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The above hymn has been claimed for Michael Bruce by Mr. Mackelvie, his biographer, on the faith of 'internal evidence,' because two of the stanzas resemble a fragment in the handwriting of Bruce. subjoin the stanzas and the fragment:

When chill the blast of Winter blows,
Away the Summer flies,

Nipt by the year the forest fades;
And, shaking to the wind,

The leaves toss to and fro, and streak
The wilderness behind.

We

The flowers resign their sunny robes, And all their beauty dies. "The hoar-frost glitters on the ground, the frequent leaf falls from the wood, and tosses to and fro down on the wind. The summer is gone with all his flowers; summer, the season of the muses; yet not the more cease I to wander where the muses haunt near spring or shadowy grove, or sunny hill. It was on a calm morning, while yet the darkness strove with the doubtful twilight, I rose and walked out under the opening eyelids of the morn.'

If the originality of a poet is to be questioned on the ground of such resemblances as the above, what modern is safe? The images in both pieces are common to all descriptive poets. Bruce's Ossianic fragment is patched with expressions from Milton, which are neither marked as quotations nor printed as poetry. The reader will easily recollect the following:

Yet not the more
Cease I to wander where the muses haunt
Clear spring or shady grove, or sunny hill.

Together both, ere the high lawns appeared
Under the opening eyelids of the morn,
We drove afield.

WILLIAM WHITEHEAD.

Par. Lost, Book iii.

Lycidas.

WILLIAM WHITEHEAD (1715-1785) succeeded to the office of poetlaureate, after it had been refused by Gray. He was the son of a baker in Cambridge, and distinguished himself at Winchester School,

on leaving which he obtained a scholarship at Clare Hall, in the university of his native town. He was afterwards tutor to the son of the Earl of Jersey. Whitehead had a taste for the drama, and wrote the Roman Father,' and 'Creusa,' two indifferent plays. After he had received his appointment as laureate, he was attacked by Churchill, and a host of inferior satirists, but he wisely made no reply. In the family of Lord Jersey he enjoyed comfort and happiness, till death, at seventy, put a period to his inoffensive life.

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Variety.

This easy and playful poem opens with the description of a rural pair of easy for tune, who live much apart from society. Two smiling springs had waked the flowers

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Ye lovers, lend your wondering ears, Who count by months, and not by years

Two smiling springs had chaplets wove
To crown their solitude, and love:
When, lo! they find, they can't tell how,
Their walks are not so pleasant now.
The seasons sure were changed; the
place

Had, somehow, got a different face,
Some blast had struck the cheerful scene;
The lawns, the woods were not so green.
The purling rill, which murmured by,
And once was liquid harmony,
Became a sluggish, reedy pool;
The days grew hot, the evenings cool.
The moon, with all the starry reign,
Were melancholy's silent train.
And then the tedious winter-night-
They could not read by candle-light.

Full oft, unknowing why they did,
They called in adventitious aid.
A faithful favourite dog-'twas thus
With Tobit and Telemachus-
Amused their steps; and for a while
They viewed his gambols with a smile.
The kitten, too, was comical,
She played so oddly with her tail,
Or in the glass was pleased to find
Another cat, and peeped behind,

A courteous neighbour at the door,
Was deemed intrusive noise no more.
For rural visits, now and then,
Are right, as men must live with men.
Then cousin Jenny, fresh from town,
A new recruit, a dear delight!
Made many a heavy hour go down,

At morn, at noon, at eve, at night:
Sure they could hear her jokes for ever,
She was so sprightly and so clever!
Yet neighbours were not quite the
thing-
What joy, alas! could converse bring

With awkward creatures bred at home-
The dog grew dull, or troublesome,
The cat had spoiled the kitten's merit,
And, with her youth, had lost her spirit.
And jokes repeated o'er and o'er,
Had quite exhaused Jenny's store.
-And then, my dear, I can't abide
This always sauntering side by side.'
'Enough,' he cries; the reason's plain:
For causes never rack your brain.
Our neighbours are like other folks;
Skip's playful tricks, and Jenny's jokes,
Are still delightful, still would please,
Were we, my dear, ourselves at ease.
Look round, with an impartial eye,
On yonder fields, on yonder sky;
The azure cope, the flowers below,
With all their wonted colours glow;
The rill still murmurs; and the moon
Shines, as she did, a softer sin.
No change has made the seasons fail,
No comet brushed us with his tail.
The scene's the same, the same the
weather-

We live, my dear, too much together.'
Agreed. A rich old uncle dies,
Add added wealth the means supplies.
With eager haste to town they flew,
Where all must please, for all was new.

