The Son of God, th' Eternal King,
That did us all salvation bring,

And freed the soul from danger;

He whom the whole world could not take,
The Word, which Heaven and Earth did make,
Was now laid in a manger.

The Father's wisdom will'd it so,
The Son's obedience knew no no,

Both wills were in one stature ;

But as that Wisdom had decreed,
The Word was now made Flesh indeed,
And took on him our Nature.

What comfort by him do we win,
Who made himself the price of sin,
To make us heirs of glory!
To see this Babe, all innocence,
A Martyr born in our defence;
Can Man forget this story?

PASTORAL POETRY.

(From the "Philosophy of Nature.") THEOCRITUS, the father of pastoral poetry, was born in a country abounding in every species of landscape, and blest with the most fortunate climate for the practice of the poet's precepts. This Poet was as much superior to Virgil in beauty, in originality of thought, as

Virgil is superior to the numerous host of his literal imitators. The "Aminta" of Tasso is the most elegant pastoral drama* in any language, and, with Guarini's "Pastor Fido," and Bonarelli's "Filli de Sciro," was frequently represented by the Italian nobility in gardens and groves, having no other scenery than what the places in which they were represented naturally afforded.

Among the British, pastoral has attained little of excellence, since the days of Spenser, Drayton, and Browne. Affectation has long been substituted for passion, and delicacy and elegance for that exquisite simplicity of language and sentiments, which constitutes the principal charm of this delightful species of poetry. Phillips is but an awkward appropriator of Virgil's imagery, and an unsuccessful

*Surely, Rapin becomes fanciful, when he endeavours to trace the origin of the pastoral drama to the "Cyclops" of Euripides.

When Tasso read "Il Pastor Fido," he exclaimed, "Had Guarini never seen the Amynta,' he had never

excelled it."-A noble instance of modesty and confidence.

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imitator of Spenser's phraseology. As a pastoral, Milton's "Lycidas," notwithstanding the applause which has been heaped upon it, is frigid and pedantic, while his "Epitaphium Damonis," boasting many agreeable passages, merely denotes the elegance of an accomplished scholar. Pope is too refined, his versification is too measured, and his ideas are little more than derivations from the more polished and courtly passages of his Mantuan and Sicilian masters. He addresses the genius of the Thames, rather than of the Avon, and adapts his sentiments more to the meridian of Hagley and Stowe, than to the meadows of Gloucestershire or the Vales of Devon.

The "Gentle Shepherd" of Fletcher, may be placed in competition with its prototype Guarini; and the pastoral songs of Burns, and other Scottish poets, are equal, if not superior, to those of any other age or nation. But of all the writers of pastoral poetry, ancient or modern, none excel, or even equal, the mild, the gentle, the captivating Gessner; whose simplicity and tenderness have power to animate the bosom of age, and to refine the passions of the young.

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Superior to the rural poets of France and Spain, of England, Scotland, and Italy,

"Kind Nature own'd him for her favourite son."

His "Death of Abel," is worthy of the pen of Moses; his "First Navigator" combines all the fancy of the Poet with the primeval simplicity of the Patriarch; and his Idylls are captivating to all but the ignorant, the pedant, and the sensualist.

"Nothing," says a celebrated traveller, delights me so much, as the inside of a Swiss cottage; all those I have visited, convey the liveliest images of cleanliness, ease, and simplicity, and cannot but strongly impress on the observer, a most pleasing conviction of the peasant's happiness." With such models constantly before him, it is no subject for astonishment, that Gessner should be capable of painting such exquisite companion pieces, as his "Idylls" and "Pastorals."-But for a man, bred in the school of dullness, as a country town invariably is, associating with players, and reading, for the principal part of his life, in all the dust and poison of a city, how much is our wonder and ad

miration excited, when we read the delightful delineations of pastoral manners, as they are drawn in several dramas of that grand creator of words, and delineator of passion, Shakspeare. That a master, so skilled in the minute anatomy of the heart, should be capable of divesting himself of all those metropolitan associations, and sound "wood-notes wild," worthy of the reed of Tasso, is, of itself, a singular phenomenon. Who can read the following song without fancying himself surrounded by a group of pastoral innocents, with Perdita singing in the midst of them?

"Come, come, my good shepherds, our flocks we must

shear;

In your holiday suits, with your lasses appear:
The happiest of folks are the guileless and free,
And who are so guileless, and happy, as we?

That giant Ambition we never can dread;
Our roofs are too low for so lofty a head;
Content and sweet cheerfulness open our door,
They smile with the simple, and feed with the poor.

When love has possess'd us, that love we reveal;
Like the flocks that we feed, or the passions we feel
So harmless, so simple, we sport and we play,
And leave to fine folks, to deceive and betray."

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