FROM THE SAME. SOME nymphs prefer astronomy to love; Elope from mortal man, and range above. The fair philosopher to Rowley flies, Where in a box the whole creation lies: She sees the planets in their turns advance, And scorns, Poitier, thy sublunary dance! Of Desaguliers she bespeaks fresh air; And Whiston has engagements with the fair. What vain experiments Sophronia tries! 'Tis not in air-pumps the gay colonel dies. But though to-day this rage of science reigns, (O fickle sex!) soon end her learned pains. Lo! Pug from Jupiter her heart has got, Turns out the stars, and Newton is a sot. THE LANGUID LADY. FROM THE SAME. THE languid lady next appears in state, Who was not born to carry her own weight; She lolls, reels, staggers, till some foreign aid To her own stature lifts the feeble maid, Then, if ordain'd to so severe a doom, She, by just stages, journeys round the room: But, knowing her own weakness, she despairs To scale the Alps-that is, ascend the stairs. My fan let others say, who laugh at toil: Fan! hood! glove! scarf! is her laconic style; And that is spoke with such a dying fall, That Betty rather sees than hears the call: The motion of her lips, and meaning eye, Piece out th' idea her faint words deny. THE SWEARER. FROM THE SAME. THALESTRIS triumphs in a manly mien; Loud is her accent, and her phrase obscene. In fair and open dealing where's the shame? What nature dares to give, she dares to name. This honest fellow is sincere and plain, And justly gives the jealous husband pain. (Vain is the task to petticoats assign'd, If wanton language shows a naked mind.) And now and then, to grace her eloquence, An oath supplies the vacancies of sense. Hark! the shrill notes transpierce the yielding air, And teach the neighbouring echoes how to swear, By Jove, is faint, and for the simple swain; She on the Christian system is profane. But though the volley rattles in your ear, Believe her dress, she's not a grenadier. If thunder's awful, how much more our dread, When Jove deputes a lady in his stead? A lady pardon my mistaken pen, A shameless woman is the worst of men. JOHN BROWN. [Born, 1715, Died, 1765.] DR. BROWN, author of the tragedies of Athelstan and Barbarossa, and of several other works, was born at Rothbury, in Northumberland, where his father was curate. He studied at Cambridge, obtained a minor canonry and lectureship in the cathedral of Carlisle, and was afterward preferred to the living of Morland, in Westmoreland. The latter office he resigned in disgust at being rebuked for an accidental omission of the Athana sian creed. He remained for some years in obscurity at Carlisle, till the year of the Rebellion, when he distinguished himself by his intrepidity as a volunteer at the siege of the castle. His Essay on Satire introduced him to Warburton, who exhorted him to write his Remarks on Shaftesbury's Characteristics, as well as to attempt an epic poem on the plan which Pope had sketched. Through Warburton's influence he obtained the rectory of Horkesly, near Colchester; but his fate was to be embroiled with his patrons, and having quarrelled with those who had given him the living in Essex, he was obliged to retire upon the vicarage of St. Nicholas, at Newcastle. A latent taint of derangement had certainly made him vain and capricious; but Warburton seems not to have been a delicate doctor to his mind's disease. In one of his letters he says, Brown is here, rather perter than ordinary, but no wiser. You cannot imagine how tender they are all of his tender places, and with how unfeeling a hand I probe them." The writer of this humane sentence was one whom Brown had praised in his Estimate as the Gulliver and Colossus of a degenerate age. When his Barbarossa came out, it appears that some friends, equally tender with the Bishop of Gloucester, reproved 66 him for having any connection with players. The players were not much kinder to his sore feelings. Garrick offended him deeply by a line in the prologue which he composed for his Barbarossa, alluding to its author, "Let the poor devil eat— allow him that.” His poetry never obtained, or indeed deserved much attention; but his "Estimate of the Manners and Principles of the times" passed through seven editions, and threw the