was in extensive medical practice, was knighted by King William III. and afterwards made censor of the College of Physicians. In 1695, he published Prince Arthur,' an epic poem, which he says he wrote amidst the duties of his profession, in coffee-houses, or in passing up and down the streets! Dryden, whom he had attacked for licentiousness, satirised him for writing to the rumbling of his chariot-wheels.' Blackmore continued writing, and published a series of epic poems on King Alfred, Queen Elizabeth, the Redeemer, the Creation, &c. All have sunk into oblivion; but Pope has preserved his memory in various satirical allusions. Addison extended his friendship to the Whig poet, whose private character was exemplary and irreproachable. Dr. Johnson included Blackmore in his edition of the poets, but restricted his publication of his works to the poem of 'Creation," which, he said, 'wants neither harmony of numbers, accuracy of thought, nor elegance of diction.' Blackmore died in 1729. The design of 'Creation' was to demonstrate the existence of a Divine Eternal Mind. He recites the proofs of a Deity from natural and physical phenomena, and afterwards reviews the systems of the Epicureans and the Fatalists, concluding with a hymn to the Creator of the world. The piety of Blackmore is everywhere apparent in his writings; but the genius of poetry too often evaporates amidst his commonplace illustrations and prosing declamation. One passage of Creation'-addressed to the disciples of Lucretius-will suffice to show the style of Blackmore, in its more select and improved manner:

The Scheme of Creation.

You ask us why the soil the thistle breeds;

Why its spontaneous birth are thorns and weeds;
Why for the harvest it the harrow needs?

The Author might a nobler world have made,

In brighter dress the hills and vales arrayed,
And all its face in flowery scenes displayed:

The glebe untilled might plenteous crops have borne,
And brought forth spicy groves instead of thorn:
Rich fruit and flowers, without the gardener's pains,

Might every hill have crowned, have honoured all the plains:
This Nature might have boasted, had the Mind

Who formed the spacious universe designed
That man, from labour free, as well as grief,
Should pass in lazy luxury his life.

But He his creature gave a fertile soil,

Fertile, but not without the owner's toil,
That some reward his industry should crown,
And that his food in part might be his own.

But while insulting you arraign the land,
Ask why it wants the plough, or labourer's hand⚫
Kind to the marble rocks, you ne'er complain
That they, without the sculptor's skill and pain,
No perfect statue yield, no basse relieve,
Or finished column for the palace give.
Yet if from the hills unlaboured figures came,
Man might have ease enjoyed, though never fame.
You may the world of more defect upbraid,

That other works by Nature are unmade:
That she did never, at her own expense,
A palace rear, and in magnificence
Out-rival art, to grace the stately rooms;
That she no castle builds, no lofty domes.

Had Nature's hand these various works prepared,
What thoughtful care, what labour had been spared!
But then no realm would one great master shew,
No Phidias Greece, and Rome no Angelo.
With equal reason, too, you might demand
Why boats and ships require the artist's hand;
Why generous Nature did not these provide,
To pass the standing lake, or flowing tide.

You say the hills, which high in air arise,
Harbour in clouds, and mingle with the skies,
That earth's dishonour and encumbering load,
Of many spacious regions man defraud;
For beasts and birds of prey a desolate abode.
But can the objector no convenience find

In mountains, hills, and rocks, which gird and bind
The mighty frame, that else would be disjoined !
Do not those heaps the raging tide restrain,
And for the dome afford the marble vein ?
Do not the rivers from the mountains flow,
And bring down riches to the vale below?
See how the torrent rolls the golden sand
From the high ridges to the flatter land!
The lofty lines abound with endless store
Of mineral treasure and metallic ore.

THOMAS PARNELL.

In the brilliant circle of wits and poets, and a popular author of that period, was THOMAS PARNELL (1679-1718). His father possessed considerable estates in Ireland, but was descended of an English family long settled at Congleton, in Cheshire. The poet was born and educated in Dublin, went into sacred orders, and was appointed Archdeacon of Clogher, to which was afterwards added, through the influence of Swift, the vicarage of Finglass, estimated by Goldsmith (extravagantly) at £400 a year. Parnell, like Swift, disliked Ireland, and seems to have considered his situation there a cheerless and irksome banishment. As permanent residence at their livings was not then insisted upon on the part of the clergy, Parnell lived chiefly in London. He married a young lady of beauty and merit, Miss Anne Minchin, who died a few years after their union. His grief for her loss preyed upon his spirits-which had always been unequal-and hurried him into intemperance. He died at Chester, on his way to Ireland, and was interred there (as the register of Trinity Church states) on the 18th of October, 1718. Parnell was an accomplished scholar and a delightful companion. His Life was written by Goldsmith, who was proud of his distinguished countryman, considering him the last of the great school that had modelled itself upon the ancients. Parnell's works are of a miscellaneous nature-translations, songs, hymns, epistles, &c. His most celebrated piece is The Hermit,' familiar to most readers from their infancy.

Pope pronounced it to be very good;' and its sweetness of diction and picturesque solemnity of style must always please. His 'Nightpiece on Death' was indirectly preferred by Goldsmith to Gray's celebrated Elegy;' but few men of taste or feeling will subscribe to such an opinion. In the 'Night-piece,' Parnell meditates among the tombs. Tired with poring over the pages of schoolmen and sages, he sallies out at midnight to the churchyard.

A Night-piece-The Churchyard.

How deep yon azure dyes the sky!
Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie;
While through their ranks, in silver pride,
The nether crescent seems to glide.
The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds, which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire:
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the silent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass, with melancholy state,
By all the solemn heaps of fate,
And think, as softly sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,

Time was,
like thee, they life possessed,
And time shall be that thou shalt rest.'