Advanced to fashion's wavering head,
They now, where once they followed, led;
Devised new systems of delight,
Abed all day and up all night,

In different circles reigned supreme;
Wives copied her, and husbands him;
Till so divinely life ran on,

So separate, so quite bon-ton,
That, meeting in a public place,
They scarcely knew each other's face.
At last they met, by his desire,
A tete-a-tete across the fire:
Looked in each other's face a while,
With half a tear, and half a smile.
The ruddy health, which wont to grace
With manly glow his rural face,
Now scarce retained its faintest streak,
So sallow was his leathern cheek.

She, lank and pale, and hollow-eyed,
With rouge had striven in vain to hide
What once was beauty, and repair
The rapine of the midnight air.

Silence is eloquence, 'tis said. Both wished to speak, both hung the head. At length it burst. "Tis time, he cries, 'When tired of folly, to be wise. Are you, too, tired ?'-then checked a groan.

She wept consent, and he went on.
True to the bias of our kind,
'Tis happiness we wish to find.
In rural scenes retired we sought
In vain the dear, delicious draught,
Though blest with love's indulgent store,
We found we wanted something more
"Twas company, 'twas friends to share
The bliss we languished to declare;
"Twas social converse, change of scene,
To soothe the sullen hour of spleen;
Short absences to wake desire,
And sweet regrets to fan the fire.
'We left the lonesome place, and found,
In dissipation's giddy round,
A thousand novelties to wake
The springs of life, and not to break.
As, from the nest not wandering far,
In light excursions through the air,
The feathered tenants of the grove
Around in mazy circles move,
Sip the cool springs that murmuring flow,
Or taste the blossom on the bough;
We sported freely with the rest;

And still, returning to the nest,
In easy mirth we chatted o'er
The trifles of the day before.
'Behold us now, dissolving quite
In the full ocean of delight;
In pleasures every hour employ,
Immersed in all the world calls joy;
Our affluence easing the expense
Of splendour and magnificence;
Our company, the exalted set

Of all that's gay, and all that's great:
Nor happy yet! and where's the wonder!
We live, my dear, too much asunder!'
The moral of my tale is this:
Variety 's the soul of bliss;
But such variety alone

As makes our home the more our own.
As from the heart's impelling power.
The life-blood pours its genial store;
Though taking each a various way,
The active streams meandering play
Through every artery, every vein,
All to the heart return again;
From thence resume their new career,
But still return and centre there;
So real happiness below
Must from the heart sincerely flow;
Nor, listening to the siren's song,
Must stray too far, or rest too long
All human pleasures thither tend;
Must there beg n, and there must end;
Must there recruit their languid force,
And gain fresh vigour from their source.

SAMUEL BISHOP.

SAMUEL BISHOP (1731-1795) was an English clergyman, Master of Merchant Taylors' School, London, and author of some miscellaneous essays and poems. The best of his poetry was devoted to the praise of his wife; and few can read such lines as the following without believing that Bishop was an amiable and happy man:

To Mrs. Bishop, on the Anniversary of her Wedding-day, which was also her Birthday, with a Ring.

Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed'—
So, fourteen years ago, I said.
Behold another ring!- For what?'
To wed thee o'er again?' Why not?
With that first ring I married youth,
Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth;
Taste long admired, sense long revered,
And all my Molly then appeared.

If she, by merit since disclosed,
Proved twice the woman I supposed,
I plead that double merit now,
To justify a double vow.

Here, then, to-day-with faith as sure,
With ardour as intense, as pure,
As when, amidst the rites divine,

I took thy troth, and plighted mine

To thee, sweet girl, my second ring
A token and a pledge I bring:
With this I wed, till death us part,
Thy riper virtues to my heart;
Those virtues which, before untried,
The wife has added to the bride;
Those virtues, whose progressive claim,
Endearing wedlock's very name,
My soul enjoys, my song approves,
For conscience' sake as well as love's.
And why ?-They shew me every hour
Honour's high thought, Affection's

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CHRISTOPHER SMART.

CHRISTOPHER SMART, an unfortunate and irregular man of genius, was born in 1722 at Shipbourne, in Kent. His father was steward to Lord Barnard-afterwards Earl of Darlington-and dying when his son was eleven years of age, the patronage of Lord Barnard was generously continued to his family. Through the influence of this nobleman, Christopher procured from the Duchess of Cleveland an allowance of £40 per aunum. He was admitted of Pembroke Hall, Cambridge, in 1739, elected a fellow of Pembroke in 1745, and took his degree of M.A. in 1747. At college, Smart was remarkable for folly and extravagance, and his distinguished contemporary Gray prophesied truly that the result of his conduct would be a jail or bedlam. In 1747, he wrote a comedy called a Trip to Cambridge, or the Grateful Fair,' which was acted in Pembroke College Hail, the parlour of which was made the green-room. No remains of this play have been found, excepting a few songs and a mock-heroic soliloquy, the latter containing the following humorous simile:

Thus when a barber and a collier fight,

The barber beats the luckless collier white;
The dusty collier heaves his ponderous sack,
And, big with vengeance, beats the barber black.
In comes the brick-dust man, with grime o'erspread,
And beats the collier and the barber red;

Black, red, and white, in various clouds are tossed,
And in the dust they raise the combatants are lost.