nation into a temporary ferment. Voltaire alleges that it roused the English from lethargy by the imputation of degeneracy, and made them put forth a vigour that proved victorious in the war with France. Dr. | Brown was preparing to accept of an invitation from the Empress of Russia to superintend her public plans of education, when he was seized with a fit of lunacy, and put a period to his own existence. FROM THE TRAGEDY OF "BARBAROSSA." ACT II. Selim, the son of the deceased Prince of Algiers, admitted in disguise into the palace of the usurper Barbarossa, and meeting with Othman, his secret friend. Persons-BARBAROSSA, SELIM, OTHMAN. Bar. Most welcome, Othman. Behold this gallant stranger. He hath done The state good service. Let some high reward Await him, such as may o'erpay his zeal. Conduct him to the queen: for he hath news Worthy her ear, from her departed son; Such as may win her love-Come, Aladin ! The banquet waits our presence: festal joy Laughs in the mantling goblet; and the night, Illumined by the taper's dazzling beam, Rivals departed day. [Exeunt BAR. and ALA. Selim. What anxious thought Rolls in thine eye, and heaves thy labouring breast? Why join'st thou not the loud excess of joy, That riots through the palace? Oth. Darest thou tell me On what dark errand thou art here? Selim. I dare. Dost not perceive the savage lines of blood Oth. Amazement!-No-'Tis well-'Tis as it He was indeed a foe to Barbarossa. Selim. And therefore to Algiers:-Was it not so? Why dost thou pause? What passion shakes thy frame? Oth. Fate, do thy worst! I can no more dissemble! Can I, unmoved, behold the murdering ruffian, Smear'd with my prince's blood!-Go, tell the tyrant, Othman defies his power; that, tired with life, He dares his bloody hand, and pleads to die. Selim. What, didst thou love this Selim? Oth. All men loved him. He was of such unmix'd and blameless quality, I have deceived this tyrant Barbarossa: Oth. Alive! Selim. Nay more Selim is in Algiers. Oth. Impossible! [hither straight. Selim. Nay, if thou doubt'st, I'll bring him Thou might'st as well bring the devoted lamb Selim. But I'll bring him Hid in such deep disguise as shall deride Oth. Yes, sure: too sure to hazard such an awful Trial! Selim. Yet seven revolving years, worn out In tedious exile, may have wrought such change Of voice and feature in the state of youth, As might elude thine eye. Oth. No time can blot The memory of his sweet majestic mien, Oth. Ay, on his forehead. Selim. What! like this? [Lifting his turban. Oth. Whom do I see!-am I awake?-my Oth. Ah, no! I see thy sire in every line.How did my prince escape the murderer's hand? Selim. I wrench'd the dagger from him, and gave back That death he meant to bring. The ruffian wore The tyrant's signet:-"Take this ring," he cried, "The sole return my dying hand can make thee For its accursed attempt: this pledge restored, Will prove thee slain! Safe may'st thou see Algiers, Unknown to all." This said, the assassin died. Oth. But how to gain admittance thus unknown? Selim. Disguised as Selim's murderer I come: The accomplice of the deed: the ring restored, Gain'd credence to my words. Oth. Yet ere thou camest, thy death was rumour'd here. Selim. I spread the flattering tale, and sent it That babbling rumour, like a lying dream, Oth. Still in vain the tyrant Tempts her to marriage, though with impious Nor voice, nor sound. As if the inhabitants, Oth. There is a solemn horror in the night, too, That pleases me: a general pause through nature: The winds are hush'd Sadi. And as I pass'd the beach, The lazy billow scarce could lash the shore: Come, Othman, we are call'd: the passing minutes We soon shall meet again. But, oh, remember, Not to destroy, but save! nor let blind zeal, Oth. So may we prosper, As mercy shall direct us! Selim. Farewell, friends! Sadi. Intrepid prince, farewell! [Exeunt OTH. and SADI. Sadi. Tis well-nigh midnight. Oth. What-In tears, my prince? Selim. But tears of joy: for I have seen Zaphira, And pour'd the balm of peace into her breast: Think not these tears unnerve me, valiant friends! They have but harmonized my soul; and waked All that is man within me, to disdain Peril, or death.