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A Ballad.-From 'What d' ye Call It ?! 'Twas when the seas were roaring Should you some coast be laid on With hollow blasts of wind,

Where gold and diamonds grow, A damsel lay deploring,

You'd find a richer maiden,
All on a rock reclined.

But none that loves you so.
Wide o'er the foaming billows
She cast a wistful look;

How can they say that nature
Her head was crowned with willows,

Has nothing made in vain; That trembled o'er the brook.

Why, then, beneath the water,

Should hideous rocks remain ? "Twelve months are gone and over, No eyes the rocks discover And nine long tedious days;

That lurk beneath the deep, Why didst thou, venturous lover,

To wreck the wandering lover,
Why didst thou trust the seas ?

And leave the maid to weep.'
Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean,
And let my lover rest:

All melancholy lying,
Ah! what's thy troubled motion

Thus wailed she for her dear; To that within my breast ?

Repaid each blast with sighing,

Each billow with a tear.
The merchant, robbed of pleasure, When o'er the white wave stooping
Sees tempests in despair;

His floating corpse she spied,
But what's the loss of treasure,

Then, like a lily drooping, To losing of my dear?

She bowed her head, and died.

THOMAS TICKELL. The friendship of Addison has shed a reflected light on some of his contemporaries, and it elevated theni, in their own day, to considerable importance. Amongst these was THOMAS TICKELL (16861740), born at Bridekirk, near Carlisle, son of a clergyman, and educated at Queen's College, Oxford. He was a writer in the ‘Spectator' and 'Guardian ;' and when Addison went to Ireland as secretary to Lord Sunderland, Tickell accompanied him, and was employed in public business. He published a translation of the first book of the “Iliad' at the same time with Pope. Addison and the Whigs pronounced it to be the best, while the Tories ranged under the banner of Pope. The circumstance led to a breach of the friendship betwixt Addison and Pope, which was never healed. Addison continued his patronage, and when made Secretary of State in 1717, he appointed his friend under-secretary. He also left him the charge of publishing his works, and on his death-bed recommended him to Secretary Craggs. Tickell prefixed to the collected works of Addison an elegy on his deceased friend, which is justly considered one of the most pathetic and sublime poems in the language. In 1722, Tickell published a poem, chiefly allegorical, entitled Kensington Gardens;' and being in 1724 appointed secretary to the lords-justices of Ireland, he seems to have abandoned the Muses. He died at Bath in 1740, but was buried at Glasneven, near Dublin, where he had long resided. The monumental tablet in Glasneven Church to the memory of Tickell records that bis highest honour was that of having been the friend of Addison. His elegy, and his beautiful ballad of Colin and Lucy,' would have served, however, to per

petuate his name, while even his opponent Pope admitted that he
was an honest man.'
From the Lines 'To the Earl of Warwick, on the Death of Mr.

Can I forget the dismal night that gave
My soul's best part for ever to the grave ?
How silently did his old companions tread,
By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead,
Through breathing statues, then unheeded things,
Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings !
What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire;
The pealing organ, and the pausing choir ;
The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid :
And the last words that dust to dust conveyed !
While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend,
Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend.
Oh, gone for ever! take this long adieu ;
And sleep in peace, next thy loved Montague.
To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine,
A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine;
Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan,
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.
If e'er from me thy loved memorial part,
May shame afflict this alienated heart;
Of thee forgetful if I form a song,
My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue,
My grief be doubled from thy image free,
And mirth a torment, unchastised by thee!

Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,
Sad luxury ! to vulgar minds unknown,
Along the walls where speaking marbles shew
What worthies form the hallowed mould below:
Proud names, who once the reins of empire held;
In arms who triumphed, or in arts excelled ;
Chiefs, graced with scars, and prodigal of blood;
Stern patriots, who for sacred freedom stood;
Just men, by whom impartial laws were given;
And saints who taught and led the way to heaven:
Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest,
Since their foundation came a nobler guest;
Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed
A fairer spirit or more welcome shade.

In what new region, to the just assigned,
What new employments please th' unbodied mind?
A winged virtue, through th' ethereal sky,
From world to world unwearied does he fly?
Or curious trace the long laborious maze
Of heaven's decrees, where wondering angels gaze?
Does he delight to hear bold seraphs tell
How Michael battled, and the dragon fell;
Or, mixed with milder cherubim, to glow
In hymns of love, not ill essayed below ?
Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind,
A task well suited to thy gentle mind?
Oh! if sometimes thy spotless form descend,
To me thy aid, thou guardian genius, lend !
When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms,
When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms,
In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart,


And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart:
Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before,
Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more.

