Hence oft from reason heedless Beauty strays, And the most trusted guide the most betrays: Hence, by fond dreams of fancied power amus'd, When most ye tyrannize you're most abus'd.

*

*

Seek to be good, but aim not to be great; A woman's noblest station is retreat; Her fairest virtues fly from public sight, Domestic worth, that shuns too strong a light. To rougher man, ambition's task resign; 'Tis ours in senates or in courts to shine, To labour for a sunk corrupted state, Or dare the rage of envy, and be great. One only care your gentle breasts should move; Th' important business of your life is love: To this great point direct your constant aim, This makes your happiness, and this your fame. Be never cool reserve with passion join'd; With caution choose, but then be fondly kind. The selfish heart that but by halves is given Shall find no place in love's delightful heaven; Here sweet extremes alone can truly bless: The virtue of a lover is excess.

A maid unask'd may own a well-plac'd flame; Not loving first, but loving wrong, is shame. Contemn the little pride of giving pain, Nor think that conquest justifies disdain: Short is the period of insulting power; Offended Cupid finds his vengeful hour, Soon will resume the empire which he gave, And soon the tyrant shall become the slave.

Blest is the maid and worthy to be blest,
Whose soul, entire by him she loves possest,
Feels every vanity in fondness lost,

And asks no power but that of pleasing most:
Her's is the bliss in just return to prove
The honest warmth of undissembled love;
For her inconstant man might cease to range,
And gratitude forbid desire to change.

But lest harsh care the lover's peace destroy,
And roughly blight the tender buds of joy,
Let reason teach what passion fain would hide,

Venus in vain the wedded pair would crown,
If angry fortune on their union frown;
Soon will the flattering dream of bliss be o'er,
And cloy'd imagination cheat no more:
Then, waking to the sense of lasting pain,
With mutual tears the nuptial couch they stain,
And that fond love, which should afford relief,
Does but increase the anguish of their grief,
While both could easier their own sorrows bear
Than the sad knowledge of each others care.

Ev'n in the happiest choice, where fav'ring heaven Has equal love and easy fortune given,

Think not, the husband gain'd, that all is done;
The prize of happiness must still be won;
And oft, the careless find it to their cost,

The lover in the husband may be lost:
The Graces might alone his heart allure;
They and the Virtues meeting must secure.

Let ev'n your prudence wear the pleasing dress
Of care for him and anxious tenderness.
From kind concern about his weal or wo
Let each domestic duty seem to flow.
The household sceptre if he bids you bear
Make it your pride his servant to appear:
Endearing thus the common acts of life
The mistress still shall charm him in the wife,
And wrinkled age shall unobserv'd come on
Before his eye perceives one beauty gone;
Ev'n o'er your cold, your ever-sacred, urn,
His constant flame shall unextinguish'd burn.
Thus I, Belinda! would your charms improve,
And form your heart to all the arts of love:
The task were harder to secure my own
Against the power of those already known,
For well you twist the secret chains that bind
With gentle force the captivated mind,
Skill'd ev'ry soft attraction to employ,
Each flatt'ring hope and each alluring joy.
I own your genius, and from you receive

SAMUEL JOHNSON-whose name is so closely linked with the literature of his country-the events of whose "full life" have been related by so many biographerswas born at Litchfield, on the 7th of September, 1709. His father was a bookseller in that city; although he contrived to give his son a classical education, he was enabled to do little more than enter him at Pembroke College, Oxford, in 1728. His means being insufficient to maintain him there, he quitted it in August, 1731, became an usher to a school, and subsequently opened an academy in the vicinity of his birthplace. The attempt to better his fortune was unsuccessful. Having written a tragedy"Irene"-he took the road to London and distinction, in company with David Garrick, some time his pupil, and always his friend; and commenced his "profession" as a public writer, distinguishing himself in every path of literature-as translator, philologist, lexicographer, moralist, historian, critic, poet, biographer, essayist, novelist, politician, dramatist, satirist-struggling with poverty and conquering fame.

His earlier days, his more advanced life, and indeed the close of his long and lauded career, was but a continual contest with pecuniary difficulties:-yet he was bold enough, and in mind independent enough, to write these memorable lines to Chesterfield, who had neglected him in his obscurity, and sought his acquaintance when in the zenith of his fame:-"Is not a patron, my lord, one who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the water, and when he has reached ground encumbers him with help? The notice which you have been pleased to take of my labours, had it been early, had been kind; but it has been delayed till I am indifferent and cannot enjoy it-till I am solitary and cannot impart it-till I am known and do not want it.” Still, want compelled Johnson to continue a literary jobber, willing to accept a single guinea from a bookseller, for a preface to some obscure work, or for a dedication to some titled Nothing.

