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deficient in ease and distinctness. His chief faults are redundant decoration, and an affectation of false and unnecessary ornament. He is not always contented with that concise and simple language . which is sufficient to express his sentiments, but is tempted to indulge in superfluous diction, by the fascinating charms of novelty and harmony. By giving way to the luxury of words, and immoderate embellishment, he sometimes, though rarely, violates simplicity, and becomes unavoidably inaccurate and redundant. His sentiments, however, are always just, often new, and generally striking. A great degree of elegance and classical simplicity runs through all his compositions; and his descriptions of nature, rural imagery, pictures of private virtue, and pastoral innocence, have a judicious selection of circumstances, a graceful plainness of expression, and a happy mixture of pathos and sentiment, which mark the superior poet. “As an author, he is more esteemed for his poetic than his prosaic productions, though candour must admit the latter possess such a degree of fancy, sentiment, and erudition, as entitles them to a more general approbation than they have hitherto received; for, of the numerous prose works he wrote, none have been in great request since his death, except ‘Solyman and Almena, Theodosius and Constantia, and Plutarch's Lives,' which have gone through several editions.” He wrote a dramatic piece, in 1765, entitled “The Fatal Prophecy;” but in this he was less successful than in any of his other productions. Indeed, it does not appear to be calculated for representation. The private character of Dr. Langhorne, in the several departments of life, was such as to entitle his memory to that respect which society in general must ever retain for an affectionate parent, a disinterested friend, and a benevolent man.

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As duteous to the place of prayer
Within the convent's lonely walls,
The holy sisters still repair,
What time the rosy morning calls:
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So fair, each morn, so full of grace,
Within their little garden reared,

The flower of PHOEBUs turned her face
To meet the Power she loved and feared.

And where, along the rising sky,
Her God in brighter glory burned,

Still there her fond observant eye,
And there her golden breast she turned.

When calling from their weary height
On western waves his beams to rest,

Still there she sought the parting sight,
And there she turned her golden breast.

But soon as night's invidious shade
Afar his lovely looks had borne,

With folded leaves and drooping head,
Full sore she grieved, as one forlorn.

Such duty in a flower displayed
The holy sisters smiled to see,

Forgave the Pagan rites it paid,
And loved its fond idolatry.

But painful still, though meant for kind,
The praise that falls on Envy's ear!
O'er the dim window's arch intwined,

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And “See,” she cried, “that specious flower, “Whose flattering bosom courts the sun, “The pageant of a gilded hour,

“The convent's simple hearts hath won!

“Obsequious meanness! ever prone
“To watch the patron's turning eye;
“No will, no motion of its own!

“'Tis this they love, for this they sigh:

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