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I am, my

fork Tierney would play, and Sir John Cockneys if you love me. Newport would do very well for a man dear Egan, your's, affectionately, of his inches. Then there are the

C. NORTH. small deer, the animalcules, Creevey, 27th February, 1821. for instance, or Kit Hutchinson, or Lambton, whom Peter, the reviewer, P.S. This letter is confidential : do compares for talents to Mr Pitt (upon not shew it to any body. If you see my honour, I am not humbugging any one attempting to read it, you you) in a parallel after the manner of ought to give him a salute a la Randal. Plutarch, all opening their muzzles, Before I close my letter, I may ask you, and yelping for their little messes of was it a Cockney who wrote for you prog. But they will be disappointed: the Pigeon-shooter's Glee: I suspect and, in truth, I pity them; for hunger it from the rhyme of these lines : is a horrible sensation. Adieu, Pierce: rest you merry:

No game laws can ever thwart us, Keep writing books that will stir up No Qui Tams, or Habeas Corpus. the old English spirit-but avoid the


What had'st thou done to sink so peacefully to rest ?


CALMlY he died, the gallant youth,

When still'd was demon War's commotion,
When summer's trees were green, and smooth

The surface of the ocean :
Well for his sake may Friendship weep,

Weep that, when battle toils were done,
When Glory's wreath was bravely won,

Too swiftly should descend his sun,
O'er being's western steep!
I heard the roll of muffled drum

I heard the bugle's lonely wailing
As to the church-yard they were come

With honours nought availing ;
I saw the sad procession move,

With arms reversed, and looks of woe-
The pall, the bearers moving slow-

The sword, and helm with plumes of snow,
The coffin-lid above.

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No. V.


To Christopher North, Esq. DEAR SIR,

shew, however, the slightest intolerThe works of D. Magnus Ausonius ance of the fancies of the “ elegant being good in themselves, have, I think, mythology of his heathen neighbours," this further merit, that much of them a species of moderation, probably, a is unlike all other Latin classical poe- little uncommon at that time. It is try. He is one of the most modern of difficult to give any accurate descripthe Roman poets, having flourished tion of the miscellaneous efforts of his during the reign of the Emperor Gra- Muse. His Epigrammata remind one tian ; and he certainly strikes me as sometimes of Martial, sometimes of being by far the most modern in his Catullus, and sometimes of Waller or style and turn of sentiment. Clau- Prior. A few are whimsically written dian, though later, is much more in alternate lines of Latin and Greek. classical in his air. The heavy Pru. His Epistles are those of a dentius, too, is more “ the antique man who writes with ease," and some Roman” than Ausonius, whose verses, of them are of that half-humorous, for the most part, remind one of Pri- half-trifling cast, which characterizes or, Swift, and the lighter poets of the rhyming letters between Swift and the period between Charles the Se- Delany. Of his Ephemeris, or the cond and the accession of the House events of a day, the idea is much betof Hanover. He deals in those pro- ter than the execution. In short, he ductions, which an ingenious and seems to hạve been a good man, of an amiable man strikes off, with little elegant mind and an excellent disposiexpence of labour, thought, or deep tion, and far fonder of panegyric than feeling. It would seem, from the first satire, as witness his Professores, his of his Edyllia, that Ausonius was a Cæsares, his Sapientes, his Parentalia, Trinitarian Christian. He does not and his Claræ Urbes, or

Goodly Ci

“ gentle

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ties,” as it might be rendered. Like are sometimes wonderfully neat and Horace, he has, with more pleasantry, most elegantly pointed. As for the a vein of good sense and good temper, purity of his Latinity, I most willingwhich will often obtain him readers, Îy leave that to be settled by better when authors of more exalted genius judges. I am, &c. are neglected. His turns of expression

T. D.


Epistle xxv.
Four letters now, my friend, thou hast,
Each more complaining than the last,
And though I lack new phrase to tell
How long I've loved thee, and how well,
And thus, so gently, jog thy sloth,
Still to reply, I find thee loth,
As if thou had'st no time to spend
Upon the letter of a friend.