The

Those with bending osier bound,
That nameless heave the crumbled
ground,

Quick to the glancing thought disclose
Where toil and poverty repose.

The flat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chisel's slender help to fame-
Which, ere our set of friends decay,
Their frequent steps may wear away-
A middle race of mortals own,
Men half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high,
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie,
Whose pillars swell with sculptured
stones,

Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones;
These all the poor remains of state,
Adorn the rich, or praise the great,
Who, while on earth in fame they live,
Are senseless of the fame they give..
Hermit.

Far in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age a reverend Hermit grew;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well;
Remote from men, with God he passed his days,
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.

A life so sacred, such serene repose,
Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose-
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey;
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway;
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast,
And all the tenor of his soul is lcst.

So, when a smooth expanse receives impressed
Calm nature's image on its watery breast,
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,
And skies beneath with answering colours glow;
But, if a stone the gentle sea divide,

Swift ruffling circles curl on every side,
And glimmering fragments of a broken sun,
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run.
To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight,
To find if books, or swains, report it right-
For yet by swains alone the world he knew,
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly dew-
He quits his cell; the pilgrim-staff he bore,
And fixed the scallop in his hat before;
Then, with the rising sun, a journey went,
Sedate to think, and watching each event.

The morn was wasted in the pathless grass,
And long and lonesome was the wild to pass;
But, when the southern sun had warmed the day,
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way;
His raiment decent, his complexion fair,
And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair;
Then, near approaching, Father, hail!' he cried,
And, Hail, my son!' the reverend sire replied.
Words followed words, from question answer flowed,
And talk of various kind deceived the road:
Till each with other pleased, and loath to part,
While in their age they differ, join in heart.
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound,
Thus useful ivy clasps an elm around.

Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray;
Nature, in silence, bid the world repose,
When, near the road, a stately palace rose.

There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass,
Whose verdure crowned their sloping sides with grass.
It chanced the noble master of the dome

Still made his house the wandering stranger's home;
Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise,
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease.
The pair arrive; the liveried servants wait;
Their lord receives them at the pompous gate;
The table groans with costly piles of food,
And all is more than hospitably good.
Then led to rest, the day's long toii they drown,
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down.
At length 'tis morn, and, at the dawn of day,
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play;
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes creep,
And shake the neighbouring wood to banish sleep.
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call,

An early banquet decked the splendid hall;

Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced,

Which the kind master forced the guests to taste.

Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch they go;
And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe;
His cup was vanished; for in secret guise,

The younger guest purloined the glittering prize.
As one who spies a serpent in his way,
Glistening and basking in the summer ray,
Disordered stops to shun the danger near,

Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear;
So seemed the sire, when, far upon the road,

The shining spoil his wily partner shewed.

He stopped with silence, walked with trembling heart,
And much he wished, but durst not ask to part;
Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard
That generous actions meet a base reward.
While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds,
The changing skies hang out their sable clouds;
A sound in air presaged approaching rain,
And beasts to covert scud across the plain.
Warned by the signs, the wandering pair retreat
To seek for shelter at a neighbouring seat.
"Twas built with turrets, on a rising ground,
And strong, and large, and unimproved around
Its owner's temper, tiraorous and severe,
Unkind and griping, caused a desert there,

As near the miser's heavy door they drew,
Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew;
The nimble lightning, mixed with showers, began,
And o'er their heads loud rolling thunders ran;
Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain,
Driven by the wind, and battered by the rain.
At length some pity warmed the master's breast-
"Twas then his threshold first received a guest-
Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care,
And half he welcomes in the shivering pair;
One frugal fagot lights the naked walls,
And Nature's fervour through their limbs recalls;
Bread of the coarsest sort, with meagre wine-
Each hardly granted-served them both to dine;
And when the tempest first appeared to cease,
A ready warning bid them part in peace.
With still remark, the pondering hermit viewed.
In one so rich, a life so poor and rude;

And why should such-within himself he cried-
Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside?
But what new marks of wonder soon take place
In every settling feature of his face,
When, from his vest, the young companion bore
That cup, the generous landlord owned before,
And paid profusely with the precious bowl,
The stinted kindness of this churlish soul!
But now the clouds in airy tumult fly;
The sun emerging, opes an azure sky;

A fresher green the smelling leaves display,

And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day:

The weather courts them from their poor retreat,

And the glad master bolts the weary gate.

While hence they walk, the pilgrim's bosom wrought
With all the travail of uncertain thought:

His partner's acts without their cause appear;
"Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness here:
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes,
Lost and confounded with the various shows.
Now night's dim shades again involve the sky;
Again the wanderers want a place to lie;
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh.
The soil improved around, the mansion neat,
And neither poorly low, nor idly great;
It seemed to speak its master's turn of mind,
Content, and not for praise, but virtue, kind.
Hither the walkers turn their weary feet,
Then bless the mansion, and the master greet.
Their greeting fair, bestowed with modest guise,
The courteous master hears, and thus replies:

'Without a vain, without a grudging heart,
To him who gives us all, I yield a part;
From Him you come, for Him accept it here,
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer!"
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread,
Then talked of virtue till the time of bed;
When the grave household round his hall repair,
Warned by a bell, and close the hour with prayer.
At length the world, renewed by calm repose,
Was strong for toil; the dappled morn arose;
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept
Near a closed cradle where an infant slept,
And writhed his neck: the landlord's little pride,