he describes himself in these terms: "You may remember my last expedition to London. I think I may be convinced by it that I am not calculated for the business you mention. Though I scribble (not a little neither) to amuse myself, the moment I should consider it as my duty it would cease to be an amusement, and I should of consequence be weary on't. I am not enterprising and am tolerably happy in my present situation."

In 1762, he published The Contemplatist, but with less success than his Elegy. It may here be mentioned that in 1765, he published Fortune, an Apologue, in which there are some poetical beauties, particularly the description of avarice, but not much consistency of plan; and in the following year he collected his poems into a volume, which was honoured by a numerous list of subscribers.

A few months before his death, being incapable of any theatrical exertion, he was removed to the house of a friend in Newcastle, who, with great kindness, received him under his roof, and paid every attention to him which his state required. After lingering some time under a nervous disor der, during which he burnt all his papers, he died on the 18th of September, 1773, and was buried in St. John's church-yard, Newcastle. On a tombstone erected to his memory is the following inscription:

Although Cunningham cannot be admitted to a very high rank among poets, he may be allowed

to possess a considerable share of genius. His poems have a peculiar sweetness and elegance: his sentiments are generally natural, and his language is simple, and appropriate to his subject, except in some of his longer pieces, where he accumulates epithets that appear to be laboured, and are sometimes uncouth compounds, either obsolete or unauthorized. As he contemplated nature with a fond and minute attention, and had familiarized his mind to rural scenes and images, his pastorals will probably continue to be his most favoured efforts. He has informed us that Shenstone, with whose correspondence he was honoured, encouraged him to cultivate this species of poetry. His Landscape is a cluster of beauties which every reader must feel, and such as only a very accurate observer of nature could have grouped with equal effect. His fables are ingenious, and his lyric pieces were at one time in very high estimation. His love verses, and his tributes of affection, bespeak considerable ardour. If he does not often move the passions, he always pleases the fancy, and his works have lost little of the popu larity with which they were originally attended,

SELECT POEMS.

MISCELLANIES.

Nox erat

THE CONTEMPLATIST:

A NIGHT PIECE.

Cum tacet omnis ager, pecudes, pictæque volucres.

THE queen of Contemplation, Night,

Begins her balmy reign; Advancing in their varied light

Her silver-vested train.

'Tis strange, the many marshall'd stars,
That ride yon sacred round,
Should keep, among their rapid cars,
A silence so profound!

A kind, a philosophic calm,

The cool creation wears!
And what Day drank of dewy balm,
The gentle Night repairs.

Behind their leafy curtains hid,

The feather'd race how still! How quiet now the gamesome kid, That gamboll'd round the hill!

The sweets, that bending o'er their banks, From sultry day declin'd,

Revive in little velvet ranks,

And scent the western wind.

The moon, preceded by the breeze
That bade the clouds retire,
Appears, amongst the tufted trees,
A phoenix-nest on fire.

But soft-the golden glow subsides!
Her chariot mounts on high!
And now, in silver'd pomp, she rides
Pale regent of the sky!

Where Time, upon the wither'd tree
Hath carv'd the moral chair,
I sit, from busy passions free,
And breathe the placid air.

The wither'd tree was once in prime;
Its branches brav'd the sky!
Thus, at the touch of ruthless Time,
Shall youth and vigour die.

I'm lifted to the blue expanse :
It glows serenely gay!

Come, Science, by my side, advance,
We'll search the milky-way.

Let us descend-The daring flight

Fatigues my feeble mind;
And Science, in the maze of light,

Is impotent and blind.

What are those wild, those wandering fires,
That o'er the moorland ran ?—
Vapours. How like the vague desires
That cheat the heart of Man!

But there's a friendly guide!-a flame,
That lambent o'er its bed,
Enlivens, with a gladsome beam,
The hermit's osier-shed.

Among the russet shades of night,
It glances from afar;

And darts along the dusk, so bright,
It seems a silver star!

In coverts, where the few frequent,
If Virtue deigns to dwell;
'Tis thus, the little lamp, Content,
Gives lustre to her cell.

How smooth that rapid river slides,
Progressive to the deep!

The poppies, pendent o'er its sides,
Have charm'd the waves to sleep.

Pleasure's intoxicated sons!
Ye indolent! ye gay!
Reflect-for, as the river runs,
Life wings its trackless way.

That branching grove of dusky green
Conceals the azure sky;

Save where a starry space, between,
Relieves the darken'd eye.

Old Error, thus, with shades impure,
Throws sacred Truth behind!

Yet sometimes, through the deep obscure,
She bursts upon the mind.

Sleep, and her sister Silence reign;

They lock the shepherd's fold; But hark-I hear a lamb complain, 'Tis lost upon the wold!

To savage herds, that hunt for prey,
An unresisting prize!

For having trod a devious way,

The little rambler dies.

VOL. XXXII.

Z