destitute of any strong or continuous interest. The Rosicrucian machinery of Pope was united to the delineation of human passions and pursuits, and became the auxiliary of wit and satire; but who can sympathise with the loves and metamorphoses of the plants? Darwin had no sentiment or pathos except in very brief episodical passages, and even his eloquent and splendid versification, for want of variety of cadence, becomes monotonous and fatiguing. There is no repose, no cessation from the glare of his bold images, his compound epithets, and high-toned melody. He had attained to rare perfection in the mechanism of poetry, but wanted those impulses of soul and sense, and that guiding taste which were required to give it vitality, and direct it to its true objects.

Invocation to the Goddess of Botany.- From the ‘Botanic Garden.'

“Stay your rude st ps! whose throbbing breasts infold
The legion-fiends of glory and of gold !
Stay, whose false lips seductive siinpers part,
While cunning nestles in the harlot heart!
For you no dryads dress the roseate bower,
For you no nymphs their sparkling vases pour;
Unmarked by you, light graces swim the green,
And hovering Cupids aim their shafts unseen.

But thou whose mind the well-attempered ray
Of taste and virtue lights with purer day;
Whose finer sense with soft vibration owns
With sweet responsive sympathy of tones ;
So the fair flower expands iis lucid form
To ineet the sun, and shuts it to the storm;
For thee my borders nurse the fragrant wreath,
My fountains murmur, and my zephyrs breathe;
Slow slides the painted snail, the gilded fly
Smooths his fine down, to charm thy curious eye;
On twinkling fins my pearly pinions play,
Or win with sinuous train their trackless way;
My plumy pairs in gay embroidery dressed,
Form with ingenious bill the pensile nest,
To love's sweet notes attune the listening dell,
And Echo sounds her soft symphonious she!).

"And if with thee some hapless maid should stray,
Disastrous love companion of her way,
Oh, lead her timid steps to yonder glade,
Whose arching cliffs depending alders shade;
Where, as meek evening wakes her temperate breeze,
And moonbeams glitter through the trembling trees,
The rills that gurgle round shall soothe her ear,
The weeping rocks shall number tear for tear;
There, as sad Philomei, alike forlorn,
Sings to the night from her accustomed thorn ;
While at sweet intervals each falling note
Sighs the gale and whispers round the grot,
The sister woe shall calm her aching breast,
And softer slumbers steal her cares to rest.

Winds of the north ! restrain your icy gales
Nor chill the bosom of these happy vales !
Hence in dark heaps, ye gathering clouds. revolve!
Disperse, ye lightnings, and ye mists, dissolve!

Hither, emerging from yon orient skies,
Botanic goddess, bend thy radiant eyes;
O'er these soft scenes assume thy gentle reign,
Pomona, Ceres, Flora in thy train;
O'er the still dawn thy placid smile effuse,
And with thy silver sandals print the dews;
In noon's bright blaze thy vermeil vest unfold,
And wave thy emerald banner starred with gold.'
Thus spoke the genius as he stept along,
And bade these lawns to peace and truth belong:
Down the steep slopes he led with modest skill
The willing pathway and the truant rill,
Stretched o'er the marshy vale yon willowy mound,
Where shines the lake annid the tufted ground;
Raised the young woodland, smoothed the wavy green,
And gave to beauty all the quiet scene.
She comes! the goddess ! through the whispering air,
Bright as the morn descends her blushing car;
Each circling wheel a wreath of flowers entwines,
And, gemmed with flowers, the silken harness shines;
The golden bits with flowery studs are decked,
And knots of flowers the crimson reins connect.
And now on earth the silver axle rings,
And the shell sinks upon its slender springs;
Light from her airy seat the goddess bounds,
And steps celestial press the pansied grounds.
Fair Spring advancing calls her feathered quire,
And tunes to softer notes her laughing lyre;
Bids her gay hours on purple pinions move,

And arms her zephyrs with the shafts of love.
Destruction of Sennacherib's Army by a Pestilential Wind From the

