Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound, For still he drank, and yet he still was dry. And some her frantic deem'd, and some her deem'd a wit. A lady proud she was, of ancient blood, Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low: For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry, Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why. Fast by her side a listless maiden pin'd, With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings; Pale, bloated, cold, she seem'd to hate mankind, Yet lov'd in secret all forbidden things. And here the tertian shakes his chilling wings; The sleepless gout here counts the crowing cocks, A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings; Whilst apoplexy cramm'd intemperance knocks Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox. ISAAC WATTS. BORN 1674.-DIED 1748. DR. WATTS's devotional poetry was for the most part intentionally lowered to the understanding of children. If this was a sacrifice of taste, it was at least made to the best of intentions. The sense and sincerity of his prose writings, the excellent method in which he attempted to connect the study of ancient logic with common sense, and the conciliatory manner in which he allures the youthful mind to habits of study and reflection, are probably remembered with gratitude by nine men out of ten, who have had proper books put into their hands at an early period of their education. Of this description was not poor old Percival Stockdale, who in one of his lucubrations gives our author the appellation of "Mother Watts." The nickname would not be worth mentioning if it did not suggest a compassionate reflection on the difference between the useful life and labours of Dr. Watts, and the utterly useless and wasted existence of Percival Stockdale. It might have been happy for the frail intellects of that unfortunate man, if they had been braced and rectified in his youth by such works as Watts's Logic and Improvement of the Mind. The study of them might possibly have saved even him from a life of vanity, exation, and oblivion. FEW HAPPY MATCHES. SAY, mighty Love, and teach my song, Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands, Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains Not sordid souls of earthly mould So two rich mountains of Peru May rush to wealthy marriage too, Not the mad tribe that hell inspires On Ætna's top let furies wed, And sheets of lightning dress the bed Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms Can mingle hearts and hands: Logs of green wood that quench the coals Are married just like Stoic souls, With osiers for their bands. Not minds of melancholy strain, Nor can the soft enchantments hold Nor let the cruel fetters bind For Love abhors the sight: Two kindest souls alone must meet, Bright Venus on her rolling throne AMBROSE PHILIPS. BORN 1671.-Died 1749. AMBROSE PHILIPS, the pastoral rival of Pope, was educated at Cambridge, and distinguished for many years in London as a member of clubs witty and political, and as a writer for the Whigs'. By the influence of that party he was put into the commission of the peace soon after the accession of George I. and in 1717 was appointed one of the commissioners of the lottery. When his friend Dr. Boulter was appointed primate of Ireland, he accompanied the prelate, received considerable preferments, and was elected member for Armagh in the Irish Commons. He returned to England in the year 1748, and died in the following year, at his lodgings near Vauxhall. The best of his dramatic writings is the Distressed Mother, a translation of Racine's Andromache. His two other tragedies, the Briton and Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, are not much better than his pastorals. 1 The Freethinker, in which A. Philips wrote, began its career on Monday, March 24, 1718, was published twice a week, and terminated with the 159th paper, Monday, September 28, 1719. Dr. Drake speaks in praise of its easy and perspicuous diction, and thinks a very interesting selection might be made from it.Essay on Periodical Papers. |