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flections, and a style completely adapted to the subject, full, rich, varied, sufficiently harmonious to give a gusto to the finest thoughts, and so musical and dignified as to exalt even commonplace conceptions to the rank of heroic sentiment.

The poem just alluded to was the most popular of the day; and Dr. Johnson informs us, in his Life of Dryden, of the fact obtained on his father's authority, that more copies were sold of it than of any new book except Sacheverell's Trial.

Dryden comprised a school in himself. His imitators were so vastly inferior to him as to have sunk beneath general regard. He is the English Juvenal, (in his satires), as Pope was the English Horace, and exhibits the manly indignation and eloquent invective of the first writer without any of the ease and sprightliness of the second. Saturnine and silent as he has described himself, he could ill let himself down from his position of censor and critic, into the light gaiety of a familiar companion. He is in earnest, and wants humor to trifle with profound meaning like Swift, or Sterne, or Charles Lamb. A sage and serious moralist, he has little or nothing of the wit about him, and in this respect is totally unlike all the later political versifiers in English that we can recollect.

Swift's best satire was directed against pretenders of all sorts, in the Tale of a Tub (a satire on ecclesiastical abuses, in its primary intention,) and in his Gulliver, against government

and politics. His most decidedly political tracts, the Conduct of the Allies, and the Drapier's Letters, we never could relish as we ought, though they both are still highly admired, and at the time of their first publication produced very palpable effects. In the Dean's verse almost every political allusion is handled by way of badinage, and expressive of no decided bias or party feeling. The copy of verses by Swift that contains the nearest approach to poetry, (of which few readers can accuse the witty Dean of Laracor of often committing), and which also conveys an impression of his political preference, is his address

"TO THE EARL OF PETERBOROW,

"Who commanded the British Forces in Spain.

"Mordanto fills the trump of fame, The Christian world his deeds proclaim, And prints are crowded with his name.

"In journeys he outrides the post, Talks politics, and gives the toast; Sits up till midnight with his host,

Flies like a squib from place to place, "Knows every prince in Europe's face, And travels not, but runs a race.

«From Paris, gazette à-la-main, This day arrived, without his train, Mordanto in a week from Spain.

"A messenger comes all a-reek, Mordanto at Madrid to seek ; He left the town above a week.

Duke of Buckingham. But he had been described by Dryden before, in that inimitable picture, which later writers may envy, yet despair of ever equalling :

"In the first rank of these did Zimri stand:
A man so various, that he seem'd to be
Not one, but all mankind's epitome:
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong,
Was everything by starts, and nothing long;
But in the course of one revolving moon
Was chemist, fiddler, statesman and buffoon:
Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking,
Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking.
Blest madman, who could every hour employ,
With something new to wish, or to enjoy!
Railing and praising were his usual themes,
And both, to show his judgment, in extremes.
So over violent, or over civil,

That every man with him was God or Devil.
In squandering wealth was his peculiar art,

Nothing went unrewarded but desert.

Beggar'd by fools, whom still he found too late,

He had his jest, and they had his estate.

He laughed himself from court; then sought relief

By forming parties, but could ne'er be chief;
For spite of him the weight of business fell

On Absalom and wise Achitophel:
Thus wicked but in will, of means bereft,
He left not faction, but of that was left."

:

"Next day the post-boy winds his horn, And rides through Dover in the morn: Mordanto's landed from Leghorn.

"Mordanto gallops on alone; The roads are with his followers strewn; This breaks a girth, and that a bone.

"His body active as his mind, Returning sound in limb and wind, Except some leather lost behind.

"A skeleton in outward figure, His meagre corpse, though full of vigor, Would halt behind him were it bigger.

"So wonderful his expedition, When you have not the least suspicion, He's with you like an apparition. "Shines in all climates like a star, In senates bold, and fierce in war, A land commander and a tar.

"Heroic actions early bred in, Ne'er to be matched in modern reading But by his name-sake Charles of Sweden."

This was that Earl of Peterborough, the friend of Pope, (who left his watch to the poet as a daily remembrancer of him), and associate of the Tory wits, one of the most gallant, accomplished, romantic, and eccentric characters of his time. It was he of whom Spencer relates, that being in the company of Fenelon, with whose sweet, attractive graces he was charmed, the skeptical lord exclaimed, that he was "so delicious a creature, that he must get away from him, else he would convert him."

