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The sportive wile, the blameless jest, And oh! how like a fairy dream

The careless mind's spontaneous flow, To gaze in silence on the tide, Gave to that simple meal a zest

While soft and warın the sunny gleam Which richer tables may not know. Slept on the glassy surface wide! The babe that on the mother's breast And many a thought of fancy bred,

Has toyed and wantoned for a while, Wild, soothing, tender, undefined, And sinking in unconscious rest,

Played lightly round the heart, and shed Looks up to catch a parting smile; Delicious languor o'er the mind. Feels less assured than thou, dear maid, So hours like moments winged their When, ere thy ruby lips could part

flight, As close to mine thy cheek was laid- Till now the boatman on the shore, Thine eyes had opened all thy heart. Impatient of the waning light,

Recalled us by the dashing oar. Then, then I marked the chastened joy

That lightly o'er thy features stole, Well, Anna, many days like this From vows repaid-my sweet employ- I cannot, must not hope to share; From truth, from innocence of soul: For I have found an hour of bliss

Still followed by an age of care,
While every word dropt on my ear

So soft-and yet it seemed to thrill- Yet oft when memory intervenes-
So sweet that 'twas a heaven to hear, But you, dear maid, be happy still,
And e'en thy pause had music still. Nor e'er regret, midst fairer scenes,

The day we passed on Greenwich Hill.


We have alluded to the 'Anti-Jacobin’ weekly paper, of which Mr. Gifford was editor. In this publication, various copies of verses were inserted, chiefly of a satirical nature. The poetry, like the prose, of the 'Anti-Jacobin' was designed to ridicule and discountenance the doctrines of the French Revolution; and as party-spirit ran high, those effusions were marked occasionally by fierce personality and declamatory violence. Others, however, written in travesty, or contempt of the bad taste and affectation of some of the works of the day, contained well-directed and witty satire, aimed by no common hand, and pointed with irresistible keenness. Among those who mixed in this loyal warfare was Mr. J. H. FRERE (noticed in a subsequent section), and GEORGE CANNING (1770-1827), whose fame as an orator and statesman fills so large a space in the modern history of Britain.. Ca was then young and ardent, full of hope and ambition. Without family distinction or influence, he relied on his talents for future advancement; and from interest, no less than feeling and principle, he exerted them in support of the existing admin: istration. Previous to this, he had distinguished himself at Eton School for his classical acquirements and literary talents. To a periodical work, the Microcosm,' he contributed several clever essays. Entering parliament in 1793, he was, in 1796, appointed under-secretary of state, and it was at the close of the following year that the 'Anti-Jacobin' was commenced, Gifford being editor. The contributions of Mr. Canning consist of parodies on Southey and Darwin, the greater part of The Rovers'-a burlesque on the senti.. mental German drama--and 'New Morality,' a spirited and caustic

satire, directed against French principles, and their supporters in England. In this poem of “New Morality "occur four lines often quoted:

Give me the avowed, the erect, the manly foe;
Bold I can meet-perhaps may turn his blow;
But of all plagues, good heaven, thy wrath can send;

Save, save, oh! save me from the candid friend ! As party effusions, these pieces were highly popular and effective ; and that they are still read with pleasure on account of their wit and humour, and also perhaps on account of their slashing and ferocious style, is instanced by the fact, that the ' Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin,' collected and published in a separate form, has attained to a sixth edition. The genius of Canning found afterwards a more appropriate field in parliament. As a statesman, “just alike to freedom and the throne;' though somewhat prone to intrigue, and as an orator, eloquent, witty, and of consummate taste, his reputation is established. He had, however, a strong bias in favour of elegant literature, and would have become no mean poet and author, had he not embarked so early on public life, and been so incessantly occupied with its cares and duties. From a speech delivered at Plymouth in 1823, we extract a short passage containing a fine simile :

Ships of the Line in Port. The resources created by peace are means of war. In cherishing those resources, we but accumulate those means. Our present repose is no more a proof of inability to act, than the state of inertness and inactivity in which I have seen those mighty masses that float in the waters above your town, is a proof they are devoid of strength and incapable of being fitted out for action. You well know, gentlemen, how soon one of those stupendous masses, now reposing on their shadows in perfect stillness-how soon upon any call of patriotism, or of necessity, it would assume the likeness of an animated thing, instinct with life and motion-how soon it would ruffle, as it were, its swelling plumage-how quickly it would put forth all its beauty and its bravery, collect its scattered elements of strength, and awaken its dormant thunder. Such as is one of these magnificent machines when springing from inaction into a display of its might-Such is England herself: while apparently passive and motionless, she silently concentrates the power to be put forth on an adequate occasion. But God forbid that that occasion should arise. After a war sustained for nearly a quarter of a century-sometimes single-handed, and with all Europe arranged at times against her or at her side, England needs a period of tranquillity, and may enjoy it without fear of misconstruction.

The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-grinder. In this piece. Canning ridicules the youthful Jacobin effusions of Southey, in which, he says, it was sedulously inculcated that there was a natural and eternal warfare between the poor and the rich. The Sapphic rhymes of Southey afforded a tempting subject for Indicrous parody, and Canning quotes the following stanza, lest he should be suspected of painting from fancy, and not from life:

Cold was the night-wind : drifting fast the snows fell;
Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked ;
When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey,

Weary and way-sore.'

your little

Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going ?
Rough is your road, your wheel is out of order;
Bleak blows the blast-your hat has got a hole in 't,

So have your breeches !
Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, “ Knives and

Scissors to grind 0!
Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire, or parson of the parish,

Or the attorney?
Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer, made you


All in a lawsuit ?
(Have you not read the Rights of Man. by Tom Paine ?)
Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your

Pitiful story.

Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir;
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were

Torn in a scuffle.
Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-

Stocks for a vagrant.
I should be glad to drink your honour's health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence ;
But for my part, I never love to medále

With politics, sir.
I give thee sixpence! I will see thee d—d first-
Wretch, whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance-
Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,

Spiritless outcast ! [Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican

enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]

Song by Rogero in The Rovers.'
Whene'er with haggard eyes I view

This dungeon that I'm rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,

niversity of Gottingen. [Weeps and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes ; gazing tenderly

at it, he proceeds.]
Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue,

Which once my love sat knotting in

Alas, Matilda then was true!
At least I thought so at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,

niversity of Gottingen.
[At the repetition of this line, Rogero clanks his chains in cadence.]

Barbs! barbs! alas ! how swift you flew

Her neat post-wagon trotting in!
Ye bore Matilda from my view;
Forlorn I languished at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,

niversity of Gottingen.
This faded form! this pallid hue!

This blood my veins is clotting in,
My years are many—they were few
When first I entered at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,

niversity of Gottingen. There first for thee my passion grew.

Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen! Thou wast the daughter of my Tutor, law professor at the U

niversity of Gottingen,

niversity of Gottingen,
Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adien,

That kings and priests are plotting in :
Here doomed to starve on water gru-
el, never shall I see the U-

niversity of Gottingen,

niversity of Gottingen.* [During the last stanza, Rogero dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his pri

son ; and finally so hard as to produce a visible contusion. He then thronos himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops, the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.] The following epitaph on his son who died in 1820, shews that Canning could write in a tender and elegiac as well as satirical strain.

Mr. Canning's Epitaph on his Son.
Though short thy span, God's unimpeached decrees,
Which made that shortened span one long disease,
Yet, merciful in chastening, gave thee scope
For mild redeeming virtues, faith and hope,
Meek resignation, pious charity;
And, since this world was not the world for thee,
Far from thy path removed, with partial care,
Strife, glory, gain, and pleasure's flowery snare;
Bade earth's temptations pass thee harmless by,
And fixed on Heaven thine unreverted eye!
Oh! marked from birth, and nurtured for the skies!
In youth, with more than learning's wisdom wige !
As sainted martyrs, patient to endure !
Simple as unweaned infancy, and pure!

* It is stated by Mr. C. Edmonds, editor of Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin (1854), that the above song having been accidentally seen, previous to its publication, by Mr. Pitt. ho was so amused with it that he took a pen, and composed the last stanza on the spot.

Pure from all stain-save that of human clay,
Which Christ's atoning blood hath washed away!
By mortal sufferings now no more oppressed,
Mount, sinless spirit, to thy destined rest!
While I-reversed our nature's kindlier doom-

Pour forth a father's sorrows on thy tomb. A satirical poem, which attracted much attention in literary circles at the time of its publication, was the 'Pursuits of Literature,' in four parts, the first of which appeared in 1794. Though published anonymously, this work was written by Mr. THOMAS JAMES MATHIAS, a distinguished scholar, who died at Naples in 1835. Mr. Mathias was sometime treasurer of the household to her majesty Queen Charlotte. He took his degree of B.A. in Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1774. Besides the Pursuits of Literature,' Mr. Mathias was author of some ‘Runic Odes, imitated from the Norse Tongue;' The imperial Epistle from Kien Long to George III.' (1794), The Shade of Alexander Pope,' a satirical poem (1798); and various other light evanescent pieces on the topics of the day. Mr. Mathias also wrote some Latin odes, and translated into Italian several Eng

He wrote Italian with elegance and purity, and it has been said that no Englishman, since the days of Milton, has cultivated that language with so much success. The ‘Pursuits of Literature' contains some pointed satire on the author's poetical contemporaries, and is enriched with a vast variety of notes, in which there is a great display of learning. George Steevens said the poem was merely 'a peg to hang the notes on.' The want of true poetical genius to vivify this mass of erudition has been fatal to Mr. Mathias. His works appear to be utterly forgotten.

lish poems.


DR. JOHN WOLCOT (1738-1819) was a coarse but lively satirist, who, under the name of Peter Pindar, published a variety of effusions on the topics and public men of his times, which were eagerly read and widely circulated. Many of them were in ridicule of the reigning sovereign, George III., who was a good subject for the poet; though the latter, as he himself acknowledged, was a bad subject to the king. Wolcot was born at Dodbrooke, a village in Devonshire, in the year 1738. His uncle, a respectable surgeon and apothecary at Fowey, took the charge of his education, intending that he should become his own assistant and successor in business. Wolcot was instructed in medicine, and 'walked the hospitals' in London, after which he proceeded to Jamaica with Sir William Trelawney, governor of that island, who had engaged him as his medical attendant. The social habits of the doctor rendered him a favourite in Jamaica; but his time being only partly employed by his professional avocations, he solicited and obtained from his patron the gift of a living in the church, which happened to be then vacant. The bishop of Lon.

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