zon, but this bill is like a black cloud behind it, that threatens their hope of a comfortable day with utter extinction. I did not perceive 'till this moment, that I had tacked two similies together, a practice, which though warranted by the example of Homer, and allowed in an Epic Poem, is rather luxuriant and licentious in a Letter; lest I should add another, I conclude. I account myself sufficiently commended for my Latin exercise, by the number of translations it has undergone, That, which you distinguished in the margin, by the title of "better," was the production of a friend, and, except that, for a modest reason, he omitted the third couplet, I think it a good one. To finish the group, I have translated it myself; and, though I would not wish you to give it to the world, for more reasons than one, es pecially lest some French hero should call me to account for itFadd it on the other side. An author ought to be the best judge of his own meaning; and, whether I have succeeded or not, I cannot but wish, that where a translator is wanted, the writer was always to be his own. False, cruel, disappointed, stung to the heart, Bids the low street, and lofty palace blaze. Her sons, too weak to vanquish us alone, She hires the worst, and basest of our own. Kneel, France! a suppliant conquers us with ease, ་ ་ ་ We always spare a coward on his knees. I have often wondered that Dryden's illustrious epigram on Milton, (in my mind the second best that ever was made) has never been translated into Latin, for the admiration of the learned in other countries. I have at last presumed to venture upon the task myself. The great closeness of the original, which is equal in that respect, to the most compact Latin I ever saw, made it extremely difficult. Tres tria, sed longè distantia, sæcula vates Roma tulit, felix Anglia utrique parem. I have not one bright thought upon the Chancellor's recovery; nor can I strike off so much as one sparkling atom from that brilliant subject. It is not when I will, nor upon what I will, but as a thought happens to occur to me; and then I versify, whether I will or not. I never write but for my amusement; and what I write is sure to answer that end, if it answers no other. If, besides this purpose, the more desirable one of entertaining you be effected, I then receive double fruit of my labour, and consider this produce of it as a second crop, the more valuable, because less expected. But when I have once remitted a composition to you, I have done with it. It is pretty certain, that I shall never read it, or think of it again. From that moment I have constituted you sole judge of its accomplishments, if it has any, and of its defects, which it is sure to have. For this reason I decline answering the question, with which you concluded your last, and can not persuade myself to enter into a critical examen of the two pieces upon Lord Mansfield's loss, either with respect to their intrinsic, or comparative merit, and, indeed, after having rather discouraged that use of them, which you had designed, there is no occasion for it. W. C. The poet's affectionate effort in renewing his correspondence with Mrs. Cowper, to whom he had been accustomed to pour forth his heart without reserve, appears to have had a beneficial effect on his reviving spirits. His pathetic Letter to that lady was followed, in the course of two months, by a Letter of a more lively cast, in which the reader will find some touches of his native humour, and a vein of pleasantry peculiar to himself. LETTER LVIII. To Mrs. COWPER. MY DEAR COUSIN, July 20, 1780. Mr. Newton having de sired me to be of the party, I am come to meet him. You see me sixteen years older, at the least, than when I saw you last; but the effects of time seem to have taken place rather on the outside of my head, than within it. What was brown, is become grey, but what was foolish, remains foolish still. [Green fruit must rot before it ripens, if the season is such as to afford it nothing but cold winds and dark clouds, that interrupt every ray of sunshine. My days steal away silently, and march on (as poor mad Lear would have made his soldiers march) as if they were shod with felt; not so silently, but that I hear them; yet were it not that I am always listening to their flight, having no infirmity that I had not, when I was much younger, I should deceive myself with an imagination that I am still young. I am fond of writing, as an amusement, but do not always find it one. Being rather scantily furnished with subjects, that are good for any thing, and corresponding only with those, who have no relish for such as are good for nothing, I often find myself reduced to the necessity, the disagreeable necessity, of writing about myself. This does not mend the matter much, for though in a description of my own condition, I discover abundant materials to employ my pen upon, yet as the task is not very agreeable |