That awful form, which, so the heavens decree,
Must still be loved and still deplored by me,
In nightly visions seldom fails to rise,
Or, roused by fancy, meets my waking eyes.
If business calls, or crowded courts invite,
Th' unblemished statesman seems to strike i
If in the stage I seek to soothe my care,
I meet his soul which breathes in Cato there;
If pensive to the rural shades I rove,
His shape o'ertakes me in the lonely grove;
'Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong,
Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song:
There patient shewed us the wise course to steer,
A candid censor, and a friend severe;
There taught us how to live; and-oh! too high
The price for knowledge-taught us how to die.

Thou hill whose brow the antique structures grace,
Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick's noble race,
Why, once so loved, when'er thy bower appears,
O'er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears?
How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair,
Thy sloping walks, and unpolluted air !
How sweet the glooms beneath thy aged trees,
Thy noontide shadow, and thy evening breeze !
His image thy forsaken bowers restore ;
Thy walks and airy prospects charm no'more;
No more the summer in thy glooms allayed,
Thy evening breezes, and thy noonday shade.

Colin and Lucy.-A Ballad.
Of Leinster, famed for maidens fair, I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Bright Lucy was the grace,

Which says I must not stay;
Nor e'er did Liffey's limpid stream

I see a hand you cannot see,
Reflect so sweet a face ;

Which beckons me away.
Till luckless love and pining care "By a false heart and broken vows
Impaired her rosy hue,

In early youth I die.
Her coral lips and damask cheeks, Was I to blame because his bride
And eyes of glossy blue.

Was thrice as rich as I ?
Oh! have you seen a lily palè

Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows, When beating rains descend ?

Vows due to me alone; So drooped the slow-consuming

Nor thou, fond maid ! receive his kiss Her life now near its end.

Nor think him all thy own.

By Lucy warned, of flattering swains

Take heed, ye easy fair !
Of vengeance due to broken vows,

Ye perjured swains! beware.
Three times all in the dead of night

A bell was heard to ring,
And shrieking, at her window thrice

The raven flapped his wing.
Too well the love-lorn maiden knew

The solemn boding sound,
And thus in dying words bespoke

The virgins weeping round:

"To-morrow in the church to wed,

Impatient both prepare ;
But know, fond maid ! and know, false

,: That Lucy will be there.
*Then bear my corpse, my comrades !

This bridegroom blithe to meet ;
He in his wedding trim so gay,

I in my winding-sheet.'
She spoke ; she died. Her corpse was


The bridegroom blithe to meet

When stretched before her rival's corpse He in his wedding trim so gay,

She saw her husband dead. She in her winding-sheet.

Then to his Lucy's new-made grave Then what were perjured Colin's Conveyed by trembling swains, thoughts?

One mould with her, beneath one sod, How were these nuptials kept ?

For ever he remains.
The bridesmen flocked round Lu
And all the village wept.

Oft at this grave the constant hind

And plighted maid are seen ; Confusion, shame, remorse, despair, With garlands gay and true-love knots At once his bosom swell;

They deck the sacred green.
The damps of death bedewed his brow :
He shook-he groaned-he fell !

But, swain forsworn! whoe'er thou art,

This hallowed spot forbear; From the vain bride-ah! bride no Remember Colin's dreadful fate, more !

And fear to meet him there. The varying crimson fled

Tickell occasionally tried satire, and the following piece shews & stronger and bolder hand than the bulk of his verses. It was written to ridicule the Jacobite Earl of Mar and his rash enterprise in 1715-16 in favour of the Chevalier.


thy high-born "host of

Wall-eyed, bare hand visage blighted. 'n

An Imitation of the Prophecy of NereusFrom Horace, Book üi.

Ode 25. As Mar his round one morning took- In which they daily wont to swagger, Whom some call earl, and some call And oft have sallied out to pillage duke

The hen-roosts of some peaceful village; And his new brethren of the blade,

Or, while their neighbors were asleep. Shivering with fear and frost, surveyed, Have carried off a Lowland sheep. On Perth's bleak hills he chanced to spy What boots thy high-bornhost of An aged wizard six foot high, With bristled hair and visage' blighted, Macleans, Mackenzies, and Macgregors ? Wall-eyed, bare haunched, and second- Inflamed with bagpipe and with brandy, sighted.