* Economy of Vegetation.'
From Ashur's vales when proud Sennacherib trod,
Poured his swoln heart, defied the living God,
Urged with incessant shouts his glittering powers,
And Judah shook through all her massy towers;
Round her fad altars press the prostrate crowd,
Hosts beat their breasts, and suppliant chieftains bowed,
Loud shrieks of matrons thrilled the troubled air,
And trembing virgins rent their scattered hair ;
High in the midst the kneeling king adored,
Spread the blaspheming scroll before the Lord,
Raised his pale hands, and breathed his pausing sighs,
And fixed on heaven his dim imploring eyes.
.( mighty God, amidst thy seraph throng
Who sit'st sublime, the judge of right and wrong ;
Thine the wide earth, bright sun, and starry zone,
That twinkling journey round thy golden throne;
Thine is the crystal source of life and light,
And thine the realms of death's eternal night.
O bend thine ear, thy gracious eye incline,
Lo! Ashur's king blasphemes thy holy shrine,
Insults our offerings, and derides our vows.
O strike the diadem from his impious brows,
Tear from his murderous hand the bloody rod,
And teach the trembling nations "Thou art God !”?
Sylphs! in what dread array with pennons broad,
Oriward ye floated o'er the ethereal road;
Called each dank steam the reeking marsh exhales,
Contagious vapours and volcanic gales ;

Gave the soft south with poisonous breath to blow,
And rolled the dreadful whirlwind on the foe!
Hark! o'er the camp the venomed tempest sings.
Man falls on man, on buckler, buckler rings ;
Groan answers groan, to anguish, anguish yields,
And death's loud accents shake the tented fields !
High rears the fiend his grinning jaws, and wide
Spans the pale nations with colossal stride,
Waves his broad falchion with uplifted hand,
And his vast shadow darkens all the land.

Death of Eliza at the Battle of Minden.- From the 'Loves of the Plants.'

Now stood Eliza on the wood-crowned height,
O'er Minden's plain, spectatress of the fight;
Sought with bold eye amid the bloody strife
Her dearer self, the partner of her life;
From hill to hill the rushing host pursued,
And viewed his banner, or believed she viewed.
Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread,
Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led;
And one fair girl amid the loud alarm
Slept on her kerchief, cradled by her arm;
While round her brows bright beams of Honor
And Love's warm eddies circle round her heart.
Near and more near the intrepid beauty pressed,
Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest;
Saw on his helm her virgin hands inwove,
Bright stars of gold, and mystic knots of love;
Heard the exulting shout, They run! they run !'
Great God!' she cried, he's safe! the battle 's won!'
A ball now hisses through the airy tides,
Some fury winged it, and some demon guides -
Parts the fine locks her graceful head that deck,
Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck;
The red stream, issuing from her azure veins,
Dyes her wbite veil, her ivory bosom stains.
. Åh me!' she cried, and sinking on the ground,
Kissed her dear babes, regardless of the wound;
"O cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn!
Wait, gushing life, O wait my love's return !'
Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far !
The angel Pity shuns the walks of war !

O spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age;
On me, on me,' she cried, exhaust your rage!
Then with weak arms her weeping babes caressed,
And, sighing, hid them in her blood-stained vest.

From tent to tent the impatient warrior flies,
Fear in his heart and frenzy in his eyes;.
Eliza's name along the camp he calls,
• Eliza' echoes through the canvas walle;
Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps tread,
O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead,
Vault o'er the plain, and in the tangled wood,
Lo! dead Eliza weitering in her blood!
Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds,
With open arms and sparkling eye he bounds:
• Speak low,' he cries, and gives his little hand,

Mamma's asleep upon the de-cold sand;'
Poor weeping babe, with bloody fingers pressed,
And tried with pouting Lps her milkless breast;

* Alas! we both with cold and hunger quake
Why do you weep ?-Mamma will soon awake.'

She'll wake no more!'the hapless mourner cried,
Upturned his eyes, and clasped his hands and sighed;
Stretched on the ground, a while entranced he lay,
And pressed warm kisses on the lifeless clay ;
And then upsprung with wild convulsive start,
And all the father kindled in his heart;

0 heavens!'he cried, 'my first rash vow forg
These bind to earth, for these I pray to live!
Round his chill babes he wrapped his crimson vest,
And clasped them sobbing to his aching breast.*

Song to May- From the ‘Loves of the Plants.'
Born in yon blaze of orient sky,

Light graces decked in flowery wreaths Sweet May! thy radiant form unfold; And tiptoe joys their hands combine; Unclose thy biue voluptuous eye,

And Love his sweet contagion breathes, And wave thy shadowy locks of gold. And, laughing, dances round thy shrine. For thee the fragrant zephyrs blow, Warm with new life, the glittering throng

For thee descends the sunny shower; On quivering fin and rustling wing, The rills in softer murmurs flow,

Delighted join their votive song, And brighter blossoms gem the bower. And hail thee Goddess of the spring!

