I felt no hope, I felt no fear,
No love like other men ;

It was enough to see thee near,
And I was happy then.

The dream soon fled, thy marriage broke
The visionary spell;

No tear I shed, no word I spoke,
My secret grief to tell.

I hate the wretch who set the seal
Of death upon thy brow;

I hate the wretch who could not feel
The tears he caus'd to flow.

I saw from that fair cheek, thro' him,
The colour pass away;

I saw that beaming eye grow dim
In slow but sure decay.

Oh! 'tis a sad and fearful thing
To watch the fading flower,
To see it, e'en in youth's first spring,
Grow weaker every hour.

And years have past-and they forget,
Forget that you are gone;

Though time has banish'd their regret,

One breaking heart loves on.

MALEK.

ON AUTHORS.

"Hæc placuit semel, hæc decies repetita placebit."-HOR.

It has been the frequent observation of many wise. and able men, which the experience of all ages tends to confirm, that every man who writes is more or less fired with ambition, and that his object is not so much to

promote the pleasure and instruction of his readers, as to obtain for himself admiration and fame. But it may be, and perhaps is, justly considered, that to please and instruct, is one of the most certain channels to fame, and that it is somewhat unjust to suppose that every man, in sending forth his work into the world, is actuated by selfish motives, and that he does it solely with a view of gratifying his ambition: but where, I would ask, is the author, who has not been secretly incited by a desire to display his abilities, and who, notwithstanding the haughty and ostentatious beginning, the elaborate preface, and well-meaning titles of such as, "A Dissertation upon Moral and Sentimental Philosophy," "Hints on the Practical Parts of Education," &c. &c. has not looked upon his own aggrandizement as an object of more paramount importance than the wish or consideration for the improvement of mankind? I am aware that to prove every author guilty of such ambition would be no easy task, as there are many diurnal writers, who, under fictitious names, send to the press their ephemera of learning, and in this secret manner delight to level their poisonous and calumnious darts against those individuals, who, either by their good fortune, abilities, or perseverance, have obtained an unrivalled pre-eminence, and rendered themselves objects of envy. Yet, it must be confessed, that, to such authors, it is no small gratification to see the objects of their raillery and calumny writhing under the sting they have received from an unknown source, and their reputation blasted without any possibility of reparation. It has, indeed, been generally acknowledged, that to write a work, which may not only captivate for

the moment, or afford a merely temporary pleasure to its readers, but which may be able to undergo the ordeal of investigation, is, perhaps, one of the most difficult undertakings which can be imagined. Arduous, however, as it is, and insuperable as the obstacles may appear which every man must encounter on his road to fame, they have been found insufficient to damp the ardour, or lessen the expectations of an aspiring mind; nor have the innumerable examples of unfortunate authors been more effectual in blackening the prospect, who, sallying forth with self-assumed arrogance, have, after undergoing all the censure of ridicule, been at length compelled to retire into obscurity. Swift computed the authors of London at several thousands, and although common observation may convince us that this cannot be an unreasonable computation, yet it is difficult to imagine what can induce so great a number to trust to the slippery path of fame, many of whose works must necessarily be neglected, whilst the authors themselves live unrewarded, and die unknown. Every man, indeed, thinks his own pretensions to literary honours unquestionable, and himself entitled by merit to every laurel which fame has to bestow; but however gratifying it may be to indulge this "chimerical ambition of immortality," as it is termed by Johnson, it must be acknowledged, that it is of a nature too dangerous to be encouraged, as a too eager desire has often been considered as enthusiasm, and enthusiasm as the effect of inspiration; while the unfortunate individual who has deluded himself with vain hopes, has, on the first disappointment, been reduced to despair.

The comparison made by Horace, of poetry to a picture, will, I think, hold good with regard to every literary composition: there are many works which, though of no intrinsic merit, have, from one or two happy expressions, well adapted to the caprice of the times, caught at the moment the aura popularis, and obtained for the author undeserved rewards.

"Inter quæ verbum emicuit si fortè decorum,

Si versus paulò concinnior unus et alter,
Injustè totum ducit, venditque, poema.”

These, however, as their merit is built on no solid foundation, have never been found able to bear the brunt of critical investigation, but have soon met with the neglect which they deserve, when, after a closer inspection, their faults have been detected, and their follies exposed. If, then, such an unusual share of praise is given to those who least deserve it, what portion of admiration ought we to bestow on those whose works, instead of affording us a temporary pleasure, are a perpetual source of entertainment and instruction; the frequent perusal of which, instead of leading us to detect faults, only compels us to discover new beauties. Perhaps, among the many authors whose works are held up to the admiration of mankind, and whose names shine conspicuously in the annals of the world, I cannot do better than select Homer for example, whose works, as being the first and greatest of the kind, have always been considered as the standard of poetry. I do not here intend to enter into any general dissertation upon the merits or demerits of Homer; such an attempt would be

useless, since his works have so long stood all the brunt of inquiry, and caprice of criticism, and have raised for him a monument which neither time nor envy have been able to destroy. Critics, indeed, content themselves with directing their ingenuity towards the discovery of new beauties, which had hitherto escaped their observation. I think it may be acknowledged, without risking the imputation of any wish to detract from the merits of Homer, that he is, perhaps, indebted to this ingenuity for some beauties he did not intend. If, however, we acknowledge this, it is, perhaps, the part of the candour we owe him, to suppose that some beauties are still unnoticed which he did intend. Many are the verses which, from time to time, have been pointed out to us as peculiarly demanding our admiration, some, as excelling in the perspicuity and beauty of the composition, and others, as enabling the reader, by the rhythm of the line, to form some idea of the action they are intended to record. It is needless to repeat all these verses, and I am sure the reader will excuse me this omission, as I have no doubt that he is acquainted with them. There is one, however, which, though apparently of no great merit, is altogether undeserving of the neglect with which it in general meets. This verse, I allow, does not possess any of the extraordinary qualities of the verses to which I have alluded, nor is it so remarkable for the loftiness of idea, as it is for its simplicity; the reader will probably imagine that I allude to the well-known line