In vain thy lads around thee bandy. The grisly sage in thought profound Doth not bold Sutherland the trusty, Beheld the chief with back so round, With heart so true, and voice so rustyThen rolled his eyeballs to and fro

A loyal soul!-thy troops affright O'er his paternal hills of snow,

While hoarsely he demands the fight? And into these tremendous speeches Dost thou not generous Islay dread, Brake forth the prophet without breeches: The bravest hand, the wisest head; Into what ills, betrayed by thee

Undaunted dost thou hear th' alarms This ancient kingdom do I see !

Of hoary Athole sheathed in arms? Her realms unpeopled and forlorn

Douglas, who draws his lineage down Wae's me! that ever thou wert born! From thanes and peers of high renown, Proud English loons-our clans o'er- Fiery and young, and uncontrolled, come

With knights and squires and barons On Scottish pads shall amble home;

boldI see them dressed in bonnet blue

His noble household band--advances The spoils of thy rebellious crew

And on his milk-white courser prances. I see the target cast away,

Thee Forfar to the combat dares, And checkered plaid become their prey- Grown swarthy in Iberian wars, The checkered plaid to make a gown And Monro kindled into rage, For many a lass in London town.

Sourly defies thee to engage; 'In vain the hungry mountaineers He'll rout thy foot, though ne'er so many, Come forth in all their warlike gears And horse to boot-if thou hadst any! The shield, the pistol, dirk, and dagger, “But see, Argyle, with watchful eyes,

Lodged in his deep intrenchments lies;
Couched like a lion in thy way,
He waits to spring upon his prey ;
While, like a herd of timorous deer,
Thy army shakes and pants with fear
Led by their doughty general's skill
From frith to frith, and hill to hill.

• Is this thy baughty promise paid
That to the Chevalier was made,
When thou didst oaths and duty barter
For dukedom, generalship, and garter?
Three moons thy Jamie shall command,

With Highland sceptre in his hand,
Too good for his pretended birth-
Then down shall fall the King of Perth!

"'Tis so decreed, for George shall reign,
And traitors be forsworn in vain.
Heaven shall for ever on him smile,
And bless him still with an Argyle;
While thou, pursued by vengeful foes,
Condemned to barren rocks and snows,
And hindered passing Inverlochy,
Shall burn thy clan, and curse poor


AMBROSE PHILIPS. Among the poets of the day whom Addison's friendship and Pope's enmity raised to temporary importance, was AMBROSE PHILIPS (16711749). He was a native of Shropshire, and educated at St. John's College, Cambridge. He made his appearance as a poet in the same year and in the same volume as Pope—the Pastorals' of Philips being the first poem, and the ‘Pastorals' of Pope, the last in Tonson's Miscellany' for 1709. They had been printed the year previous. Tickell injudiciously praised Philip's Pastorals as the finest in the language, and Pope resented this unjust depreciation of his own poetry by an ironical paper in the ‘Guardian, calculated to make Philips appear ridiculous. Pretending to criticise the rival ‘Pastorals,' and compare them, Pope gives the preference to Philips, but quotes all his worst passages as his best, and places by the side of them his own finest lines, which he says want rusticity and deviate into downright poetry. Philips felt the satire keenly, and even vowed to take personal vengeance on his adversary, by whipping him with a rod, which he hung up for the purpose in Button's Coffee-house. Pope—faithful to the maxim that a man never forgives another whom he has injured-continued to pursue Philips with his hatred and satire to the close of his life. The pastoral poet had the good sense not to enter the lists with his formidable assailant, and his character and talents soon procured bim public employment. In 1715, he was appointed paymaster of the Lottery; he afterwards was selected by Archbishop Boulter, primate of Ireland, as bis secretary, and sat for the county of Armagh in the Irish parliament. In 1734, he was made registrar of the Prerogative Court. From these appointments, Phil. ips was able to purchase an annuity of £400 per annum, with which he hoped, as Johnson says, ' to pass some years of life in England) in plenty and tranquility ; but his hope deceived him; he was struck with a palsy, and died, June 18, 1749. The ‘Pastorals' of Philips are certainly poor productions; but he was an elegant versifier, and Goldsmith has eulogised the opening of his 'Epistle to the Earl of Dorset' as “incomparably fine. A fragment of Sappho, translated by Philips, is a poetical gem so brilliant, that it is thought Addison must have assisted in its composition:

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