For I would rather never judge than wrong Who half our lords with filthy praise besmears, And sing an anthem to All Ministers: Taste the' Attic salt in every peer's poor rebus, And crown each Gothic idol for a Phoebus. Alas! so far from free, so far from brave, When a wild poet with licentious rage They were so tender and so easy moved, K Brown and L'Estrange will surely charm whome'er And who devours whate'er the cook can dish up, 13 See Felton's Classics. IMITATIONS OF SHAKSPEARE AND SPENSER. Advertisement from the Publisher'. THE following Imitation of Shakspeare was one of our author's first attempts in poetry, made when he was very young. It helped to amuse the solitude of a winter passed in a wild romantic country; and, what is rather particular, was just finished when Mr. Thomson's celebrated poem upon the same subject appeared. Mr. Thomson, soon hearing of it, had the curiosity to procure a copy by the means of a common acquaintance. He showed it to his poetical friends, Mr. Mallet, Mr. Aaron Hill, and Dr. Young, who, it seems, did great honour to it: and the first-mentioned gentleman wrote to one of his friends at Edinburgh, desiring the author's leave to publish it; a request too flattering to youthful vanity to be resisted. But Mr. Mallet altered his mind; and this little piece has hitherto remained unpublished. The other Imitations of Shakspeare happen to have been saved out of the ruins of an unfinished tragedy on the story of Tereus and Philomela; attempted upon an irregular and extravagant plan, at an age much too early for such achievements. However, they are here exhibited for the sake of such guests as may like a little repast of scraps. Prefixed to these Imitations in Cadell's edition of 1770. IMITATIONS OF SHAKSPEARE. Now Summer with her wanton court is gone out The stiffening regions; while, by stronger charms Than Circè e'er or fell Medea brew'd, Each brook, that wont to prattle to its banks, Lies all bestill'd and wedged betwixt its banks, Nor moves the wither'd reeds: and the rash flood That from the mountains held its headstrong course, Buried in livid sheets of vaulting ice, Seen through the shameful breaches, idly creeps What wonder? when the floating wilderness Tossing with fretful spleen their angry heads E'en in the foam of all their madness, struck To monumental ice, stand all astride The rocks they wash'd so late. Such execution, With his keen sabre cropp'd her horrid head, to stone Their savage tenants: just as the foaming lion Has changed our ships to horses; the swift bark That now from isle to isle maintain the trade; Meantime the evening skies, crusted with ice, Shifting from red to black their weighty skirts, Hang mournful o'er the hills; and stealing Night Rides the bleak puffing winds, that seem to spit Their foam sparse through the welkin, which is nothing If not beheld. Anon the burden'd heaven Shakes from its ample sieve the bolted snow, That, fluttering down, besprinkles the sad trees In mockery of leaves; piles up the hills |