At length, when Johnson was harassed in temper, and sunk in mind by his long contest with almost absolute want, in the year 1762 he obtained a pension of 3001. a-year. After this period, however, he produced little that was great-if we except "the Lives of the Poets," partly published in 1779, and partly in 1781. For the selection he was not responsible; the work was a bookseller's speculation, and the choice was determined by the likelihood of popularity.

On the 13th of December, 1784, in the 75th year of his age, he died, and was interred in Westminster Abbey.

His person has been frequently described; it was large, robust, and unwieldy from corpulency. Of his limbs he is said never to have had the free and vigorous use; yet his strength was great, and his personal courage unquestionable. "His eyes," says Mrs. Piozzi, "were so wild, so piercing, and at times so fierce, that fear was, I believe, the first emotion in the hearts of all his beholders." In conversation, he was rude, intemperate, overbearing, and impatient of contradiction-fighting always for victory, and rarely for truth. Disappointment and penury had originally soured his temper and in after life, the universal homage he exacted or received, was not calculated to soften or subdue it. Yet there are as abundant proofs of the value of the metal as of the ruggedness of the ore :-self-sacrificing to relieve the wants of otherswarmly and actively benevolent-virtuous in example as well as in precept-grateful for services conferred, and always ready to attribute merit where it was due," he had nothing of the bear but his skin," and was beloved by his friends almost to adoration. With the vast mind and numerous productions of Dr. Johnson, however, we have here little to do. We have introduced him into this assemblage of British Poets, chiefly because, if absent, he would be missed from among them. The character of a poet is undoubtedly that in which he shines least. Indeed, except "London,” “the Vanity of Human Wishes," and the Prologue on the Opening of Drury-lane, we can quote nothing of his beyond a few small scraps of paraphrases, translations, epistles, impromptus to friends, or his heavy and prosaic tragedy of " Irene,"-a mass of "unaffecting elegance and chill philosophy." His was not the soul of a poet-he was too much under the influence of reason. His verse is easy, correct, and sensible, but no more. He never dared to pass beyond the threshold of correctness, and consequently

FROM LONDON, A POEM."

ON Thames's banks, in silent thought, we stood
Where Greenwich smiles upon the silver flood;
Struck with the seat that gave Eliza birth,
We kneel, and kiss the consecrated earth;
In pleasing dreams the blissful age renew,
And call Britannia's glories back to view;
Behold her cross triumphant on the main,
The guard of commerce, and the dread of Spain,
Ere masquerades debauch'd, excise oppress'd,
Or English honour grew a standing jest.

A transient calm the happy scenes bestow,
And for a moment lull the sense of woe.
At length awaking, with contemptuous frown,

yet his strength was great, and his personal courage unquestionable. "His eyes," says Mrs. Piozzi, "were so wild, so piercing, and at times so fierce, that fear was, I believe, the first emotion in the hearts of all his beholders." In conversation, he was rude, intemperate, overbearing, and impatient of contradiction-fighting always for victory, and rarely for truth. Disappointment and penury had originally soured his temper and in after life, the universal homage he exacted or received, was not calculated to soften or subdue it. Yet there are as abundant proofs of the value of the metal as of the ruggedness of the ore :-self-sacrificing to relieve the wants of otherswarmly and actively benevolent-virtuous in example as well as in precept-grateful for services conferred, and always ready to attribute merit where it was due," he had nothing of the bear but his skin," and was beloved by his friends almost to adoration. With the vast mind and numerous productions of Dr. Johnson, however, we have here little to do. We have introduced him into this assemblage of British Poets, chiefly because, if absent, he would be missed from among them. The character of a poet is undoubtedly that in which he shines least. Indeed, except "London," "the Vanity of Human Wishes," and the Prologue on the Opening of Drury-lane, we can quote nothing of his beyond a few small scraps of paraphrases, translations, epistles, impromptus to friends, or his heavy and prosaic tragedy of " Irene,”—a mass of "unaffecting elegance and chill philosophy." His was not the soul of a poet-he was too much under the influence of reason. His verse is easy, correct, and sensible, but no more. He never dared to pass beyond the threshold of correctness, and consequently