MR. GRILDRIG,

IF you think the following translation of the thirty-four last lines of the first Elegy of Tibullus, worthy a place in your next number; by giving them one in it you will oblige me.-if not, you may give them " emendaturis ignibus." I am, Sir,

Your constant Reader,

And very humble Servant,

EGOMET.

OH! it is sweet to hear the roaring wind,

Whilst 'round your love your circling arms are twin'd!

Or when the South's bleak whirlwinds howl on high,
And sluicy torrents drain the wintry sky;
On the warm couch to lose the midnight hour,
Lull'd to soft slumbers by the falling shower!
Wealth he deserves, who dares the restless main,
Whilst the fierce storm and billows rage in vain.
Let pearls and gold enrich the gloomy deep,
Ere any fair one for my dangers weep!-
Fight thou, Messala, for thy country's fame,
Through the wide world, and vindicate her name!
Fight thou! whate'er the fears, whate'er the toils,
And deck your lofty dome with foreign spoils.
O'er me my beauteous fair, my Delia reigns,
And binds Tibullus in her silken chains.

On her clos'd door I bend my aching sight,
And sadly sighing waste the tedious night!

I heed not fame, my Delia! I could be
Wretch, ideot, coward, any thing with thee.

When on my brow Death's cold damp dew shall stand,

I'll grasp thee feebly with my dying hand:

Oh! thou wilt weep; for not of rock, that breast,

Nor iron lurks beneath thy snowy vest:

Each pitying youth shall mourn my ravish'd breath,
And every virgin weep Tibullus' death.

But spare the beauties of that heavenly face,

Spare the soft tresses which those beauties grace.
Be this my earnest, last request obey'd,

Nor with thy sorrows wound my hov'ring shade!-
Mean time whilst fate allows, whilst youth yet reigns

Let's give to love what still of youth remains.

Soon shall grim death our transient joys invade,

In gloomy darkness horribly array'd.

Slow age creeps on, and who will love allow,
To the dull winter of the hoary brow?
Let sly-ey'd Venus and her laughing boy,
Reign in our hearts and every thought employ:
Thro' the dark night in jovial troops we'll rove
And burst the bars that keep us from our love.
Such fights as these I prize, such amorous wars,
A valiant champion in Cythera's cause.

Hence ye proud trophies! hence thou deathless name!
Hence to the fools who fight for wounds and fame!
While my small store my smaller wants supplies,
I'll laugh at wealth and poverty despise.

THE

MINIATURE,

NUMB. XXXI.

MONDAY, March 18, 1805.

Quid? si quis vultu torvo ferus, et pede nudo,
Exiguæque toga simulet textore Catonem;
Virtutemne repræsentet moresque Catonis?
HOR. Ep. 1. 19.

What? tho' your brow should wear a constant
frown,
Should you, like Cato, claim the narrow gown;
Yet where the manners? where the virtuous fire,
Which warm'd that Cato's soul?

THE works of Nature, which seem at one step to have attained perfection, are universally characterized by a construction at once surprising and inimitable. Thus among the productions of Art, a certain original method, and peculiarity of execution constitute their chief merit. Every writing of real excellence is thus attested. But k k

Poetry in particular requires a mark of this nature, by which it is tacitly dedicated to fame. We talk of the artless sublimity of Homer, the refined majesty of Virgil, the polished harmony of Pope. We look upon these as the attributes of each individual, without which he might have remained unnoticed and unadmired.

But there is a race of Beings, who setting every law natural and artificial at defiance, attempt to raise an altar to their own fame with the gleanings which they have collected from these genuine works of Literature. Without any powers of their own, they mix up those faults, which Genius alone can excuse, into one shapeless mass, and call it Poetry. They labour to imitate what they do not understand, and vainly gape for admiration. They mistake errors for beauties, and while they catch at the substance, are scarcely able to retain the shadow. Their unfortunate attempts however, only evince with greater force the truth of that old, but no less excellent, adage: Poeta nascitur, non fit. Nature alone forms the Poet.

A man who can thus openly pretend to improve upon established superiority, must have a tolerable share of impudence and vanity. That

the improvement of what he imitates must be his intention, is evident from various reasons. Livelihood or reputation are the two principle objects, which induce a person to write for the Public. For these he continually labours, and studies to render his compositions agreeable by every ornament that chance or thought can suggest. As he candidly gives up all pretensions to originality, he must know that every hope of success entirely depends upon his being able to produce something, which, if it cannot aspire to novelty of design, may at least lay claim to a superior force of language, or elegance of expression. But if he is destitute of both, by what can he be supported? By his own vanity; which whispers that Pope, Swift and Milton require only to be recast by him, in order to become doubly harmonious, entertaining and sublime. And scarcely can the public raillery, the assurances of his Printer, or even the touch of a Bailiff convince him that chiming nonsense, vulgar obscenity, or ranting bombast, are not the characteristic beauties of those authors.

A person of this description may indeed defend himself by the example of our most eminent Poets. One of whom in particular, has stooped from the height of his genius, to imitate the