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Wrapt in the gloomy ftorm, or rob'd in light,
His weir'd fifter or his fairy fprite;
Boldly o'er-leaping, in the great defign,
The bounds of nature with a guide divine.
Let MILTON's felf, conductor of thy way,
Lead thy congenial fpirit to pourtray,
In colours like his verfe, fublimely strong,
The fcenes that blaze in his immortal fong.
See MICHAEL, drawn by many a skilful hand,
As fuits the leader of the feraph-band!
But oh! how poor the proftrate SATAN lies,
With beftial form debas'd and goatish eyes!
How chang'd from him who leads the dire debate,
Fearless, though fallen, and in ruin great!
Let thy bold pencil more fublimely true,
Prefent his arch-apoftate to our view;
In worthier femblance of infernal pow'r,
And proudly standing like a stately tow'r;
While his infernal mandate bids awake
His legions, flumbering on the burning lake.
Or paint him falling from the realms of bliss,
Hurl'd in combuftion to the deep abyfs!
In light terrific let the flash difplay

His pride ftill proof against Almighty fway :
Tho' vanquish'd yet immortal, let his eye
The lightning's blaze, the thunder's boit defy,
And, ftill with looks of execration, dare
To face the horrors of the last despair.
To these great lords of fancy's wide domain,
That o'er the human foul unqueftion'd reign;
To their fuperior guidance be confign'd

Thy rival pencil and congenial mind!"

Of the Mifcellaneous Pieces, the Ode infcribed to John Howard, Efq. prefents us with thefe exquifite lines in praife of Benevolence:

Sweet is the joy when fcience flings
Her light on philofophic thought;
When genius, with keen ardour, fprings
To clafp the lovely truth he fought:

Sweet

Sweet is the joy when rapture's fire
Flows from the fpirit of the lyre;
When liberty and virtue roll

Spring-tides of fancy o'er the poet's foul,

That waft his flying bark thro' feas above the pole.

Sweet the delight when the gall'd heart
Feels confolation's lenient hand;
Bind up the wound from fortune's dart,
With friendship's life-fupporting band!
And sweeter ftill, and far above
These fainter joys, when purest love
The foul his willing captive keeps!

When he in blifs the melting spirit steeps,

Who drops delicious tears, and wonders that he
weeps!

But not the brightest joy which arts

In floods of mental light beftow;
Nor what friendship's zeal imparts,
Bleft antidote of bittereft woe!
Nor those that love's fweet hours difpenfe,
Can equal the extatic sense,

When, fwelling to a fond excefs,

The grateful praises of reliev'd distress

Re-echoed thro' the heart, the foul of BOUNTY
blefs!

Nor fhall we omit to introduce, in this place, the following little piece, in which there is much playful pleasantry. We muft, however, beg the young reader to recollect, that Mr. Gibbon was the author of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, that the Eagle was borne in the Roman ftandard, and that this noble animal was the bird of Jove.

A CARD OF INVITATION TO MR. GIBBON, AT

BRIGHTHELMSTONE, 1781.

An English fparrow, pert and free,
Who chirps beneath his native tree,

Ee 3

Hearing

Hearing the Roman Eagle's near,
And feeling more refpect than fear;
Thus, with united love and awe,
Invites him to his fhed of straw.
Tho' he's but a twittering fparrow,
The field he hops in rather narrow;
When nobler plumes attract his view,
He ever pays them homage due;
And looks with reverential wonder
On him whofe talons bear the thunder.
* Nor could the jack-daws e'er inveigle
His voice to vilify the eagle;

Tho' iffuing from thofe holy tow'rs,
In which they build their warmest bow'rs;
Their fovereign's haunt they flily fearch,
In hopes to find him on his perch;
(For PINDAR fays, befide his God,
The thunder-bearing bird will nod)
Then peeping round his still retreat,
They pick from underneath his feet
Some molted feather he lets fall,
And swear he cannot fly at all.
Lord of the sky! whofe pounce can tear
Thefe croakers that infeft the air,
Truft him the Sparrow loves to fing
The praife of thy Imperial wing!