Having written several pieces for periodicals published by Newbery, Smart became acquainted with the bookseller's family, and married his step-daughter, Miss Carnan, in the year 1753 He now removed

to London, and endeavoured to subsist by his pen. The notorious Sir John Hill-whose wars with the Royal Society, with Fielding, &c. are well known, and who closed his life by becoming a quack-doctor-having insidiously attacked Smart, the latter replied by a spirited satire, entitled 'The Hilliad.' Among his various tasks was a metrical translation of the 'Fables' of Phædrus. He also translated the psalms and parables into verse, but the version is destitute of talent. He had, however, in his better days, translated with success, and to Pope's satisfaction, the Ode on St. Cecilia's Day.' In 1756, Smart was one of the conductors of a monthly periodical called 'The Universal Visitor; and to assist him, Johnson -who sincerely sympathised, as Boswell relates, with Smart's unhappy vacillation of mind-contributed a few essays. In 1763, we find the poor poet confined in a madhouse. 'He has partly as much exercise,' said Johnson, as he used to have, for he digs in the garden. Indeed, before his confinement, he used for exercise to walk to the alehouse; but he was carried back again. I did not think he ought to be shut up. His infirmities were not noxious to society. He insisted

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on people praying with him-also falling upon his knees and saying his prayers in the street, or in any other unusual place; and I'd as lief pray with Kit Smart as any one else. Another charge was, that he did not love clean linen; and I have no passion for it.' During his confinement, it is said, writing materials were denied him, and Smart used to indent his poetical thoughts with a key on the wainscot of his walls. A religious poem, the Song to David,' written at this time in his saner intervals, possesses passages of considerable power, and must be considered one of the greatest curiosities of our literature. What the unfortunate poet did not write down-and the whole could not possibly have been committed to the walls of his apartment-must have been composed and retained from memory alone. Smart was afterwards released from his confinement; but his ill-fortune-following, we suppose, his intemperate habits-again pursued him. He was committed to the King's Bench prison for debt, and died there, after a short illness, in 1770. The following is part of his

Song to David.

O thou, that sit'st upon a throne,
With harp of high, majestic tone,
To praise the King of kings:
And voice of heaven, ascending swell,
Which, white its deeper notes excel,
Clear as a clarion rings:

To bless each valley, grove, and coast,
And charm the cherubs to the post

Of gratitude in throngs;
To keep the days on Zion's Mount,
And sen the year to his account,
With dances and with songs:

O servant of God's holiest charge,
The minister of praise at large,

Which thou mayest now receive;
From thy blest mansion hail and hear,
From topmost eminence appear

To this the wreath I weaye.

Great, valiant, pious, good, and clean,
Sublime, contemplative, serene,

Strong, constant, pleasant, wise!
Bright effluence of exceeding grace;
Best man! the swiftness and the race,
The peril and the prize!

Great-from the lustre of his crown,
From Samuel's horn, and God's renown,
Which is the people's voice;
For all the host, from rear to van,
Applauded and embraced the man-
The man of God's own choice.

Valiant-the word, and up he rose;
The fight-he triumphed o'er the foes
Whom God's just laws abhor;

And, armed in gallant faith, he took
Against the boaster, from the brook,
The weapons of the war.

Pious-magnificent and grand,
'Twas he the famous temple planned-
The seraph in his soul:

Foremost to give the Lord his dues,
Foremost to bless the welcome news,
And foremost to condole.

Good-from Jehudah's genuine vein,
From God's best nature, good in grain
His aspect and his heart:
To pity, to forgive, to save,
Witness En-gedi's conscious cave,
And Shimei's blunted dart.

Clean-if perpetual prayer be pure,
And love, which could itself inure
To fasting and to fear-

Clean in his gestures, hands, and feet,
To smite the lyre, the dance complete,
To play the sword and spear.

Sublime-invention ever young,
Of vast conception, towering tongue,
To God the eternal theme;
Notes from yon exaltations caught,
Unrivalled royalty of thought,

O'er meaner strains supreme.

Contemplative-on God to fix
His musings, and above the six
The Sabbath-day he blest; [pruned,
'Twas then his thoughts self-conquest
And heavenly melancholy tuned,
To bless and bear the rest.

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