Smollett lingered through the summer, and, after much suffering, died on the twenty-first of October, 1771, at the untimely age of fifty-one years. It is much to be feared that his end was hastened by grief for the loss of his much loved child, and by chagrin at unmerited neglect. His widow long continued to reside in the neighbourhood of Leghorn, supporting herself in obscurity and with difficulty upon the small remnant of fortune which he had been able to bequeath to her; and she diminished her slender means by erecting a plain monument to his memory, on which was engraved an inscription written by his friend Dr. Armstrong.

Smollett's verses are few, but they are excellent; they breathe inspiration. Who does not regret that he should be so entirely occupied in literary drudgery as to leave him no leisure to give us more ? “The Ode to Independence," " The Tears of Scotland,” and the beautiful little pastoral ode “ To Leven Water," are, however, enough to give him no mean rank among the lyrical poets of Britain.

His literary character has been drawn by Sir Walter Scott, with the felicity and the enthusiasm of kindred genius, in an elegant memoir prefixed to his novels, of which we have availed ourselves in this slight sketch: it is worthy of being quoted at length; but we content ourselves with that portion which relates to the poetry of Smollett.

Every successful novelist must be more or less a POET, even though he may never have written a line of verse. The quality of imagination is absolutely indispensable to him: his accurate

powers of examining and embodying human character and human passion, as well as the external face of nature, is not less essential; and the talent of describing well what he feels with acuteness, added to the above requisites, goes far to complete the poetic character. Smollett was, even in the ordinary sense which limits the name to those who write verses, a poet of distinction; and in this particular superior to Fielding, who seldom aims at more than a slight translation from the classics.”—In a note upon this

passage, Mr. Campbell's opinion of Smollett's poems is cited, in which he says——“They have a portion of delicacy not to be found in his novels; but they have not, like those prose fictions, the strength of a master's hand.” The truth is (adds Sir Walter Scott), that in these very novels are expended many of the ngredients both of grave and humorous poetry."

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The spirit, Independence, let me share,

Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye, Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare,

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky. Deep in the frozen regions of the north, A goddess violated brought thee forth, Immortal Liberty! whose look sublime Hath bleach'd the tyrant's cheek in every varying clime. What time the iron-hearted Gaul,

With frantic superstition for his guide, Arm’d with the dagger and the pall,

The sons of Woden to the field defied; The ruthless hag, by Weser's flood,

In Heaven's name urged the infernal blow;

And red the stream began to flow:
The vanquish'd were baptized with blood !'


The Saxon prince in horror fled

From altars stained with human gore; And Liberty his routed legions led,

In safety, to the bleak Norwegian shore. There in a cave asleep she lay,

Lull’d by the hoarse-resounding main; When a bold savage pass'd that way,

Impell’d by destiny, his name Disdain.

1 Charlemagne offered the Saxons the alternative of death or Christianity, and it is said, that after having obliged four thousand Saxon prisoners to embrace the Christian religion, immediately after they were baptized, he ordered their throats to be cut.—Their prince Vitikind fled for shelter to Gotrick, King of Denmark.

Of ample front the portly chief appearid:

The hunted bear supplied a shaggy vest; The drifted snow hung on his yellow beard;

And his broad shoulders braved the furious blast. He stopp'd-he gazed—his bosom glow'd,

And deeply felt the' impression of her charms: He seized the' advantage Fate allow'd;

And straight compress’d her in his vigorous arms.


The curlew scream'd, the tritons blew

Their shells to celebrate the ravish'd rite;
Old Time exulted as he flew;

And Independence saw the light.
The light he saw in Albion's happy plains,

Where under cover of a flowering thorn,
While Philomel renew'd her warbled strains,

The' auspicious fruit of stolen embrace was hornThe niountain dryads seized with joy

The smiling infant to their charge consign'd; The Doric Muse caress'd the favourite boy;

The hermit Wisdom stored his opening mind. As rolling years matured his age,

He flourish'd bold and sinewy as his sire; While the mild passions in his breast assuage The fieroer flames of his maternal sire.

ANTISTROPHE. Accomplish'd thus, he wing'd his way,

And zealous roved from pole to pole, The rolls of right eternal to display,

And warm with patriot thoughts the' aspiring soul. On desert isles' 'twas he that raised

Those spires that gild the Adriatic wave, Where Tyranny beheld amazed

Fair Freedom's Temple, where he mark'd her grave. He steel'd the blunt Batavian's arms

To burst the' Iberian's double chain;And cities rear'd, and planted farms,

Won from the skirts of Neptune's wide domain. 1 Although Venice was built a considerable time before the era here assigned for the birth of Independence, the republic had not yet attained to any great degree of power and splendour.

2 The Low Countries were not only oppressed by grievous taxations, but likewise threatened with the establishment of the Inquisition, when the Seven Provinces revolted, and shook off the yoke of Spain.

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