It cannot be said, that he made use of his abilities for the direction of his own conduct; an irregular and dissipated manner of life had made him the slave of every passion that happened to be excited by the presence of its object, and that slavery to his He was not master of passions reciprocally produced a life irregular and dissipated.

his own motions, nor could promise any thing for the next day.

He

With regard to his economy, nothing can be added to the relation of his life. appeared to think himself born to be supported by others, and dispensed from all necessity of providing for himself; he therefore never prosecuted any scheme of advantage, nor endeavoured even to secure the profits which his writings might have afforded him. His temper was, in consequence of the dominion of his passions, uncertain and capricious; he was easily engaged, and easily disgusted; but he is accused of retaining his hatred more tenaciously than his benevolence.

He was compassionate both by nature and principle, and always ready to perform offices of humanity; but when he was provoked, (and very small offences were sufficient to provoke him) he would prosecute his revenge with the utmost acrimony till his pas sion had subsided.

His friendship was therefore of little value; for, though he was zealous in the support or vindication of those whom he loved, yet it was always dangerous to trust him, because he considered himself as discharged by the first quarrel from all ties of honour or gratitude; and would betray those secrets which in the warmth of confidence had been imparted to him. This practice drew upon him an universal accusation of ingratitude: nor can it be denied that he was very ready to set himself free from the load of an obligation; for he could not bear to conceive himself in a state of dependence, his pride being equally powerful with his other passions, and appearing in the form of insolence at one time, and of vanity at another. Vanity, the most innocent species of pride, was most frequently predominant: he could not easily leave off, when he had once begun to mention himself or his works; nor ever read his verses without stealing his eyes from the page, to discover in the faces of his audience, how they were affected with any favourite passage.

A kinder name than that of vanity ought to be given to the delicacy with which he was always careful to separate his own merit from every other man's, and to reject that praise to which he had no claim. He did not forget, in mentioning his perfor mances, to mark every line that had been suggested or amended; and was so accurate, as to relate that he owed three words in The Wanderer to the advice of his friends.

His veracity was questioned, but with little reason; his accounts, though not indeed When he loved any man, he suppressed always the same, were generally consistent. all his faults: and, when he had been offended by him, concealed all his virtues: but his characters were generally true, so far as he proceeded; though it cannot be denied, that his partiality might have sometimes the effect of falsehood.

In cases indifferent, he was zealous for virtue, truth, and justice: he knew very well the necessity of goodness to the present and future happiness of mankind; nor is there perhaps any writer, who has less endeavoured to please by flattering the appetites, or perverting the judgment.

As an author, therefore, and he now ceases to influence mankind in any other character, if one piece which he had resolved to suppress be excepted, he has very little to fear from the strictest moral or religious censure. And though he may not be altogether secure against the objections of the critic, it must however be acknowledged, that his works are the productions of a genius truly poetical; and, what many writers who have been more lavishly applauded cannot boast, that they have an original air, which has no resemblance of any foregoing writer, that the versification and sentiments have a cast peculiar to themselves, which no man can imitate with success, because what was nature in Savage would in another be affectation. It must be confessed, that his descriptions are striking, his images animated, his fictions justly imagined, and his allegories artfully pursued; that his diction is elevated, though sometimes forced, and his numbers sonorous and majestic, though frequently sluggish and encumbered. Of his style, the general fault is harshness, and its general excellence is dignity; of his sentiments, the prevailing beauty is simplicity, and uniformity the prevailing defect.

For his life, or for his writings, none, who candidly consider his fortune, will think an apology either necessary or difficult. If he was not always sufficiently instructed on his subject, his knowledge was at least greater than could have been attained by others in the same state. If his works were sometimes unfinished, accuracy cannot reasonably be exacted from a man oppressed with want, which he has no hope of relieving but by a speedy publication. The insolence and resentment of which he is accused were not easily to be avoided by a great mind, irritated by perpetual hardships, and constrained hourly to return the spurns of contempt, and repress the insolence of prosperity; and vanity may surely be readily pardoned in him, to whom life afforded no other comforts than barren praises, and the consciousness of deserving them.

Those are no proper judges of his conduct, who have slumbered away their time on the down of plenty; nor will any wise man presume to say, "Had I been in Savage's condition, I should have lived or written better than Savage." This relation will not be wholly without its use, if those, who languish under any part of his sufferings, shall be enabled to fortify their patience, by reflecting that they feel only those afflictions from which the abilities of Savage did not exempt him; or those, who, in confidence of superior capacities or attainments, disregarded the common maxims of life, shall be reminded, that nothing will supply the want of prudence; and that negligence and irregularity, long continued, will make knowledge useless, wit ridiculous, and genius contemptible.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

JOHN LORD VISCOUNT TYRCONNEL,

MY LORD,

Baron CHARLEVILLE, and Lord BROWNLOWE, Knight of the BATH,

PART of this poem had the honour of your Lordship's perusal when in manuscript; and it was no small pride to me, when it met with approbation from so distinguishing a judge: should the rest find the like indulgence, I shall have no occasion (whatever its success may be in the world) to repent the labour it has cost me-But my intention is not to pursue a discourse on my own performance; no, my lord, it is to embrace this opportunity of throwing out sentiments that relate to your lordship's goodness, the generosity of which, give me leave to say, I have greatly experienced.