-What tidings from the city? Sadi. All, all is ready. Our confederate friends Burn with impatience, till the hour arrive. Selim. What is the signal of the appointed hour? SELIM'S SOLILOQUY BEFORE THE INSURRECTION. Selim. Now sleep and silence Brood o'er the city.-The devoted sentinel conscience, And firm resolve! that, in the approaching hour Restraint's stiff neck, Grimace's leer, Sage Reflection, bent with years, Halcyon Peace on moss reclined, Health that snuffs the morning air, You with the tragic muse retired, Where as you pensive pace along, Till the tuneful bird of night JOHN GILBERT COOPER, [Born, 1723. Died, 1769.1 WAS of an ancient family in Nottinghamshire, and possessed the estate of Thurgarton Priory, where he exercised the active and useful duties of a magistrate. He resided, however, occasionally in London, and was a great promoter of the Society for the Encouragement of Arts and Manu factures. He died at his house in May-Fair, after a long and excruciating illness, occasioned by the stone. He was a zealous pupil of the Shaftesbury school; and published, besides his Poems, a Life of Socrates, Letters on Taste, and Epistles to the Great from Aristippus in retirement. 1 FROM "LOCHLEVEN.” Now sober Industry, illustrious power! Hath raised the peaceful cottage, calm abode Of innocence and joy; now, sweating, glides The shining ploughshare; tames the stubborn soil; Leads the long drain along th' unfertile marsh; Bids the bleak hill with vernal verdure bloom, The haunt of flocks; and clothes the barren heath With waving harvests, and the golden grain. Fair from his hand, behold the village rise, In rural pride, 'mong intermingled trees! Above whose aged tops, the joyful swains At even-tide, descending from the hill, With eye enamour'd, mark the many wreaths Of pillar'd smoke, high-curling to the clouds. The street resounds with labour's various voice, Who whistles at his work. Gay on the green, Young blooming boys, and girls with golden hair, Trip nimble-footed, wanton in their play, The village hope. All in a rev'rend row, Their gray-hair'd grandsires, sitting in the sun, Before the gate, and leaning on the staff, The well-remember'd stories of their youth Recount, and shake their aged locks with joy. How fair a prospect rises to the eye, And backward, through the gloom of ages past, JAMES GRAINGER. [Born, 1721. Died, 1766.] DR. JAMES GRAINGER, the translator of Tibullus, was for some time a surgeon in the army; he afterward attempted, without success, to obtain practice as a physician in London, and finally settled in St. Kitt's, where he married the governor's daughter. The novelty of West Indian scenery inspired him with the unpromising subject of the Sugar-cane, in which he very poetically dignifies the poor negroes with the name of "Swains." He died on the same island, a victim to the West Indian fever. ODE TO SOLITUDE. O SOLITUDE, romantic maid! Whether by nodding towers you tread, [See Prior's Life of Goldsmith, vol. i. p. 237.] + If Grainger has invoked the Muse to sing of rats, and metamorphosed, in Arcadian phrase, negro slaves into swains, the fault is in the writer not in the topic. The arguments which he has prefixed are indeed ludicrously flat and formal.-SOUTHEY, Quar. Rev. vol. xi. p. 489. Dr. Grainger's Sugar-cane is capable of being rendered a good poem.-SHENSTONE, Works, vol. iii. p. 343.] Johnson praised Grainger's Ode to Solitude, and repeated with great energy the exordium, observing, "This, sir, is very noble."-CROKER'S Bxwell, vol. iv. p. 50. What makes the poetry in the image of the marble waste of Tadmor, in Grainger's "Ode to Solitude," so much admired by Johnson? Is it the marble or the waste, the 66 You, recluse, again I woo, Plumed Conceit himself surveying, artificial or the natural object? The waste is like all other wastes; but the marble of Palmyra makes the poetry of the passage as of the place.-LORD BYRON, Works, vol. vi. p. 359. This was said by Byron in the great controversy these Specimens gave rise to between Lord Byron and Mr. Bowles the poet,-the Art and Nature squabble. Surely the poe try of the passage does not depend upon a single word: "Tis not a lip or eye, we beauty call. "In this fine Ode," says Percy, "are assembled some of the sublimest images in nature."-Reliques, vol. ii. p. 352.] 2T 2 |