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single word or single phrase, but we must mention that the transaction of the postage beginning at ver. 46, &c. In verbis etiam tenuis, &c. appears greatly amended in this new edition. As also ver. 120, in which Mr. Colman has judiciously admitted Bentley's Homer cum into the text and version, instead of Hcnoratum:

"If Homer's hero you bring back to view,

Shew your Achilles such as Homer drew;

Active, warm, brave, impetuous, high of foul,

Calling to arms, and brooking no controul." The lines alto on the pipe, ver. 202 Tibia non ut nunc, &e. have received much additional force and polish from the lima labort which Mr. Colman appears to have applied very successfully. He seems, indeed, to have attended to the rule of his own Horace:

jfmbiiiosa recidtt Ornamenta; partita claris lucem dare coget.

"Ambitious ornaments he'll lop away;

On things obscure he'll make you let in day."

After the Notes on the Epijlie to the Pi/os we find some miscellaneous poems.

The Poet;, a Town Eclogue: a satirical dialogue between Kenrick and BickerstafF.—Some Epigrams.The Laureat, an Ode, ta Mr. Warton ;—and the following Ode, which, on account of its humour, we (hall transcribe; as we shall the Imitation of the thirty-ninth Pi'.lm, which succeeds it: the latter f A the injlrut~ inn, and the former for the amusement of our Readers.

A Posthumous Work Of S. Johnson. An Ode.
April 15, 1786.


St. Paul's deep bell, from stately tow'r
Had founded once and twice the hour,

Blue burnt the midnight taper;
Hags their dark spells o'er cauldron brew'd,
While Sons of Ink their work pursu'd.

Printing the Morning Paper. .
Say Herald, Chronicle, or Post,
Which then beheld great Johnson's Ghost,

Grim, horrible, and squallid?
Compositors their letters dropt,
Pressmen their groaning engine stopt,

And Devils ail grew pallid.
Enough! the Spectre cried; Enough1.
No more of your fugacious stuff,

Trite Anecdotes and Stories!
Rude martyrs of Sam Johnson's name,
you rob him of his honest fame,

Aud urnifii all his glories.

y 4. IV. First

First in the fatile tribe is seen
Tom Tyers in the Magazine,

That teazer of Apollo!
With goose-quill he, like desperate knife,
Slices, as Vauxhall beef, my life,

And calls the town to swallow.
The cry once up, the Dog9 of News,
Who hunt for paragraphs the stews,


Their nauseous praise but moves my bile,
Like Tartar, Carduus, Camomile,

Or Ipecacuanha.

Next Boswell comes (for 'twas my lot
To find at last one honest Scot)

With constitutional vivacity,
Yet, garrulous he tells too much,
On fancied-failings prone to touch,

With sedulous loquacity.
At length—Job's patience it would tire—
Brew'd on my lees, comes Thr Ale's Entire,

Straining to draw my picture;
For She a common-place-book kept,
Johnson at Streatham din'd and slept,

And who shall contradict her?
Thrat.e, lost 'mongst Fidlers and Sopranos,
With them play Fortes and Pianos,

Adagio and Allegro!
I lov'd Thrale's widow and Thrale's wife;
But now, believe, to write my life

I'd rather trust my Negro *.
I gave the Public works of merit,
Written with vigour, fraught with spirit;

Applause crown'd all my labours.
But thy delusive pages speak
My palsied pow'rs, exhausted, weak,

The scoff of friends and neighbours.
They speak me insolent and rude,
Light, trivial, puerile, and crude,

The child of Pride and Vanity;
Poor Tuscan-like Improvisation
Is but of Englisti sense castration,

And infantine inanity.

* His black servant.

XI. Such

Such idle rhymes, like Sybil's leaves,
Kindly the seatt'ring wind receives;

The gath'rer proves a (corner.
But hold! I fee the coming day!
—The Spectre said, and stalk'd away

To sleep in Poets' Corner.



I will take heed, I said, I will take heed,

Nor trespass with my tongue; will keep my mouth

As with a bridle, while the sinner's near.

—Silent I mus'd, and ev'n from good refrain'd;

But, full of pangs, my heart was hot within me,

The lab'ring fire burst forth, and loos'd my tongue.
Lord, let me know the measure of my days,

Make me to know how weak, how frail I am!

My days are as a span, mine age as nothing,

And man is altogether Vanity.

Man walketh in an empty (hade; in vain

Disquieting his foul, he heaps up riches,

Knowing not who (hall gather them. And now

Where rests my Hope, O Lord? It rests in Thee.

Forgive me mine offences! Make me not

A scorn unto the foolish! I was dumb,

And open'd not my mouth, for 'twas Thy doing.

Oh take thy stroke away! Thy hand destroys me.

When with rebukes thou chast'nest man for fin,

Thou mak'st his beauty to consume away;

Distemper preys upon him, as a moth

Fretting a garment. Ah, what then is Man?

