors,
Successively reflect succeeding images:
Not what they would, but must; a star, or toad;
Just as the hand of chance administers.
Not so the mind, whose undetermined view
Resolves, and to the present adds the past,
Essaying farther to futurity;

But that in vain. I have Almeria here
At once, as I before have seen her often-

SONG.

TELL me no more I am deceived,

That Chloe's false and common;
I always knew (at least believed)
She was a very woman:

As such I liked, as such caress'd;
She still was constant when possess'd,
She could do more for no man.

Bnt, oh! her thoughts on others ran,
And that you think a hard thing;
Perhaps she fancied you the man,

And what care I a farthing?
You think she's false, I'm sure she's kind;
I take her body, you her mind,
Who has the better bargain?

ELIJAH FENTON was obliged to leave the university on account of his non-juring principles, He was for some time secretary to Charles, Earl of Orrery; he afterward taught the grammarschool of Sevenoaks, in Kent; but was induced, by Bolingbroke, to forsake that drudgery for the more unprofitable state of dependence upon a political patron, who, after all, left him disappointed and in debt. Pope recommended him to Craggs as a literary instructor, but the death of that statesman again subverted his hopes of preferment; and he became an auxiliary to Pope in translating the Odyssey, of which his share was the first, fourth, nineteeth, and twentieth books.

The successful appearance of his tragedy of Mariamne on the stage, in 1723, relieved him from his difficulties, and the rest of his life was comfortably spent in the employment of Lady Trumbull, first as tutor to her son, and afterward as auditor of her accounts. His character was that of an amiable but indolent man, who drank, in his great chair, two bottles of port wine a day He published an edition of the poetical works of Milton and of Waller.*

[* Fenton wrote nothing equal to his Ode to the Lord Gower, which is, says Joseph Warton, written in the true spirit of lyric poetry. It has received too the praises of Pope and Akenside, but is better in parts than as a whole.

AN ODE TO THE RIGHT HON. JOHN LORD GOWER.

WRITTEN IN THE SPRING OF 1716.

O'ER winter's long inclement sway,
At length the lusty Spring prevails;
And swift to meet the smiling May,
Is wafted by the western gales.
Around him dance the rosy Hours,
And damasking the ground with flowers,
With ambient sweets perfume the morn;
With shadowy verdure flourish'd high,
A sudden youth the groves enjoy;

Where Philomel laments forlorn.
By her awaked, the woodland choir
To hail the coming god prepares;
And tempts me to resume the lyre,
Soft warbling to the vernal airs.
Yet once more, O ye Muses!* deign
For me, the meanest of your train,

Unblamed t' approach your blest retreat: Where Horace wantons at your spring, And Pindar sweeps a bolder string;

Whose notes th' Aonian hills repeat.

Or if invoked, where Thames's fruitful tides,

Slow through the vale in silver volumes play; Now your own Phoebus o'er the month presides, Gives love the night, and doubly gilds the day; Thither, indulgent to my prayer,

Ye bright, harmonious nymphs, repair
To swell the notes I feebly raise:
So, with aspiring ardours warm'd

May Gower's propitious ear be charm'd
To listen to my lays.

Beneath the Pole on hills of Snow,

Like Thracian Mars, th' undaunted Swede†
To dint of sword defies the foe;

In fight unknowing to recede:
From Volga's banks, th' imperious Czar
Leads forth his furry troops to war;
Fond of the softer southern sky:
The Soldan galls th' Illyrian coast;
But soon the miscreant moony host
Before the Victor-Cross shall fly.
But here, no clarion's shrilling note

The Muse's green retreat can pierce;
The grove, from noisy camps remote,
Is only vocal with my verse:

Here, wing'd with innocence and joy,
Let the soft hours that o'er me fly

Drop freedom, health, and gay desires;
While the bright Seine, t' exalt the soul,
With sparkling plenty crowns the bowl,
And wit and social mirth inspires.
Enamour'd of the Seine, celestial fair,

(The blooming pride of Thetis' azure train,)
Bacchus, to win the nymph who caused his care,
Lash'd his swift tigers to the Celtic plain :
There secret in her sapphire cell,
He with the Nais wont to dwell;
Leaving the nectar'd feasts of Jove:

And where her mazy waters flow
He gave the mantling vine to grow,
A trophy to his love.

Shall man from Nature's sanction stray,
With blind opinion for his guide;
And rebel to her rightful sway,

Leave all her beauties unenjoy'd?

Fool! Time no change of motion knows;
With equal speed the torrent flows,

To sweep Fame, Power, and Wealth away:
The past is all by death possest;
And frugal fate that guards the rest,

By giving, bids him live To-Day.

O Gower! through all the destined space,
What breath the Powers allot to me
Shall sing the virtues of thy race,

United and complete in thee.

O flower of ancient English faith!
Pursue th' unbeaten Patriot-path,

In which confirm'd thy father shone;
The light his fair example gives,
Already from thy dawn receives

A lustre equal to its own.

Honour's bright dome, on lasting columns rear'd,
Nor envy rusts, nor rolling years consume;
Loud Pæans echoing round the roof are heard,
And clouds of incense all the void perfume.
There Phocion, Lælius, Capel, Hyde,
With Falkland seated near his side,

Fix'd by the Muse, the temple grace;
Prophetic of thy happier fame,
She to receive thy radiant name,
Selects a whiter space.

EDWARD (familiarly called Ned) Ward was a low-born, uneducated man, who followed the trade of a publican. He is said, however, to have attracted many eminent persons to his house by his colloquial powers as a landlord, to have had a general acquaintance among authors, and to have been a great retailer of literary anecdotes. those times the tavern was a less discreditable haunt than at present, and his literary acquaintance might probably be extensive. Jacob offended him very much by saying, in his account of the

In

[* Borrow'd from Milton's minor poems, whence, in 1716, ene might steal with safety.] Charles XII.

poets, that he kept a public-house in the city. He publicly contradicted the assertion as a falsehood, stating that his house was not in the city, but in Moorfields. Ten thick volumes attest the industry, or cacoethes, of this facetious publican, who wrote his very will in verse. His favourite measure is the Hudibrastic. His works give a complete picture of the mind of a vulgar but acute cockney. His sentiment is the pleasure of eating and drinking, and his wit and humour are equally gross; but his descriptions are still curious and full of life, and are worth preserving, as delineations of the manners of the times.