To be resigned when ills betide,
Patient when favours are denied,

And pleased with favours given;
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part;
This is that incense of the heart,

Whose fragrance smells to heaven.
We'll ask no long protracted treat,
Since winter-life is seldom sweet;
But when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we 'll arise,
Nor grudge our sons with envious eyes
The relics of our store.

Thus, hand in hand, through life we 'll go;
Its chequered paths of joy and woe

With cautious steps we 'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead:

While conscience like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel, whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death.

Joseph and Thomas Warton, two brothers of eminence in the literary circles of this period, belonged to a poetic race. DR. THOMAS WARTON, their father, was a native of Godalmin, in Surrey, and was educated at Magdalen College, Oxford, of which he was afterwards chosen fellow. He filled the professorship of poetry in the university, from 1718 until 1728, and though not gifted with exalted genius, his enthusiasm contributed greatly to elevate the poetical art at the venerable institution to which he belonged. His death occurred in 1745. The following sonnet from the pen of this author is well worthy of being preserved, from the striking similarity it bears to the future productions of the younger son:

[Written after seeing Windsor Castle.]

From beauteous Windsor's high and storied halls,
Where Edward's chiefs starts from the glowing walls,
To my low cot from ivory beds of state,
Pleased I return unenvious of the great.
So the bee ranges o'er the varied scenes
Of corn, of heath, of fallows, and of greens,
Pervades the thicket-soars above the hill,
Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring rill:
Now haunts old hollowed oaks, deserted cells,
Now seeks the low vale lily's silver bells;
Sips the warm fragrance of the green-house bowers,
And tastes the myrtle and the citron's flowers;

At length returning to the wonted comb,
Prefers to all his little straw-built home.

JOSEPH WARTON, the eldest son of Thomas, was born at Dunsfold, Surrey, in 1722. He studied, preparatory to entering the university, at Westminster school, where Collins was one of his schoolfellows. He was afterwards a commoner of Oriel College, Oxford, and particularly distinguished himself by his application and regularity. Having taken his collegiate degrees, Warton entered into orders, and was ordained on his father's curacy, at Basingstoke. In 1751 he accompanied the duke of Bolton to France as his chaplain, and soon after his return to England was made rector of Tamworth. In this rectory he remained until 1766, when he was elected head master of Winchester school, to which were subsequently added a prebend of St. Paul's, and of Winchester. His death occurred on the twenty-third of February, 1800.

Dr. Warton early appeared as a poet, having published, while at the university, his Enthusiasts, his Dying Indian, and some Satires. His style is graphic and romantic, and his Ode to Fancy possesses a very high degree of merit. He also edited Pope's works, and prefixed, to his edition, an elegant and highly interesting essay on the genius and writings of that celebrated author. The following Ode has attained a permanent popularity:

TO FANCY.

O parent of each lovely muse !
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built shrine
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murdered fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.

O nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskined leg, and bosom bare,
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crowned,
Waving in thy snowy hand

An all-commanding magic wand,
Of power to bid fresh gardens grow
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow,
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey
Through air, and over earth and sea,
While the various landscape lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes!
O lover of the desert, hail!
Say in what deep and pathless vale,
Or on what hoary mountain side,
'Midst falls of water, you reside;
'Midst broken rocks a rugged scene,
With green and grassy dales between;
'Midst forests dark of aged oak,

Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,

Where never human heart appeared,

Nor e'er one straw-roofed cot was reared,
Where Nature seems to sit alone,

Majestic on a craggy throne;

Tell me the path, sweet wanderer tell,
To thy unknown sequestered cell,
Where woodbines cluster round the door,
Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,
And on whose top a hawthorn blows,
Amid whose thickly-woven boughs
Some nightingale still builds her nest,
Each evening warbling thee to rest;
Then lay me by the haunted stream,
Wrapt in some wild poetic dream,
In converse while methinks I rove
With Spenser through a fairy grove;
Till suddenly awaked, I hear
Strange whispered music in my ear,
And my glad soul in bliss is drowned
By the sweetly-soothing sound!

Me, goddess, by the right-hand lead,
Sometimes through the yellow mead,
Where Joy and white-robed Peace resort,
And Venus keeps her festive court;

Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,
And lightly trip with nimble feet,
Nodding their lily-crowned heads,

Where Laughter rose-liped Hebe leads;
Where Echo walks steep hills among,
Listening to the shepherd's song.

Yet not these flowery fields of joy

Can long my pensive mind employ ;
Haste, Fancy, from these scenes of folly,

To meet the matron Melancholy,

Goddess of the tearful eye,

That loves to fold her arms and sigh!

