AMBROSE PHILIPS. [Born, 1671, Died, 1749.] AMBROSE PHILIPS, the pastoral rival of Pope, was educated at Cambridge, and distinguished for many years in London as a member of clubs witty and political, and as a writer for the Whigs. By the influence of that party he was put into the commission of the peace soon after the accession of George I., and, in 1717, was appointed one of the commissioners of the lottery. When his friend Dr. Boulter was appointed primate of Ireland, he accompanied the prelate, received considerable preferments, and was elected member for Armagh in the Irish Commons. He returned to England in the year 1748, and died in the following year, at his lodgings near Vauxhall. The best of his dramatic writings is the Distrest Mother, a translation of Racine's Andromache. His two other tragedies, the Briton, and Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, are not much better than his pastorals. TO THE EARL OF DORSET.† Copenhagen, March 9, 1709. FROM frozen climes, and endless tracts of snow, From streams which northern winds forbid to flow, What present shall the Muse to Dorset bring, Or how, so near the pole, attempt to sing? The hoary winter here conceals from sight All pleasing objects which to verse invite. The hills and dales, and the delightful woods, The flowery plains, and silver-streaming floods, By snow disguised, in bright confusion lie, And with one dazzling waste fatigue the eye. No gentle breathing breeze prepares the spring, No birds within the desert region sing. The ships, unmoved, the boisterous winds defy, While rattling chariots o'er the ocean fly. The vast leviathan wants room to play, And spout his waters in the face of day. The starving wolves along the main sea prowl, And to the moon in icy valleys howl. O'er many a shining league the level main Here spreads itself into a glassy plain: There solid billows of enormous size, Alps of green ice, in wild disorder rise. And yet but lately have I seen, even here, The winter in a lovely dress appear. Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured snow, Or winds begun through hazy skies to blow, At evening a keen eastern breeze arose, And the descending rain unsullied froze. Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew, The ruddy morn dicslosed at once to view The face of nature in a rich disguise, And brighten'd every object to my eyes: For every shrub, and every blade of grass, And every pointed thorn, seemed wrought in glass: In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show, While through the ice the crimson berries glow. The thick-sprung reeds, which watery marshes Seem'd polish'd lances in a hostile field. [yield, [The Freethinker, in which A. Philips wrote, began its career on Monday, March 24, 1718, was published twice a week, and terminated with the 159th paper, Monday. September 28th, 1719. Dr. Drake speaks in praise of its easy and perspicuous diction, and thinks a very inte The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise, When if a sudden gust of wind arise, The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends While here enchanted gardens to him rise, A HYMN TO VENUS. O VENUS, Beauty of the skies, If ever thou hast kindly heard resting selection might be made from it.-Essay on P riodical Papers.] [† The opening of this poem is incomparably fine. The latter part is tedious and trifling.-GOLDSMITH.] Descend, thou bright immortal guest, Thou once didst leave almighty Jove, The birds dismiss'd (while you remain) What frenzy in my bosom raged, Though now he shuns thy longing arms, Though now he freeze, he soon shall burn, Celestial visitant, once more, A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO. BLESS'D as the immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak and sweetly smile. 'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, My bosom glow'd: the subtle flame In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd, ISAAC WATTS. [Born, 1674. Died, 1748.] DR. WATTS's devotional poetry was for the most part intentionally lowered to the understanding of children. If this was a sacrifice of taste, it was at least made to the best of intentions. The sense and sincerity of his prose writings, the excellent method in which he attempted to connect the study of ancient logic with common sense, and the conciliatory manner in which he allures the youthful mind to habits of study and reflection, are probably remembered with gratitude by nine men out of ten, who have had proper books put into their hands at an early period of their education. Of this description was not poor old Percival Stockdale, who in one of his lucubrations gives our author the appellation of "Mother Watts." The nickname would not be worth mentioning if it did not suggest a compassionate reflection on the difference between the useful life and labours of Dr. Watts, and the utterly useless and wasted existence of Percival Stockdale. It might have been happy for the frail intellects of that unfortunate man, if they had been braced and rectified in his youth by such works as Watts's Logic and Improvement of the Mind. The study of them might possibly have saved even him from a life of vanity, vexation, and oblivion.† FEW HAPPY MATCHES. SAY, mighty love, and teach my song, [ Joseph Warton thinks that Addison lent a helping hand to Philips in these translations. He was fond of rendering such assistance, and may have done so; but it is ille to indulge in conjectures and plausible perhapses.] Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains [t Of Watts's poetry one can praise the design but not the execution, though Cowper professed to find excellent poetry in his verse. The author of the Olney Hymns, which are about the level of Watts's, may be pardoned for such natural blindness.] LEONARD WELSTED, a victim of Pope's satire, whose verses did not always deserve it. The palm excels that trembles o'er the brooks, What is 't to us if Clod the self-same day "Tis well, replied the friend; admit it so, [* Welsted's great patron, the Duke of Newcastle.] See Heartgood, how he tugs for empty praise; He's got the vine, yet scrambles for the bays: A friendly neighbour born, his vain desire Prompts him to get a little cubit higher; When all unvex'd, untroubled, he might live, And all that nature ask'd, his farm would give. Colville and Madge one field, one cow possess'd, Had dwelt unanxious many years and blest; A quiet conscience, and their neighbours' praise They held-It was in Friar Bacon's days. No thief alarm'd the lowly cottage roof, And pride and base contention kept aloof. At length the rumour all about was flown They monk had found the philosophic stone. Quoth Colville, be 't-in comfort, peace we live, For his arcanum not a hair I'll give; To me all wealth contentment does impart, I have this chemic secret in my heart. Let Munich bow the haughty Othman crest, All in their order act, and serve the whole, He hangs on Waller,* and the landscape aids, Sees in Bermuda blooming Ida's shades. "Tis said-'tis done-the project quick prevails; He gets the promised freight-he weds-he sails. The storms loud rattle, but on storms he smiles, They will but waft me to Bermuda's isles. At length the port he gains, when all his dreams He vanish'd views, and owns the airy schemes: The orange branch had lost its fragrant load, The cedar waved not, nor the citron blow'd; In Eden's stead he sees a desert stand, For figs and vines a poor unpeopled land; For balmy breezes, and for cloudless skies, He hears around the whistling tempest rise. And is this all? said the good Dean of Down, Is this the end, my hope and labour's crown? Too blest the swain o'er Ormond's flowery dales Who roves at ease, or sleeps in Derry's vales. AMHURST SELDEN. Or the history of this author I am sorry that I can give no account. His poem of Love and Folly was published in April, 1749. It seemed to me to be somewhat better than that which is generally condemned to oblivion. If the extracts should appear to be tedious, the only apology I can offer is, the difficulty of making short specimens of a story at all intelligible. LOVE AND FOLLY. ARRAIGNMENT AND TRIAL OF CUPID. THE gods, in senate to debate, While Heaven's high power sat round the throne, Neptune, the Ocean's awful lord; For Love had broke through all their laws, As vassals, his tyrannic sway; Enslaved, they dragg'd his galling chain, He never gave th' immortals rest, [* Waller's poem on the Summer Islands.] |