He thinks thou'lt deem him on his word
An honeft, tho' familiar bird;
And hopes thou foon wilt condefcend
To look upon thy little friend;

That he may boaft around his grove,
A vifit from the-BIRD OF JOVE."

The Second volume includes his Efay on Hiftory, in Three Epifles to Edward Gibbon, Efq. which was made public in 1780, and met with liberal approbation. HISTORIANS, ancient and modern, are here delineated with a mafterly hand-RAPIN and HUME are thus well described :

Nor

Nor fhalt thou want, RAPIN, thy well-earn'd praise,
The fage POLYBIUS thou, of modern days!
Thy fword, thy pen, have both thy name endear'd,
This join'd our arms, and that our story clear'd:
Thy foreign hand discharg'd the hiftorian's truft,
Unfway'd by party and to freedom juft.

To letter'd fame we own thy just pretence,
From patient labour and from candid fenfe.
Yet public favour, ever hard to fix,

Flew from thy page as heavy and prolix:
For, foon emerging from the fophift's school,
With spirit eager, and with judgment cool;
With fubtle kill to fteal upon applause,
And give falfe vigour to the weaker cause;
To paint a fpecious fcene with nicest art,
Retouch the whole and varnish every part;
Graceful in ftyle, in argument acute,
Matter of every trick in keen difpute!
With these strong powers to form a winning tale,
And hide deceit in moderation's veil;
High on the pinnacle of fashion plac'd,
HUME fhone the idol of hiftoric taste.

Already pierc'd by freedom's fearching rays,
The waxen fabric of his fame decays.

Think not, keen spirit! that these hands presume
To tear each leaf of laurel from thy tomb.
These hands! which, if a heart of human frame
Could ftoop to harbour that ungenerous aim,

Would shield thy grave, and give, with guardian care,
Each type of eloquence to flourish there!

But public love commands the painful task
From the pretended sage to ftrip the mask;
When his false tongue, averse to FREEDOM's cause,
Profanes the fpirit of her ancient laws.

As Afia's foothing opiate drugs by stealth
Shake ev'ry flacken'd nerve, and fap the health;
Thy writings thus, with noxious charms refin'd,
Seeming to foothe its ills, unnerve the mind;
While the keen cunning of thy hand pretends
To ftrike alone at party's abject ends-

Our

Our hearts more free from faction's weeds we feel,
But they have loft the flower of patriot zeal !
Wild as thy feeble metaphyfic page,

Thy hiftory rambles into fceptic rage:
Whofe giddy and fantastic dreams abufe

A HAMPDEN's virtue and a SHAKESPEARE'S mufe."

MR. HAYLEY'S next performance occupying the third volume, is--An Effay on Epic Poetry, in Five Epiftles to the Reverend MR. MASON, where he sketches, in a very pleafing manner, the charms of genuine poetry. We must not trace him through all his meanderings. But we cannot deny a place to his de. lineation of MILTON, our favourite poet :

"Apart, and on a facred hill retir'd,
Beyond all mortal inspiration fir'd,
The mighty MILTON fits-an hoft around
Of lift'ning angels guard the holy ground;
Amaz'd, they fee a human form afpire
To grafp, with daring hand, a feraph's lyre,
Inly irradiate with celeftial beams,

Attempt thofe high, those foul-fubduing themes;
(Which humbler denizens of heaven decline)
And celebrate, with fanctity divine,
The flarry field, from warring angels won,
And God triumphant in his victor fon!
Nor lefs the wonder and the fweet delight,
His milder fcenes and fofter notes excite;
When, at his bidding, Eden's blooming grove
Breathes the rich fweets of innocence and love.
With fuch pure joy as our forefather knew,
When Raphael, heav'nly gueft, first met his view,
And our glad fire, within his blissful bow'r,
Drank the pure converfe of th' ethereal power;
Round the bleft bard his raptur'd audience throng,
And feel their fouls imparadis'd in song !"

The fourth volume of MR. HAYLEY'S Works is entirely filled with notes on the preceding effay. Indeed notes are affixed of confiderable length to each of his Efays, replete with information. They fhew a

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