fork Tierney would play, and Sir John Newport would do very well for a man of his inches. Then there are the small deer, the animalcules, Creevey, for instance, or Kit Hutchinson, or Lambton, whom Peter, the reviewer, compares for talents to Mr Pitt (upon my honour, I am not humbugging you) in a parallel after the manner of Plutarch, all opening their muzzles, and yelping for their little messes of prog. But they will be disappointed: and, in truth, I pity them; for hunger is a horrible sensation. I am, my Cockneys if you love me. 27th February, 1821. ̧· P. S. This letter is confidential: do not shew it to any body. If you see any one attempting to read it, you ought to give him a salute a la Randal. Before I close my letter, I may ask you, was it a Cockney who wrote for you the Pigeon-shooter's Glee: I suspect it from the rhyme of these lines: No game laws can ever thwart us, VOL. VIII. THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL. What had'st thou done to sink so peacefully to rest? CALMLY he died, the gallant youth, CHILDE HAROLD. When still'd was demon War's commotion, Well for his sake may Friendship weep, Weep that, when battle toils were done, O'er being's western steep! I heard the roll of muffled drum- I saw the sad procession move, With arms reversed, and looks of woe- Prancing along with hoof of pride, Unmounted, led on either side, Behind its ancient master, The gallant war-horse followed; oft When trumpets sung, when cannon roar'd, And smoke-clouds gloom'd aloft. Then slowly, 'mid the new-dug ground, The grave fill'd up-his comrades round 4 Q DEAR SIR, No. V. TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH, Esq. THE works of D. Magnus Ausonius being good in themselves, have, I think, this further merit, that much of them is unlike all other Latin classical poetry. He is one of the most modern of the Roman poets, having flourished during the reign of the Emperor Gratian; and he certainly strikes me as being by far the most modern in his style and turn of sentiment. Claudian, though later, is much more classical in his air. The heavy Pru dentius, too, is more "the antique Roman" than Ausonius, whose verses, for the most part, remind one of Prior, Swift, and the lighter poets of the period between Charles the Second and the accession of the House of Hanover. He deals in those productions, which an ingenious and amiable man strikes off, with little expence of labour, thought, or deep feeling. It would seem, from the first of his Edyllia, that Ausonius was a Trinitarian Christian. He does not shew, however, the slightest intolerance of the fancies of the " elegant mythology of his heathen neighbours," a species of moderation, probably, a little uncommon at that time. It is difficult to give any accurate description of the miscellaneous efforts of his Muse. His Epigrammata remind one sometimes of Martial, sometimes of Catullus, and sometimes of Waller or Prior. A few are whimsically written in alternate lines of Latin and Greek. His Epistles are those of a gentleman who writes with ease," and some of them are of that half-humorous, half-trifling cast, which characterizes the rhyming letters between Swift and Delany. Of his Ephemeris, or the events of a day, the idea is much better than the execution. In short, he seems to have been a good man, of an elegant mind and an excellent disposition, and far fonder of panegyric than satire, as witness his Professores, his Cæsares, his Sapientes, his Parentalia, and his Claræ Urbes, or "Goodly Ci ties," as it might be rendered. Like Horace, he has, with more pleasantry, a vein of good sense and good temper, which will often obtain him readers, when authors of more exalted genius are neglected. His turns of expression are sometimes wonderfully neat and most elegantly pointed. As for the purity of his Latinity, I most willingly leave that to be settled by better judges. I am, &c. T. D. AUSONIUS TO PAULINUS. Epistle xxv. FOUR letters now, my friend, thou hast, Have I deserved, Paulinus, say, This between friends ?-Why, even foes Will say "good morning," or "good night;" As for the groves, they are what folk call, Stamps when he thinks his voice is wanting, Paulinus, you have grown so dumb, Can folks but wonder why 'twas hung? It never was my way, God knows, With "this is so," and "this is not ;" An argument that's grown a wrangle, His affability is small Who never says a word at all, But he who cuts his speeches short, We like him all the better for't; And take my word, Paulinus, would ye, To be a genial fav'rite, study, I do believe the secret lies Midway, between two contraries, 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, 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, To share the joys that spring from sound. |