Let us with silent footsteps go

To charnels and the house of wo,

To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,
Where each sad night some virgin comes,
With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,
Her promised bridegroom's urn to seek;
Or to some abbey's mouldering towers,
Where to avoid cold winter's showers,
The naked beggar shivering lies,
Whilst whistling tempests round her rise,
And trembles lest the tottering wall
Should on her sleeping infants fall.

Now let us louder strike the lyre,

For my heart glows with martial fire;

I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,

My big tumultuous bosom beat!

The trumpet's clangours pierce mine ear,

A thousand widows' shrieks I hear;

'Give me another horse,' I cry,
Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly.

Whence is this rage? What spirit, say,
To battle hurries me away?

'Tis Fancy, in her fiery car,

Transports me to the thickest war,
There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,
Where Tumult and Destruction reign;
Where, mad with pain, the wounded steed
Tramples the dying and the dead;
Where giant terror stalks around,
With sullen joy surveys the ground,
And, pointing to the ensanguined field,
Shakes his dreadful Gorgon shield!

O! guide me from this horrid scene
To high-arched walks and alleys green,
Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun
The fervours of the mid-day sun!

The pangs of absence, O! remove,

For thou canst place me near my love,
Canst fold in visionary bliss,

And let me think I steal a kiss.

When young-eyed Spring profusely throws
From her green lap the pink and rose;
When the soft turtle of the dale
To Summer tells her tender tale:
When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,
And stains with wine his jolly cheeks;
When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,
Shakes his silver beard with cold;
At every season let my ear

Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, hear.

THOMAS WARTON the younger, was born at Dunsfold, in 1728. At sixteen years of age, he entered Trinity College, Oxford, and at nineteen published his Pleasures of Melancholy, a poem which gave a promise of excellence which his more mature productions did not sustain. Having taken his degree and obtained a fellowship, Warton entered into orders, and in 1757, was appointed Professor of Poetry. He was also, about the same time, made curate of Woodstock, and rector of Kiddington, a small living near Oxford. From this period his life passed on in one even current, with only those interruptions which his occasional publications induced. The first of these publications was an elaborate Essay on Spenser's Fairy Queen. He also edited the minor poems of Milton, an edition which Leigh Hunt says 'is a wilderness of sweets, and is the only one in which a true lover of the original can pardon an exuberance of annotation.' Some of the notes are highly poetical, while others display the author's taste for antiquities, for architecture, superstition, and his intimate acquaintance with the old Elizabethan writers.

The work which forms the basis of Dr. Warton's reputation, however, is his History of English Poetry, the first volume of which appeared, in 1774,

and the second, which brings the history down to the accession of Elizabeth, four years after. In this work Warton poured out in profusion all the treasures of a well-stored mind. His antiquarian lore, his love of antique manners, and his chivalrous feelings, found appropriate exercise in tracing the stream of English poetry from its first fountain springs, down to the luxuriant reign of Elizabeth, which he justly styled, 'the most poetic age of English annals.' The order pursued in this important work is strictly chronological; and the author, by adopting this course, allowed himself freer opportunities for research, and was enabled to exhibit without transposition, the gradual improvements of English poetry, and the progress of the language. The untiring industry and extensive learning of the poet-historian accumulated a mass of materials equally valuable and curious. His work is a vast storehouse of facts connected with early English literature; and if he sometimes wanders from his subject, or indulges in extraneous details, it should be remembered, as his late editor, Price, remarks, that new matter was constantly presenting itself before him, and that Warton 'was the first adventurer in the extensive region through which he journeyed, and into which the usual pioneers of literature had scarcely penetrated.' The author's plan excluded the drama, but this defect has been partially supplied by Collier's Annals of the Stage.

On the death of Whitehead, in 1785, Dr. Warton was appointed poetlaureate. His learning gave dignity to an office usually held in small esteem, and which has recently been wisely converted into a sinecure. The same year he was made Camden Professor of History. While pursuing his antiquarian and literary researches, and in the midst of health and usefulness, he was attacked with the gout, and this being immediately followed by a stroke of paralysis, his valuable life terminated on the twenty-first of May, 1790.

Dr. Warton's poetry is deficient in natural expression and general interest; but some of his longer pieces, by their martial spirit and Gothic fancy, are calculated to awaken a stirring and romantic enthusiasm in the mind of the reader. Hazlitt considered some of his sonnets the finest in the language. Of these, the following are picturesque and graceful, and are fair samples of the whole :

WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF DUGDALE'S MONASTICON.

Deem not devoid of elegance the sage,
By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguiled

Of painful pedantry, the poring child,

Who turns of these proud domes the historic page,
Now sunk by Time, and Henry's fiercer rage.
Think'st thou the warbling muses never smiled
On his lone hours? Ingenious views engage
His thoughts on themes unclassic falsely styled
Intent. While cloistered piety displays

Her mouldering roll, the piercing eye explores