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Full many a peevish, envious, flandering elf,
Is, in his works, Benevolence itlelf.
For all mankind, unknown, his bofom heaves,
He only injures thofe with whom he lives.
Read then the man: Hoes truth his actions guide,
Exempt from petulance, exempt írom pride?
To social duties does his heart attend,
As fin, as father, huiband, brother, friend?
Do those who know him love him? If they do,

You've my permission, you may love him too.
We are sorry to think there is so much reason, as we be-
lieve there is, for entertaining so unfavourable an idea of
the prevailing manners and morals of our Writers by profeffiony
or trade, as Mr. Ralph styles them, in his ingemious Cofe of
Authors; but this certainly is the true idea, that ought to be.
formed of too many of them. It is, however, some con-
solation to the lovers of literature, to reflect, that such
worthless characters are chiefly among the lower classes;
men, whose talents are entirely consonant to their lives,
and whom nature never qualified to do honour to any
profession : and therefore no profession ought to be scan-
dalized on account of the misbehaviour of such unworthy
followers of it. For, after all, these people are not bad men,
because they are Authors, but Authors because they are bad
men.—They look upon Writing to be a fine idle trade ;
easily set up; and when all other schemes have failed, the pen,
is seized, as a safer weapon than a pistol, and less dangerous
to make use of in raising contributions on the public. Hence
our numerous catch-penny productions,—the offsprings of
indigence,-the spawn of profligacy,---or the sweepings of
jails.—But the public seems now to know them pretty well,
and they generally meet with the reception they deserve.

Return we now to Mr. Archdeacon Whitehead's Charge to the Clergy of his poetic diocese. --But on reviewing what we have written, it seems to be enough, in relation to so small a pamphlet. Yet we cannot conclude without remarking, the Author's pleafant manner of mentioning us Reviewers.

Admire true beauties, and flight faults excuse,

Nor learn to dance from Journals * and Reviews. « Learn to DANCE !-What, then, are these learned Re«6 viewers, after all, no better than a society of Dancing

* Mr. Whitehead declares, in a Note, that he does not intend this a Refle@ljon on the Reviewers, &c, and that it is not the Masters but the Scholars, the grazin Gentlemen, at whom the Author smiles.

66 masters?"

« masters ?” Be not deceived, however, courteous Reader; the gentleman means no such thing : it is only an arch allufion to Mr. N. Hart's advertising to teach grown gentlemen to cut capers secundum artem, in the Old Baily. Erratum in the CHARGE. Page 9, 1. 2. for dance read


Epiftle from Lady Jane Grey to Lord Guilford Dudley. 4to.

IS. Dodsley.


HAT species of Poetry which is fometimes mistakenly

called the heroic Epistle, and which might more properly be termed the Love, or the elegiac Epiftle, is capable of great beauty and variety. All the fine sensations of the heart; all that can be collected in the different provinces of hope and fear, of despair and sorrow, the melancholy of the hopeless lover, and the joyous images of successful love: in short, whatever is tender, passionate, pathetic, striking, or graceful, may properly be introduced in this kind of Poetry. The Epiftles of Ovid have a great many beauties of this kind, but they are so obscured and intermixed with affected turns of expression, and little epigrammatic points, that instead of being delighted with the happy fancy of the Poet, you are disgusted with the puerility and affectation of the man. However, when these faults are overlooked, his Epistles have many fine strokes of nature and passion, that never fail to make their way to the heart. Of these we shall quote some passages to illustrate our observations on this species of Poetry, and contrast them by others in Mr. Pope's Epistle from Eloisa to Abelard, which is the finest performance of the kind, and upon the whole infinitely superior to any of the Episties of the Roman Bard.

The plaintive and delicate expostulation of Sappho to Phaon, in the following lines, is a beautiful instance of the true pathetic.

Huc ades, inque finus, formose, relabere noftros:

Non ut ames oro, verum ut amare finas.
Scribimus, et lacrymis oculi sorantur obortis :

Aspice, quam fit in hoc multa litura loco.
Si tam certus eras hinc ire, modertius illes,

Et modo dixisses, Lelbi puella, vale !
Non tecum lacrymas, non oscula summa tulini.


These lines are extremely beautiful, and scarce equalled by the following pathetic Verfes of Elcifa, which she is supposed to have conceived upon reading the letters that Abelard had written to his friend, containing a relation of their misfortunes.

Soon as thy Letters trembling I unclose,
That well-known name awakens all my woes.
O name for ever fad ! for ever dear!
Still breath'd in fighs, kill usher'd with a tear.
I tremble too where'er my own I find,
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Line after line, my gushing eyes o'erflow,
Led thro' a sad variety of woe:
Tears ftill are mine, and those I need not fparë,
Love but demands what else were thed in prayer.
No happier task these faded eyes pursue;

To read and weep is all they have to do.
The Verses that follow are inimitably tender, both in the
Latin and the English Poet.