Have I deserved, Paulinus, say,
This thankless and unkind delay,
Or dost thou curb thy wishes in,
Remorseful for some secret sin,
Determined to continue dumb,
As penance, for a year to come ?

This between friends ?-Why, even foes
Are civil till they get to blows,
And, often ere they come to fight,
Will say "good morning,” or “ good night;"
For why should Mars unfurl his banners
Against well-breeding and good manners ?
Nay, e'en the very stocks and stones,
Paulinus, have respondent tones,
And if you bid a cave good bye,”
A civil echo makes reply.
As for the groves, they are what folk call,
Who like fine words, “ exceeding vocal ;"
Your sea-shore rocks, too, are great gabblers,
And streamlets are notorious babblers.


I've heard a buzzing hold, for hours,
With busy-body bees and flowers,
And Midas, that half-witted Vandal,
Found reeds a good deal prone to scandal ;
As for the wind and pines, they'll sing
And quaver, too, like any thing.
Ay! puzzle some that have reliance
Both on their voices and their science.

Take this, in short, Paulinus, from me,
“ Nature throughout, abhors a dummy.
Beasts, birds, and bats, are proofs of this,
The very serpent has his hiss ;

The proverb

that fish are mute,

But wise philosophers dispute,
And tell you, with a knowing wink,
“ Not so mute, maybe, as you think.”
The hoarse tragedian, if he fears
His bawling may not split your cars,

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It never was my way, God knows,
To like a friend because he'd prose,
Nor do I think it less a curse
Because my friend can prose in verse. :
Write for the prize in pithy brevity, ?f?!?
And, ten to one, but we shall give it you;
E'en try to rival the gruff Spartans
Who play'd so dextrously their part once,
And capp'd a tedious king's long scrawl
With but one letter that was all.
Strive like Pythagoras to teach,
Who never wasted time in speech,
But sent all syllogisms to pot,
With “ this is so," and “ this is not ;"
A golden rule to disentangle
An argument that's grown a wrangle,
A way for all it may not suit
To get the worst in a dispute.

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This joke is founded upon a law of great severity, which the citizens of Amycla passed against propagators of false or unpleasant news.

And that the keystone of the matter,
Is neither to be dumb nor chatter.
'Tis plain (you'll tell me) that I shew
A road I never mean to go ;-
How nearly the extremes will touch
Of saying nothing and too much.
You cannot into speech be wrung,
Nor I compell’d to hold my tongue ;
Yet these varieties, we see,
But serve to pester you and me.

Still,-let no snowy Pyrenees, Paulinus, thus your kindness freeze, Nor all the shades that round you lie Make you forget our friendly sky. Would all the plagues e'er pester'd Spain Might rise and pester her again ; Depend on't I'd feel no objection Should Carthage make a resurrection, And set once more, to rouse your fears, Old Hannibal about your ears Believe me, I should think it glorious To hear that the old rogue Sertorius Again on earth his nose had thrust, Resolved upon another dust.

Your country's honour, and mine own, Prop of the senate and the throne, Shall rocky Calagorris have Or Bilboa—your forgotten grave, Shall parch'd Ilerda refuge give, Whose thirsty river scarce can live? -Your country saw your early rise, And let her close your dying eyes, Nor the hot sands of distant Spain Those honour'd bones, at last, contain. Oh! may he, who could recommend Unsocial' silence to my friend, Ingrate, ne'er have it in his choice, For any good to use his voice; Grant Heav'n he never may be found, To share the joys that spring from sound. For him may poet raise no strainFor him no nightingale complain No groves resound---no breezes sighNo echoes liquidly replyDeserted-poor-may he be placed Upon some lonely, barren, waste, Or 'mid untrodden mountains, where No sound disturbs the savage air, Sad, voiceless may he wander on, As did, of old, Bellerophon.But I have done ;-and now extend Indulgence to thy chyming friend ;And oh ! Paulinus, he would fain That his rough hewn Baotian strain Might have the fortune to recall A real poet to us all.

pro iive Life 2


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