Yet hope not life from grief or danger free, Nor think the doom of man revers'd for thee; Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes, And pause awhile from learning to be wise;

There mark what ills the scholar's life assail,

Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail.
See nations, slowly wise, and meanly just,
To buried merit raise the tardy bust.
If dreams yet flatter, once again attend,
Hear Lydiat's life and Galileo's end,
Nor deem, when learning her last prize bestows,
The glittering eminence exempt from foes.
See when the vulgar 'scapes despis'd or aw'd,
Rebellion's vengeful talons seize on Laud.
From meaner minds, tho' smaller fines content,
The plunder'd palace or sequester'd rent;
Mark'd out by dangerous parts he meets the shock,
And fatal learning leads him to the block.
Around his tomb let art and genius weep;
But hear his death, ye blockheads, hear and sleep.”*

;

To this description praise cannot be denied for its general viguor and harmony render it a distinguished part of the poem before us. But the propriety

of

* This is a subject which he has treated separately, but not so happily as in the above quotation. He considers the young author as publishing his writings, and not meeting with success he retires to some retreat, where safe from critics

"He begs of heaven a less distinguish'd lot,
Glad to be hid, and proud to be forgot."

of the expression, lettered heart, is, I think, doubtful.

In point of accuracy and spirit, the description of old age, beginning 1. 255, and ending 290, is entitled to high commendation. But it is not, upon the whole, equal to the former. This was,

indeed, a subject he delighted to expatiate upon; and has, in the Rambler, described almost every possible misery attendant on that state of debility; and I know not whether those delineations have not more of true poetry in them than the present.

After considering the infelicities of old age, as incident to all men, he proceeds to shew that even the decline of him who is exempt from scorn or crime; whose life melts with unperceived decay; and whose night congratulating conscience cheers, is not exempt from some distress, either more or less, and proceeding from a different cause.

"Yet e'en on this, her load misfortune flings,
To press the weary minutes' flagging wings;
New sorrow rises as the day returns,
A sister sickens or a daughter mourns.
Now kindred merit fills the sable bier,
Now lacerated friendship claims a tear.

Year

Year chases year, decay pursues decay,

away:

Still drops some joy from with'ring life
New forms arise, and different views engage,
Superfluous lags the veteran on the stage,
Till pitying nature signs the last release,
And bids afflicted worth retire to peace."

From these quotations it is, I think, manifest how far superior the present poem is to the London of Johnson. While the former contains nothing that is remarkable, this frequently presents striking lines and paragraphs, and is often laboured into dignity; the language is more pure, the ideas more vivid, and the versification more harmonious yet Johnson's claim to poetry is very doubtful. He was too much given to reasoning and declamation ever to attain those heights of sublimity which astonish and delight. If he seldom offends by his harshness he as seldom exhilarates by his vivacity; and though he did not detract from our poetic dignity, he cannot be said to have added any thing to it. As his reflections were always melancholy, so his writings have the same cast: and as this is a disease which does not allow very vigorous or very frequent excur

sions to the intellect, his images are not much varied; and analogous ideas are generally excited by events the most dissimilar. It was not in his power to assume much variety, nor did he seek to improve this inability by labour; for he was, I believe, little ambitious of the title of poet; an indifference proceeding, perhaps, from a consciousness of natural disqualifications for the exercise of that exalted function. The soft graces he never could attain, though he sometimes exhibits strength and elegance. He was, indeed, soon aware that his abilities did not consist in poetry; for he began it late, and abandoned it early and it is very probable that had he been exempt from want, he never would have produced the imitations of Juvenal. In short, his poetic character may be given in his own words: "He is elegant but not great; he never labours after exquisite beauties; and he seldom falls into gross faults. His versification is smooth, but rarely vigorous; and his rhymes are remarkably exact."

Rasselas has been considered as the masterpiece of Johnson, and has received very extensive and indeed merited com

mendation.

mendation. will often hurry us beyond deserved praise, and sink us in the meanness of hyperbole; and I fear this is sometimes the case with the Prince of Abyssinia. The language is harmonious, the arguments are acute, and the reflections are novel-but with all its splendour it exhibits a gloomy and imperfect picture. An excuse may indeed be offered for the melancholy scenes of life contained in this performance, which must be denied to the Rambler. Every one knows that Rasselas was composed to obtain money to behold an expiring parent whom Johnson tenderly loved; and it may be supposed that the gloom occasioned by such an approaching event, might in some measure tincture his writings. It is also to be remembered that he wrote it in want. These are indeed raisons de convenance, and might be admitted, did the Prince of Abyssinia stand out as an exception to his other writings: But as it is too much like all his other speculations upon life, we may justly conclude, that the same Rasselas would have been produced,

But admiration of the man

G