Invenio Sylvam, quæ sæpe cubilia nobis

Præbuit, et multa texit opaca coma.
At non invenjo Dominum sylvæque, meumque.

Vile fohum locus eft ; dos erat ille loci.
Agnovi pressas noti mihi cespitis herbas ;

De nostro curvum pondere gramen erat.
Incubui, tetigique locum qua parte fuifti :
Grata prius lacrymas combibit herba meas:

Saptbo Plaoni
While proftrate here in humble grief I lie,
Kind virtuous drops just gathering in my eye :
While praying, trembling in the dut I roll,
And dawning Grace is opening on my foul :
Come, if thou dar'd, all charming as thou art!
Oppose thyself to Heaven; dispute my heart;
Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes,
Blot out each bright idea of the skies.

Elifa to Abelard. The transition of passion are not the least beauties of these elegiac Epistles.

No, Ay me, fly me, far as pole from pole;
Rise Alps between us, and whole oceans relf !.
Ah! come not, write not, think not once of me,
Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee.
Thy oaths I quit , thy memory I resign ;
Forget, renounce me, bate whate'er was mine.

El. te Ab.

Rev. March, 1-61.



Efficite ut redeat, &c. to
Ecquid ago precibus ? Pe&tufne agrefte movetur?
An riget? Et Zephyri verba caduca ferunt?

Sappho Phacni. It is not sufficient that this species of Poetry be tender and pathetic ; it must be passionate too.

Tu mihi cura, Phaon; te fomnia nostra reducunt,

Somnia formoso candidiora die,
Illic te invenio, quanquam regionibus absis ;

Sed non longa fatis gaudia fomnus habet.
Sæpe tuos, noftrâ çervice onerare lacertos,

Sæpe tuæ videor supposuisse meos.
Blandior interdum ; verisque fimillima verba,

Eloquor ; et vigilant sensibus ora meis.
Oscula cognosco ; quæ tu committere linguæ,
Aptaque confùeras accipere, apta dare.

Sa. Ph.
O curst, dear horrors of all conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking dæmons all restraint remove,
And stir within me every source of Love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glew my clasping arms:

Elo, io Ab, After these quotations we are afraid the performance before us may appear to disadvantage ; but without confidering it comparatively, let us see whether it be distinguished by the above-mentioned characteristics.

The Author (Mr. Keate) thinks that the story of Lady Jane Grey is a very proper subject for this kind of epistolary Poetry; and in some circumstances, indeéd, it might be so. But, in our opinion, he has “ put the pen into her hands" at an unfavourable time; because, as the was under sentence of death, she had nothing to hope, and consequently her Epiftle, under these circumitances, was not capable of that variety it might otherwise have contained.

He sets out somewhat incorrectly with a confusion of metaphors.

-Suffolk's Daughter finks not with her woe.
Beneath its weight I feel myself resign'd,

Tho' ftrong the Tempeft, ftronger till my Mind. .
Here is a weight of woe, which, in the next line, is a
Tempeft. In the following couplet there is a redundancy. -

Nor in these lines fufpe&t that I complain,
*Tho' Memory loses to tread back Time again.


This Epistle is not destitute of the pathetic, an instance of which is this passage :

Hark! the dread fignal that completes our woes !
Hark! the loud shoutings of our barb'rous foes !
I see the axe réar'd high above thy head.
It falls !and Guiiford's 'number'd with the dead..
Alas ! how ghaltly! every vein streams blood,
And the pale corpse finks in the crimson flood.
Could that sad form be once my soul's delight?
Quick take the mad'ning phantom from my sight.
Hold, hold your hands, ye ministers of fate,
Suspend the blow, left mercy come too late,
Let innocence at last your pity move,

And spare my lord, my hulband, and my love.
The Verses that follow are both tender and passionate.

Ha! meet no more !-How cruel the decree !
Heart-rending sentence! No-it must not be.
Down prison walls ! each obstacle remove,
And let me clasp once more the man I love.
One parting look a wretched wife desires ;

One parting kiss, the seal of death, requires. Her charge to Guilford, not to save his life by renouncing his Religion, is truly noble.

O, then, my Husband, I conjure thee, hear,
If Suffolk's Daughter e'er to thee was dear,
By every wish of Happiness to come,
By every hope beyond the mouldering tomb ;
If anxious that thy better fame shou'd soar,
And shine applauded when the man's no more,
Let not the wily Churchman win thine ear,

Or footh thy weakness by his fraudful care. Page 16. What's in the grave the virtuous have to fear? is very unhappily, if not unjustly expressed; but it may easily be altered. Perhaps it might be better thus :

What from the grave can virtue have to fear? We do not think the third repetition of the word long, at the end of the Poem, a beauty, because it seems too much pointed.

Upon the whole, though many of these Verses are incorrect, some of them enervate, and others unharmonious, the Poem is not without some degree of merit; and if it be the firft publication of a young Author, better things may be expected from him.


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