We committed an error, when we said above, that Dryden's imitators were beneath regard; we forgot Churchill. Churchill is now little better than a name; a past notoriety, a once fashionable satirist. Byron's brilliant lines upon him, have strength ened this general impression (with the majority of readers a true impression), of his present obscurity. But the author of the Rosciad, the first pupil in the school of Dryden, the model of Cowper, the friend of Colman and Lloyd, and Bonnell Thornton, and the staunch associate of the notorious John Wilkes, cannot be so easily forgotten, in a list of the truly classic reputations of English Literature. In Southey's late life of Cowper, we find the most impartial account of Churchill, whose errors, and in some instances, whose vices grew out of imprudence and of a

reckless scorn, induced by the temporary oblivion of the claims of conscience and morality. The comet of a season," the star of Churchill's glory set in melancholy and gloom. At war with the world, he beamed restless and dissatisfied with himself; and this mental anxiety, added to a cutting sense of disgrace and moral desperation, hurried him into the hasty execution of poems, that, polished by study and refined by art, might have stood the test of ages, instead of being thrown as lumber into Time's recepiacle for vigorous curiosities and unfinished poetical studies. Churchill had two qualities which he never lost sight of, nor omitted to exercise, manliness and generosity. He was direct, open, unwavering, and sincere. A hater and severe lasher of hypocrisy, his defects lay rather in an excess of freedom; and though just and generous to an extraordinary degree, he was not always delicate and fastidious enough for the refinement of modern days. Hazlitt has drawn his portrait in a line:"Churchill is a fine, rough satirist; he had wit, eloquence, and honesty." Except his Rosciad, all his satirical poems, and he wrote nothing but satire, are directed to political subjects. The Prophecy of Famine (one of the finest), contains some capital hits at the Scotch; which the author of Table Talk must have relished hugely. He was a firm adherent of Wilkes, and thought him the purest of patriots, as he used to speak of Churchill as the noblest of poets. There was, unquestionably, a strong natural sympa thy between them. Cowper, who is thought to have taken Churchill for his model in moral satire, entertained an equally exalted opinion of the poet's abilities. "It is a great thing," writes the former, “to be indeed a poet, and does not happen to more than one man in a century; but Churchill, the great Churchill, deserves that name." This is a noble eulogium from the puritanical Cowper, of the impetuous Churchill. With anecdotes, both of Churchill's generosity and manliness, we might worthily fill a page or two, but the dark side of the picture we feel no desire to exhibit, and content ourselves with a reference to the work just mentioned. His verse is characterized by spirit, indignant fire, vigorous sense, and a masculine melody peculiar to

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Cheer'd by her promise, we the less deplore

The fatal time when Clive shall be no more."

Pope might have written these lines, and would by no means have disdained the reputation of them. Churchill is in the main just, yet rather hard upon the author of The Mayor of Garratt. His predictions as to Miss Pope were entirely verified. This lady and fine performer, afterwards attracted the regard of the author of Elia, (the most delicate of theatrical critics), who writes of her, in one of his admirable essays, "charming, natural Miss Pope, the perfect gentlewoman, as distinguished from the fine lady of comedy."

gant raillery, is the forte of the first;
as a certain coarse vigor and copious
humor is of the last. We give the
dictum of the finest poetical critic of the
age, on these writers. Of Moore, "he
has wit at will, and of the first quali-
ty. His satirical and burlesque poe-
first-rate.
try is his best-it is
His Two-penny Post-bag is a perfect
nest of spicery;' where the Cay-
enne is not spared. The politician
here sharpens the poet's pen. In this,
too, our bard resembles the bee;
he has its honey and its sting."
much read now as formerly, and least
As this lively jeu-d'esprit is not so
of all amongst us, we have thought
our readers might not be disinclined to
a reference to a few of the cleverest
passages.

Here is a choice morceau from an
imaginary Letter of Y. R., to the
E- of Y- ; written the day
after a dinner, given by the M-
of H-d-t.

"We missed you last night at the 'hoary old sinner's,

Who gave us, as usual, the cream of good dinners ;

His soups scientific-his fishes quite prime

His patés superb-and his cutlets sublime!

In short, 'twas the snug sort of dinner to stir a

Stomachic orgasm in my Lord E-gh,
Who set to, to be sure, with miraculous
force,

And exclaimed, between mouthfuls, A
He-cook, of course!
While you live-(what's there, under that
cover, pray look,)

While you live-(I'll just taste it),-ne'er
keep a she-cook.

"Tis a sound Salic law-(a small bit of that toast),

Which ordains that a female shall ne'er rule the roast;

For cookery 's a secret-(this turtle's uncommon)

Like masonry, never found out by a

woman!"

:

As we descend to our own days, we find the bitter personality of political A certain Countess Dowager, on the satire has left verse, in a great measure, eve of issuing five hundred cards "for for the public speech and the editorials a snug little rout," writes thus to a of the newspaper. Modern satire is lady intimate, in her zeal to catch a gay and trifling, instead of being weigh- Lion for the evening display :ty and severe. Tom Moore and Peter Pindar are the cleverest in their peculiar style, we remember; Moore the parlor wit, and Wolcott, the wit of the alehouse. Genteel badinage and ele

"But in short, my dear, names like
Wintztschitstops hinzoudstroff,
Are the only things now make an ev❜ning
go smooth off-

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"POSTSCRIPT.

