Demoniac phrensy, moping melancholy

And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy
Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence,

Dropsies and asthmas, and joint-racking rheums." I should advise your would-be poets of Truro if they pant after that envied distinction,-immortalization, to have their works splendidly bound in gold and gems, like the gaudy sepulchres of the Jews that contained nothing but rottenness and corruption, and very carefully secured in some great national library, as Julius Cæsar and the old stoic, Brutus, did the productions of their Muse; and for the very same reason,-to preserve them from that oblivion which most inevitably awaits all bad poetry.

But to quit these bardic worthies and their works. I was happy to return to my kind friends at Plymouth, from whence I shall set off to-morrow by the stage once more for the cottage. My good friend, I have hitherto been asleep with regard to literary affairs; and no one, till I came hither, has ever been kind enough to awake me. Why, I have taken a world of useless trouble. I should h..ve gone to London, the mart of literature, got among the booksellers, and sold the copyright of my poem. It seems they often give ample remuneration for the labours of the pen. They

are the real and only effectual patrons of genius. I shall hurry home in high spirits; and as not more than fifty or sixty copies of this edition now remain, I will procure letters of recommendation and hasten to London. A new era dawns upon me. The night of despair gives way to a morning of brightness and prosperity. You will see me soon, when I shall require your opinion of the following lines, as well as a hearty welcome for

Your friend,

SYLVATICUS.

THE PURSUIT OF PHARAOH.

There's darkness on the Erythæan deep,
Where the green waves rush with foamy sweep,
And heavily roll o'er Migdol's shore,
Whose cliffs prolong the lengthened roar.

Hark! the shrill trumpet's warlike wail
Comes from the hills: the glare of mail
Breaks through the gloom: the red torches' flash,
The chariot din, the cymbal clash,
The horseman's clang, the gleaming spear
Proclaim the van of battle near !
Where now is thy mysterious power,
Leader of Israel?"Tis the hour
Of flight, pursuit, revenge, and fear :-
The dreadful host of Egypt's near!

There's no escape!—

-The sea's dark swell

Before thee roars :-behind, the yell
And shout of Misraim's bannered line,
With targe, and lance, and brigandine,
And regal car, and sworded king,
Encircled with a fiery ring

Of warriors, panting for the fight,
With brands unsheathed that shed a light,
A death-gleam o'er the splendid throng,
As vauntingly they pass along;

While their deep march is heard from far,
And clashing shields that threaten war!

The Hebrew leader stretched his rod;
The sea obeyed his god-like nod,
And flung its mountain surges back,
Leaving a deep and oozy track,

A pathway through the foam-curled tide,
That loftily rose on either side,

Amid the gloom of that strange night,
Like walls of brass and towers of might.

On rushed through that dim ocean vale,
With trembling fear and wonder pale,
The Hebrew bands in long array.—
When burst upon their darksome way
A flood of rainbow-coloured light,
Streaming o'er plume and helmet bright,
Banner and pennon, shield and glave,
O'er chief, and serf, and glittering wave!
For now the cloud that led them towers,

Their hindmost guard from hostile powers,
A pyramid of dazzling glory,

The mightest spell in eastern story.
Mid that up-gushing swell of light,
That onward through the darksome night
Its diamond blazing radiance shed,
O'er each fear-hurried pilgrim's head,
Were winged splendours, shapes of heaven,
Girt in the sky-wrought pomps of even ;
While thick their flashing glories shone,
More brilliant than the morning sun!

But on the heathen charioteer,
The prancing steed, the halberdier,
Their pride of war, deep darkness fell;
The wailing horn, the threatening yell
Died into silence: and there came
From the black pillar a fitful flame,
A lurid gleam. Then deep and loud
The thunder-peal broke from that cloud,
While fiery shapes of dreadful mien
Where seen its gloomy skirts between!

The Hebrew tribes have gained the strand,

Their leader stretches forth his hand :
Down fell with sudden rush and roar,
The mountain billows piled on high!

One wild, fierce death-shriek rung along the shore,
And all was still: nor voice, nor cry
Came from that dark and desolate wave,

The heathen warriors' unblest grave!

LETTER LXXXI.

From Mr. Welch to Sylvaticus.

DEAR SIR,

Stonehouse.

I HAVE perused with attention your poem, and cannot but congratulate you on your great success in the most difficult and arduous attempt of human genius. It is an admirable composition; it has many inimitable beauties, and, with a few (to me) apparent faults expunged or corrected, will, in my opinion, rank as one of the first in the English language. The principal faults I allude to, I have already pointed out during some of our conversations on the subject, when you were at Plymouth; I shall therefore now dwell chiefly on its beauties. I assure you it has been read with much pleasure and delight by those friends to whom I have shown it, both here and at Exeter. Your similes are beautiful, apposite, and correct; and your introduction of mythological comparisons I highly approve of, although an objection has been made to it by some of your readers: