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,
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise:
The spreading oak, the beech, and towering pine,
Glazed over, in the freezing ether shine.
The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,
Which wave and glitter in the distant sun.

When if a sudden gust of wind arise,
The brittle forest into atoms flies,

The crackling wood beneath the tempest bends
And in a spangled shower the prospect ends:
Or, if a southern gale the region warm,
And by degrees unbind the wintry charm,
The traveller a miry country sees,
And journeys sad beneath the drooping trees:
Like some deluded peasant, Merlin leads
Through fragrant bowers, and through delicious
meads.

While here enchanted gardens to him rise,
And airy fabrics there attract his eyes,
His wandering feet the magic paths pursue,
And, while he thinks the fair illusion true,
The trackless scenes disperse in fluid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear,
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.

A HYMN TO VENUS.
FROM THE GREEK OF SAPPHO.

O VENUS, Beauty of the skies,
To whom a thousand temples rise,
Gaily false in gentle smiles,
Full of love-perplexing wiles,
O goddess! from my heart remove
The wasting cares and pains of love.

If ever thou hast kindly heard
A song in soft distress preferr'd,
Propitious to my tuneful vow,
O, gentle goddess, hear me now.

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,
In all thy radiant charms confess'd.

Thou once didst leave almighty Jove,
And all the golden roofs above:
The car thy wanton sparrows drew;
Hovering in air they lightly flew;
As to my bower they wing'd their way,
I saw their quivering pinions play.

The birds dismiss'd (while you remain)
Bore back their empty car again :
Then you, with looks divinely mild,
In every heavenly feature smiled,
And ask'd what new complaints I made,
And why I called you to my aid?

What frenzy in my bosom raged,
And by what care to be assuaged?
What gentle youth I would allure,
Whom in my artful toils secure?
Who does thy tender heart subdue,
Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who?

Though now he shuns thy longing arms,
He soon shall court thy slighted charms;
Though now thy offerings he despise,
He soon to thee shall sacrifice;

Though now he freeze, he soon shall burn,
And be thy victim in his turn.

Celestial visitant, once more,
Thy needful presence I implore!
In pity come and ease my grief,
Bring my distemper'd soul relief:
Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires,
And give me all my heart desires.

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,
And raised such tumults in my breast;
For while I gazed, in transport toss'd,
My breath was gone, my voice was lost.

My bosom glow'd: the subtle flame
Ran quickly through my vital frame;
O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung,
My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chill'd,
My blood with gentle horrors thrill'd;
My feeble pulse forgot to play,
I fainted, sunk, and died away.*

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,
To whom thy sweetest joys belong,
And who the happy pairs
Whose yielding hearts and joining hands,
Find blessings twisted with their bands,
To soften all their cares.

[ 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
That thoughtless fly into thy chains,
As custom leads the way;
If there be bliss without design,
Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,
And be as blest as they.

[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.]

The palm excels that trembles o'er the brooks,
The bastard rose not half so gaudy looks,
The myrrh is worth, that scents Arabia's sky,
An hundred gourds, yet rises not so high.
This not disturbs you, nor your bliss alloys,
Then why should fortune's sports and human
toys?

What is 't to us if Clod the self-same day
Trolls in the gilded car and drives the dray?
If Richvil for a Roman patriot pass,
And half the livery vote for Isinglass?
With grateful mind let's use the given hour,
And what's our own enjoy and in our power.
To his great chiefs the conqueror Pyrrhus spoke,
Two moons shall wane, and Greece shall own our
yoke.

"Tis well, replied the friend; admit it so,
What next? Why next to Italy I'll go,

[* 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,
Among my humble teams I'll be as blest;
Let the great Schach o'er trembling Ganges ride,
I'll boast more conquests by my chimney side.
What post you stand in, trust me, my Hephestion,
The part you bear in life is not the question;
But how you act it, how your station grace,
There is the matter; that's the point in case.
All one if peer or pedlar you sustain,
A laurel'd victor be or shepherd swain;
For social weal alike each state was made,
And every calling meant the others' aid;
Together all in mystic numbers roll,

All in their order act, and serve the whole,
Who guard the laws, or bid the orchat bloom,
Who wield the sceptre, and who guide the loom.

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.
Henceforth I'll gratulate my native shore.
In search of bright delusions range no more,
Content to be, to cure this rambling itch,
An humble Bishop, and but barely rich.

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,
And settle high affairs of state,
Where vast Olympus' summits rise,
Descended from the azure skies:
As their great sire and lord revered,
Their cloud-compelling Jove, appear'd;
Calm in his lap the thunders lay,
The symbols of imperial sway,

While Heaven's high power sat round the throne,
And deck'd it like a splendid zone:
There Juno and the Paphian Queen,
The Graces in their train, were seen;
Amidst her father's radiant race,
The chaste Diana took her place;
Without his helmet, sword, or car,
There frown'd the haughty God of War;
There joyous smiled the God of Wine,
With numbers more of birth divine;
Metis, who prudent counsels guides,
And o'er the letter'd world presides;
Themis, who Heaven's dread laws attends,
And Truth's deserted cause defends;
Sage Vesta through the earth renown'd,
And Cybele with turrets crown'd;

Neptune, the Ocean's awful lord;
Pluto, by Hell's dark realms adored;
Pan, to whose altars shepherds bow;
Ceres, inventress of the plough;
And last sat down old gay Silenus,
With Vulcan, spouse and slave to Venus.
Grand was the pomp, for thither all
Attended on the Thunderer's call;
The heavens themselves were in a blaze;
Phœbus was there, bedeck'd with rays,
Yet scarcely, though he look'd so bright,
Was seen 'midst such a flood of light,
Where each with beams celestial shone,
Beyond the splendour of the sun;
Together by great Jove convened,
To hear the God of Love arraign'd.
Solemn the session, high the cause,

For Love had broke through all their laws,
And made the deities obey,

As vassals, his tyrannic sway;

Enslaved, they dragg'd his galling chain,
And mourn'd his power, but mourn'd in vain.
Kindling his flames in every breast,

He never gave th' immortals rest,

[* Waller's poem on the Summer Islands.]