Song,to Echo.- From the same. Sweet Echo! sleeps thy vocal shell, Be thine to pour these vales along Where this high arch o'erhangs the dell; Some artless shepherd's evening song; While Tweed, with sun-reflecting streams, While night's sweet bird from yon high Checkers thy rocks with dancing beams. spray

Responsive listens to his lay. Here may no clamours harsh intrude, No brawling hound or clarion rude; And if, like me, some love-lorn maid Here no fell beast of midnight prowl, Should sing her sorrows to thy shade. And teach thy tortured cliffs to howl. Oh! soothe her breast, ye rocks around,

With softest sympathy of sound.

MISS SEWARD. ANNA SEWARD (1747–1809) was the daughter of the Rev. Mr. Seward, canon-residentiary of Lichfield, himself a poet, and one of the editors of Beaumont and Fletcher. This lady was early trained to a taste for poetry, and, before she was nine years of age, she could repeat the first three books of Paradise Lost. Even at this time she . says, she was charmed with the numbers of Milton. Miss Seward wrote several elegiac poems-an Elegy to the Memory of Captain Cook,' a 'Monody on the Death of Major André,' &c.--which, from the popular nature of the subjects, and the animated though inflated style of the composition, enjoyed great celebrity. Darwin complimented her as 'the inventress of epic elegy; and she was known by the name of the Swan of Lichfield. A poetical novel, entitled

'Louisa,' was published by Miss Seward in 1782, and passed through several editions. After bandying compliments with the poets of one generation, Miss Seward engaged Sir Walter Scott in a literary correspondence, and bequeathed to him for publication three volumes of her poetry, which he pronounced execrable. At the same time she left her correspondence to Constable, and that publisher gave to the world six volumes of her letters. Both collections were unsuccessful. The applauses of Miss Seward's early admirers were only calculated to excite ridicule, and the vanity and affectation which were her besetting sins, destroyed equally her poetry and prose. Some of her letters, however, are written with spirit and discrimination.

THE ROLLIAD. A series of political satires, commencing about 1784, and written by a few men of wit and fashion, attracted much attention, and became extensively popular. They appeared first in a London newspaper, the earliest--from which the name of the collection was derived-being a satire on Colonel, afterwards Lord Rolle. The ‘Rolliad '-consisting of pretended criticism on an imaginary epic poemwas followed by · Probationary Odes for the Laureateship,' and `Political Eclogues.' The design of the ‘Probationary Odes' was probably suggested by Pope's ridicule of Cibber; and the death of Whitehead, the poet-laureate, in 1785, was seized upon by the Whig wits as affording an opportunity for satirising some of the political and literary characters of the day, conspicuous as members or súpporters of the government. Pitt, Dundas, Jenkinson (Lord Liverpool), Lord Thurlow, Kenyon, Sir Cecil Wray, Dr. Prettyman (afterwards Bishop of Winchester), and others, were the objects of these humorous sallies and personal invectives; while among literary men, Thomas Warton, Sir John Hawkins, and Macpherson (the translator of ‘Ossian '), were selected for attack. The contributors to this gallery of burlesque portraits and clever caricatures were: 1. DR. LAURENCE (called French Laurence') the friend of Burke, who was the chief editor or director of the satires: he died in 1809. 2. GENERAL RICHARD FITZPATRICK (1747–1813), a brother of the last Earl of Upper Ossory, who was long in parliament, and held successively the offices of Secretary-at-war and Irish Secretary. Fitzpatrick was the intimate friend of Charles James Fox-a fact recorded on his tomb

—and his quatrain on that eminent statesman may be quoted as remarkable for condensed and happy expression:

A patriot's even course he steered,

'Mid faction's wildest storms unmoved; By all who marked his mind revered,

By all who knew his heart beloved. 3. RICHARD TICKELL, the grandson of Addison's friend, and the brother-in-law of Sheridan, besides his contributions to the Rolliad, was author of The Wreath of Fashion' and other poetical pieces,