Every Man living is but Vanity! *

Hear, hear my pray'r, O Lord! oh, hear my Cry!

Pity my Tears! for I am in Thy fight

But as a stranger, and a sojourn er,

As all my fathers were. Oh, spare me then,

Though but a little, to regain my strength,

Ere I be taken hence, and seen no more 1' The volume concludes with Mr. Colman's Prologues and Epilogues, which are numerous; and as most of them must long live in the memories of our Readers in general, it is needless to recapitulate the title of the plays to which they were prefixed, or the occasions on which they were composed.

Such are the contents of these three volumes, from which we think the Public, "which doth seldom play the recanter*" will receive the same degree of pleasure, they have so frequently derived from the productions of Mr. Colman's pen, while the Author will add a new sprig of laurel to the wreath, with which his brows have long been decorated. T\

° .P i-«»y.

* Shakespeare, Timon of Athens.


Art. VI. Six Narrative Poems. By Eliza Knipe. ^to. 3s. 6d. Dilly. 1787. ,

ripHE Authoress, in her dedication to Sir Joshua Reynolds, £ fays—* 1 esteem myself highly honoured by the permission to dedicate the following poems to you; nor could I wish them a better fate than to be thought worthy of your acceptance: I fear they can have no pretensions to that honour, but as the early efforts of an unlettered Muse, who trembles at the severity ef criticism, and who does not hepe much even from candour.' This, however, is a language which a writer like Mrs. Knipe should never hold. Real merit, it should he remembered, is an ægis on which it is scarcely possible that'even (he (hafts of envy and tnalce should make an impression ;—what then is to beapprehendtxl from those Criticisms i It is no doubt highly necessary that Criticism should be at all times armed, and ready for attack; but then it should not be uncharitably ipiagined that she is willing to throw her darts at random, or that she would wantonly harass the merit which it is rather her duty to cherish and defend.

These poems are intitled— The Vizir The Village Wake—Tht Return from the Crusade—The Prussian OjfcerAtomb ka and Omaza—Humanity. The ' Retura from the Crusa.de' and the ' Prussian Officer' are Tales in the manner of the legendary stories of old, of which there are numerous examples in the 'Reliquesof ancient Poetry;'—and they are related in that unaffected and artless flow of numbers which never fails to gain upon the heart; —that heart, we mean, of which Nature, and Nature only, has been the fashioner.

The following picture of the horrors and calamities of war is. \\\ our opinion, finely coloured:

The Prussian Officer *.

^F ^ W" ~ffc

* Light, from his couch, the warrior rose,
And view'd the redd'ning East.

The Morning crirason'd o'er the iky.

As blushing to behold
The numbers that ere night must die.

By Pride or Av'rice sold!

The trumpet bade the troops prepare j

The steeds impatient neigh'd;
And streaming to the ambient air.

The hostile banners play'd.

^rfr sfT ^JT ^t?

* The principal circumstances, in this poem (fays the Author) are taken from the life of Jlwaid Christjah Vow Kuist, prefixed -to hu works.

Now Now clouds of smoke tumuh'ous blend,

The balls, loud whistling, fly;
While Ihoucs, and deaf 'ning clamours, rend

The over-arching sky. <

Confusion flaps her raven wings,

And, from her dreary cell,
Triumphant Discord wildly springs.

With all the brood of Hell.

A thousand screaming Spectres ride,

On ev'ry passing gale,
That ope their greedy nostrils wide

And steams of gore inhale. ■ ■

'On ev'ry side exulting Death

Stalk'd by, in hideous form;
But Ewald, prodigal of breath, /

Brav'd Danger's wildest storm.

Swift, to the batt'ry's smoky breast,

O'er heaps of flain he flew:
Bellona plum'd her blazing crest,
And triumph'd at the view.
* # * *
Beneath his horror-gleaming sword,

What foes un-number'd fell, Let Plauens' bloody vale record, And Austria's widows tell." The other poems have likewise considerable merit; but we have not room for farther extracts. We therefore take our leave of Mrs. Knipe, heartily recommending her unlettered Muse, as (he is pleased to call her, to the care and attention of the Public. _

. ! A*&. __ *

Art. VII. West-Indian Eclogues. 4W. zs. Lowndes. 1787.

THESE Eclogues describe, in not unpleasing numbers, the situation of the unfortunate Africans: who, torn from their native country, are doomed to pass their lives in slavery, and (as our Author would give us to understand) to suffer under the lash of the most cruel and tyrannical of human beings, the planters in the Western Isles,—or [which makes little difference J their overseers, and Negnt-drivers.

Much has been lately written on the subject of plantation slavery :—but that writers have greatly exaggerated in their account of the cruelties exercised towards the Negroes, we have every reason to believe. The African is undoubtedly ruled with a rod of iron,—but then it should be remembered that (as many contend) he is not to be worked on by affe£tiont but held in obedience by fear; and that the owner is driven to that mode of rule

a kind of political necessity: by the consideration that it is in


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