I offer it not as a new remark, that dependance on the great, in former times, generally terminated in disappointment; nay, even their bounty (if it could be called such) was, in its very nature, ungenerous. It was, perhaps, with-held, through an indolent or wilful neglect, till those who lingered in the want of it, grew almost past the sense of comfort. At length it came, too often, in a manner that half cancelled the obligation, and, perchance, must have been acquired too by some previous act of guilt in the receiver, the consequence of which was remorse and infamy.

But that I live, my lord, is a proof that dependance on your lordship, and the present ministry, is an assurance of success. I am persuaded, distress, in many other instances, affects your soul with a compassion, that always shows itself in a manner most humane and active; that to forgive injuries, and confer benefits, is your delight; and that to deserve your friendship is to deserve the countenance of the best of men. To be admitted into the honour of your lordship's conversation (permit me to speak but justice) is to be elegantly introduced into the most instructive, as well as entertaining, parts of literature; it is to be furnished with the finest observations upon human nature, and to receive, from the most unassuming, sweet, and winning candour, the worthiest and most polite maxims-such as are always enforced by the actions of your own life. I could also take notice of your many public-spirited services to your country in parliament, and your constant attachment to liberty, and the royal, illustrious house of our most gracious sovereign; but my lord, believe me, your own deeds are the noblest and fittest orators to speak your praise, and will elevate it far beyond the power of a much abler writer than I am.

I will therefore turn my view from your lordship's virtues to the kind influence of them, which has been so lately shed upon me; and then, if my future morals and writings shall gain any approbation from men of parts and probity, I must acknowledge all to be the product of your lordship's goodness to me. I must, in fine, say with Horace,

Quod spiro, & placeo, (si placeo) tuum est.

I am, with the highest gratitude and veneration,

my lord,

your lordship's most dutiful

and devoted servant,

RICHARD SAVAGI.

POEMS

OF

RICHARD SAVAGE.

THE

WANDERER :

A VISION.

IN FIVE CANTOS.

Yulla mali nova mi facies inopinave surgit.
Virg.

CANTO I.

FAIN would my verse, Tyrconnel, boast thy name,

Brownlowe, at once my subject and my fame!
Oh! could that spirit, which thy bosom warms,
Whose strength surprises, and whose goodness

charins!

That various worth! could that inspire my lays,
Envy should smile, and Censure learn to praise:
Yet, though unequal to a soul like thine,
A generous soul, approaching to divine,
When bless'd beneath such patronage I write,
Great my attempt, though hazardous my flight.
O'er ample Nature I extend my views;
Nature to rural scenes invites the Muse:
She flies all public care, all venal strife,
To try the still, compar'd with active life;
To prove, by these the sons of men may owe
The fruits of bliss to bursting clouds of woe;
That ev'n calamity, by thought refin'd,
Inspirits and adorns the thinking mind.

Come, Contemplation, whose unbounded gaze,
Swift in a glance, the course of things surveys;
Who in thyself the various view canst find
Of sea, land, air, and heaven, and human-kind;
What tides of passion in the bosom roll;
What thoughts debase, and what exalt the soul,
Whose pencil paints, obsequious to thy will,
All thou survey'st, with a creative skill!
Oh! leave awhile thy lov'd, sequester'd shade!
Awhile in wintery wilds vouchsafe thy aid!
Then waft me to some olive, bowery green,
Where, cloath'd in white, thou show'st a mind serene;
Where kind Content from noise and court retires,
And smiling sits, while Muses tune their lyres:

Where Zephyrs gently breathe, while Sleep profound
To their soft fanning nods, with poppies crown'd;
Sleep, on a treasure of bright dreams reclines,
By thee bestow'd; whence Fancy colour'd shines,
And flutters round his brow a hovering flight,
Varying her plumes in visionary light.

Tho' solar fires now faint and watery burn,
Just where with ice Aquarius frets his urn!
If thaw'd, forth issue, from its mouth severe,
Raw clouds, that sadden all th' inverted year.

When Frost and Fire with martial powers engag'd,
Frost, northward, fled the war, unequal wag'd!
Beneath the pole his legions urg'd their flight,
And gain'd a cave profound and wide as night.
O'er cheerless scenes by Desolation own'd,
High on an Alp of ice he sits enthron'd!
One clay-cold hand, his crystal beard sustains,
And scepter'd one, o'er wind and tempest reigns;
O'er stony magazines of hail, that storm
The blossom'd fruit, and flowery Spring deform.
His languid eyes like frozen lakes appear,
Dim gleaming all the light that wanders here.
His robe snow-wrought, and hoar'd with age; his
breath

A nitrous damp, that strikes petrific death.

Far hence lies, ever-freez'd, the northern main,
That checks, and renders navigation vain,
That, shut against the Sun's dissolving ray,
Scatters the trembling tides of vanquish'd day,
And stretching eastward half the world secures,
Defies discovery, and like time endures !

Now Frost sent boreal blasts to scourge the air,
To bind the streams, and leave the landscape bare;
Yet when, far west, his violence declines,
Though here the brook, or lake, his power confines;
To rocky pools, to cataracts are unknown
His chains-to rivers, rapid like the Rhone!

The falling Moon cast, cold, a quivering light,
Just silver'd o'er the snow, and sunk!--pale Night
Retir'd. The dawn in light-grey mists arose !
Shrill chants the cock!-the hungry heifer lows!
Slow blush yon breaking clouds;-the Sun's uproll'd!
Th' expansive grey turns azure, chas'd with gold;