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British Race! Well, this is very pitiful, to be fure; but we
thall weep bye and bye,

What Eye can read without a starting Tear,

What Heart refle&t without a pensive Sigh?
On the same story every Marble here

Relates of wretched Man's Mortality.
So the Eye must fhed a starting Tear, and the Heart must
heave a penfrve Sigh at every Stone we come to, because every
Stone we come to tells us, what is very little known, that
we must die. But why should we weep, my good Elegio-
grapher, when in the next Stanzas you tell us, that

Here terminate Ambition's airy schemes,

The Syren Pleasure here allures no more;
Here groy'ling Av'rice drops her golden dreams,

And Life's fantastic trifles all are o'er.
No furious passions here the bosom rend,

Here the true Mourner's poignant Sorrows cease;
Here hopeless Love and cruel Hatred end,

And the world-weary Trav'ller rests in peace.
All the rest of the Poem is employed to tell us, what has a
thousand and a thoufand times been told, that neither Fame,
Honour, Virtue, Genius, 'Wit, Birth, Beauty, nor, in short,
'any thing else can avert the stroke of that pale tyrant, Death,
and that therefore we ought to provide for another state of

Take warning from this, all ye that design to publish your
late or future excursions to Parnassus, that something more is
necessary to poetical Excellence than common-place thoughts
and smooth numbers, and that he who can neither strike out
any thing new, nor recommend a known sentiment by the
elegance or novelty of its dress, had better sleep than write.


The Nunnery. An Elegy, in Imitation of the Elegy in a Church

Yard. 4to. 6 d. Dodfey.

HAT, another Elegiac Bard !--Well, this per

formance, however, must be allowed to be a good Parody, whatever may be thought of it as a Poem. Every stanza, nay almost every line, echoes its correspondent line in Mr. Gray's Elegy. Where the Parody, as in the'following stanza, is so very close, it is not unentertaining.


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Within those antient Walls, by moss o'erspread,

Where the relenting Sinner learns to weep,
Each in her narrow bed, till mid-night laid,

The gentle Daughters of Devotion feep. The description of the monastic Life of the Nuns is poetica! and harmonious.

Far from the Bustle of the splendid Throng,

They tread Obscurity's sequester'd Vale,
Where the white hours glide filently along,
Smooth as the fiream,

when sleeps the breezy gale.
Yet tho' they're sprinkled with ethereal dew,

With blooming wreaths by hands of Seraphs crown'd;
Tho' Heaven's eternal fplendors burst to view,

And harps celestial to their ear resound;
Still grateful Memory paints the absent Friend,

Not even the World to their Remembrance dies ;
Their midnight Orisons to Heaven ascend,

To stop the Bolt descending from the Skies.
For who, entranc'd in Visions from above,

The thought of Kindred razes from the mind ?
Feels in the Soul no warm-returning Love

For some endear'd Companion left behind?
From Friendship's breaft reluctant they withdrew,

And with a figh forsook their native air :
To their fond Parents, when they bade, adieu,

Gulh'd from their eye the tender filial tear.
And in another place,

Th' endearing scenes of Life they all forego,

Even Hymen's Torch for them must never blaze,
The Husband's fond Embrace they ne'er shall know,

Nor view their Image in their Children's Face.
The glistening eye, the half-feen breast of snow,

The coral lip, the clear vermillion bloom,
Await alike th' inexorable Foe,

The Paths of Pleasure lead but to the Tomb.
These Stanzas are not only remarkable for their close Imi-
tation of the Elegy in the Church-Yard, but have also
I much merit of their own. It muft be observed, nevertheless,

that the Piece is unequal, some of the Verses being feeble, and others quaint and inelegant. "The concluding Letter, in particular, is so much inferior to the rest of the Performance, that one would not imagine it to have been written by the same Author



A a 4

Piems on several Occasions. By David Mallet, Esq; 8vo. 25,


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EFORE we enter upon a Review of these Poems, wę,

must take the liberty to animadvert on those arts of Publication, which have often been practised, to the prejudice pf Literature, the abufe of the Public, and the disgrace of Individuals. As soon as a fet of Pamphlets have had their day, nothing is more usual than to re-publish them, together with a new piece or two, to give the 'Book some little air of originality, under the title of Poems, or Essays, on several occasions; and if the title induces you to purchase, you have the mortification to find that you have been paying your money over again, for what you had already bought.

Were such Collections only to be bought up by persons of opulent fortunes, who could afford to pay as dear for their literary entertainment as they do for their other pleasures, these money-making schemes might admit of some excuse. But the case is far otherwise ; for as all perfons of distinction are not persons of taste, so neither are all men of taste men of fortune. It is therefore our duty, as Reviewers, to expose every imposition of this kind, to prevent the complaints of the Public, and to defend the interests of Learning:

The Collection çf Poems before us consists only of eighty Pages, near hfty of which are taken up with pieces that have been already published, viz. Tyburn to the Marine Society, for an account of which see Review, Vol. XX. p. 474; Edwin and Emma, Vol. XXII. p. 514; Truth in Rbyme; Vol. XXV, p. 79;

We cannot but observe the following extraordinary in-
stance of vanity, in the Imprimatur prefixed to Truth in Rhyme :

“ It has no Faults, or I no Faults can spy;
“ It is all Beauty, or all Blindness I."

Imprimatur, meo periculo CHESTERFIELD.
If this noble Lord, fo justly celebrated for the elegance of
his taste and wit, ftill retained so much of the Courtier, as to
give such a testimony to Mr. Mallet's Poem as no Poem ever
deferved, surely a modest man would rather have fupprefled
than produced it, or would not, at least, have been so far
tranfported by it as publickly to triumph in so 'extravagant a
compliment, even admitting that, with respect to his Lord-
Ain, the compliment was fincere ; which some may possibly


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question. Others perhaps may suspect that the humorous transcriber of this couplet intended to try how far such high praise of Mr. M--'s offspring would work upon the fond affections of a parent; and without doubt he was not a little entertained when he beheld his name, like that of old Pontificalibus, pompously posted under an IMPRIMATUR.

The first original piece that appears in this Volume is The Discovery: upon reading, some Verses, written by a young Lady at a boarding-fchool, September, 1760.

Apollo lately sent to kņow,
If he had any Sons below ;
For, by the Traih he long has seen
In Male and Female Magazine,
A hundred quires not worth a groat,

The Race must be extinct, he thought.
His Messenger goes to enquire at Court, but there, alas !

Auguftus knit his Royal brow,

And bade him let Apollo know it,
That from his infancy till now,

He lov'd nor Poetry nor Poet. His next adventure was in the Park, where he hears nothing but the language of gaming. The stage he finds possessed by mere Durfeys.

Slow to the City last he went,
There all was Profe of Cent per Cent.
There Alley-omnium, Scrip, and Bonus,
(Latin for which a Mufe would stone us,
Yet honeft Gideon's classic style)

Made our poor Nuncio stare and smile. It was now eleven o'clock, and the Messenger was just about to return, when he accidentally spies a young Lady writing, at a boarding-school in Queen's Square.' Our arch Mercury steals her Paper, and conveys it to Apollo, who gives it his Imprimatur, and so ends the ditty

This Poem is followed by an Epigram, written at Tunbridge Wells; which, as it terminates with a beautiful compliment to a much-injured Lady, we shall make more public by quoting it.

When CHURCHILL led his Legions on,
Success still follow'd where he thone.
And are those triumphs with the dead,
All from his house for ever fled ?
* His la:e M-


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Not fo: by softer, furer arms,
They yet furvive in Beauty's charms;
For, look on blooming PEMBROKE's face,

Even now he triumphs in his Race. Zephyr, or the Stratagem, is a licentious Tale, told with ease and humour. The subject of it is a young Lady's being surprized on horse-back, by a violent storm of wind and rain from the SOUTH-WEST, which made her dismount somewhat precipitately. There is some wit and spirit in this Tale, but it is unfit for a modest ear,

But the Poem which does the Author the greatest honour of in this little Collection, and which still keeps up his claim to that reputation he has already acquired in the poetical world, is that on the Death of Lady Anson, addressed to her Father. As it is but short, we shall give it our Readers, as well for their entertainment, as to confirm their good opinion of Mr. Mallet's poetical abilities,

O crown'd with Honour, bleft with length of days,
Thou, whom the Wise revere, the Worthy praise,
Just Guardian of those Laws thy voice explainid,
And meriting all Titles thou hast gain'd.
Tho' ftill the faireft from Heaven's bounty flow,
For good and great no Monarch can bestow :
Yet thus, of Health, of Fame, of Friends poffeft,
No Fortune, HARDWICKE, is fincerely blest.
All Human-kind are fons of Sorrow born:
The Great must fuffer, and the Good must mourn.

For say, can Wisdom's Self, what late was thine,
Can Fortitude, without a figh refign?
Ah, no! when Love, when Reofon, hand in hand,
O'er the cold Urn consenting Mourners ftand,
The firmelt heart diffolves to softness here;
And Piety applauds the falling tear.
Those sacred drops, by virtuous weakness shed,
Adorn the Living, while they grace the Dead.
From tender thought their source unblam'd they draw.
By Heaven approv'd, and true to Nature's Law.

When his lov'd Child the Roman * cou'd not fave,
Immortal Tully! from an early Grave;
No common forms his home-felt passion kept,
The Sage, the Patriot, in the Parent, wept.
And O, by Grief allied, as join'd in Fame,
The same thy loss, thy forrows are the same.

• Tullia died about the age of two and thirty. She is celebrated for her filial Piety, and for having added to the usual graces of her fex, the more folid accomplishments of Knowlege and polite Letters.


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