(Who, we're sorry to say it, now works for the Row,*)

Having quitted the borders to seek new

renown,

Is coming by long quarto stages, to town; And beginning with Rokeby (the job's sure to pay),

Means to do all the gentlemen's seats on the way.

Now the scheme is (though some of our hackneys can beat him)

To start a fresh Poet through Highgate to meet him,

"By-the-bye, have you found any friend Who, by means of quick proofs—no re

that can construe

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Among other capital things is a Letter of a fashionable publishing house, to an author, enclosing his rejected manuscripts:

"Per Post, Sir, we send your manuscript, -look'd it thro'

Very sorry-but can't undertake-'twould not do.

Clever work, sir! would get up prodigiously well,

Its only defect is-it never would sell! And though statesmen may glory in being unbought,

In an author, we think, sir, that's rather a fault.

Hard times, sir,—most books are too dear

to be read,

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vises-long coaches

May do a few villas, before Sc-tt approaches.

He'll reach without found'ring, at least Indeed, if our Pegasus be not curst shabby, Such, Sir, is our plan-if you're up to the Woburn Abbey. "Tis a match! and we'll put you in trainfreak, ing next week; At present no more-in reply to this let

ter, a

Line will oblige very much

"Yours, et cetera, "Temple of the Muses."

Nothing can surpass, for exquisite pleasantry, sharp satire, and the finest wit, this brilliant gem; unless it be the following letter, which will be relished vastly by those who are familiar with the domestic history of the then Prince Regent, afterwards George IV., with which we must conclude our extracts, though there is more than as much again, of equal lustre.

"EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A POLITICIAN.

“Wednesday.

"Through M-nch-st-r-square took a canter just now

Met the old yellow chariot, and made a low bow,

This I did, of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil,

But got such a look-oh, 'twas black as the devil!

How unlucky!-incog. he was trav'lling about,

And I, like a noodle, must go find him out! Mem.-When next by the old yellow chariot I ride,

To remember there is nothing Princely "Thursday.

inside.

"At levee to-day made another sad blunder

What can be come over me lately, I won

der!

• Paternoster-row.

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"Peter Pindar," says the writer from whom we have already quoted in reference to Moore, "the historian of Sir Joseph Banks and the Emperor of Morocco, of the Pilgrims and the Peas, of the Royal Academy, and of Mr. Whitbread's brewing vat, the bard in whom the nation and the king delighted, is old and blind, but still merry and wise; -remembering how he has made the world laugh in his time, and not repenting of the mirth he has given; with an involuntary smile lighted up at the mad pranks of his Muse, and the lucky bits of his pen-faint picture of those flashes of his spirit, that were wont to set the table in a roar;' like his own Expiring Taper, bright and fitful to the last; tagging a rhyme or conning his own epitaph; and waiting for the last summons, grateful and contented!"

Previous to the period when these authors flourished, and during the era of our great national struggle, appeared our first essays at the union of politics and poetry, chiefly in the form of political satire. Trumbull's Hudibrastic poem is a spirited copy of the admirable original. A Frenchman, of more politeness than critical sagacity, wrote of it as superior (!) to Hudibras: but

such praise was hyper-Hudibrastic in itself. Our epic poet Barlow is said to be the best known abroad (or rather was the best known) of our national bards, a fact that tends to injure the true poetical fame of our genuine sons of song. As a burlesque writer, Barlow deserves considerable praise. Dwight, Humphreys, Hopkins, Freneau, T. Paine, and a few of equal rank and ability, have long since been forgotten. It is a little singular that our earliest writers of verse should have been followers of Pope, and destitute of any spirit of intellectual independence. With Bryant and Dana, true pupils of Wordsworth and nature, commences our poetical history. Bryant is, both in point of time and genius, our first poet, and a devoted advocate of freedom. One of his latest effusions, "The Antiquity of Freedom," is a noble poem, worthy of the author of "The Seasons," and not unworthy of the author of "The Excursion." The spirited ode has been revived by Drake f and Holmes, who have written, perhaps, our two finest national lyrics. The Pindaric odes, by Croaker and Co., are piquant satires, well known to the readers of the Evening Post in the year 1819.

In England we recollect nothing of the Anti-Jacobin wits superior to the Croaker effusions. Canning, the best of the writers, was neat and elegant in his verse as in his oratory, and rarely rose above a classical correctness and gentlemanly smartness.

The last satirical jeu d'esprit in England that time has made classical, (upon which we can at present lay our hands), was a joint production of Coleridge and Southey, that appeared in the Morning Post some years ago. Since that time epigrams and verses numberless have, doubtless, been produced, but nothing comparable to the following, with which we shall bring our rambling lucubrations to a close:

"THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS. "From his brimstone bed, at break of day,

A walking the Devil is gone, To visit his little snug farm of the earth,

And see how his stock went on.

"Over the hill and over the dale, And he went over the plain,

This was written previous to his death. †The American Flag.

The Constitution.

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