And, after fruitless efforts, you return And furnish food for critics,† or their quills. Vir bonus et prudens versus reprehendet inertes: * Bastard of your brains.-Minerva being the first by Jupiter's head-piece, and a variety of equally unaccountable parturitions upon earth, such as Madoc, &c. &c. &c. "A crust for the critics."-Bayes, in the Rehearsal. ↑ And the "waiters" are the only fortunate people who can "fly" from them; all the rest, viz. the sad subscribers to the "Literary Fund," being compelled, by courtesy, sit out the recitation without a hope of exclaiming, Sic" (that is, by noaking Fitz, with bad wine or worse poetry) "me Krvavit Apollo !"" If by some chance he walks into a well, Budgell, a rogue and rhymester, for no good, Small thanks from him who loathes the life he leaves And hence is haunted with a rhyming rage- Fatal at once to simpleton or wit. But him, unhappy! whom he seizes,-him He flays with recitation limb by limb; Objectos caveæ valuit si frangere clathros, § On his table were found these words: What Cato did and Addison ap proved cannot be wrong." But Addison did not "approve ;" and if he had. it would not have mended the matter. He had invited his daughter on the same water party, but Miss Budgell, by some accident, escaped this last paternal attention. Thus fell the sycophant of “Atticus,” and the enemy of Pope. If "dosed with," &c. be censured as low, I beg leave to refer to the original for something still lower; and if any reader will translate ♫ Minxerit in patries cineres," &c. into a decent couplet, I will insert said couple! in lieu of the present. "Difficile est proprie communia dicere."—Mde. Dacier, Mde. de Sevigne, Boileau, and others, have left their dispute on the meaning of this passage in a tract considerably longer than the poem of Horace. It is printed at the close of the eleventh volume of Madame de Sevigne's Letters, edited by Grovelle, Paris, 1806. Presuming that all who can construe may venture an opinion on such subjects, particularly as so many who can not have taken the same liberty, I should have held my "farthing candle" as awk wardly as another, had not my respect for the wits of Louis the Fourteenth's Augustan siecle induced me to subjoin these illustrious authorities. 1st, Boileau: "Il est difficile de traiter des sujets qui sont a la portee de tout lá monde d'une maniere qui vous les rende propres, ce qui s'appelle s'approprier un sujet par le tour qu' on donne." 2dly, Batteux: "Mais il est bien difficile de donner des traits propres et individuels aux etres purement possibles." 3dly, Dacier: "Il est difficile de traiter convenablement ces caracteres que fout le monde peut inventer." Mde. de Sevigne's opinion and translation, consisting of some thirty pages, Iomit, particularly as M. Grouvelle observes "La chose est bien remarquable, aucune de ces diverses interpretations ne parait etre la veritable." But, by way of comfort, it seems, fifty years afterwards, "Le lumineux Dumarsais" made his appearance to set Horace on his legs again, "dissiper tous les nuages, et concilier tous les dissentimens ;" and, some fifty years hence, somebody, still more luminous, will doubtless start up and demolish Dumarsais and his system on this weighty affair, as if he were no better than Ptolemy and Tycho, or comments of no more consequence than astronomical calculations on the presen! I am happy to say, "la longueur de la dissertation" of M. D. pro vents M. G. from saying any more on the matter. A better poet than Boilea and at least as good a scholar as Sevigne, has said, "A little learning is a dangerous thing." And by this comparison of comments it may be perceived how a good de may be rendered 2 xerilous to the proprietors comet. 722 Additions to the Hours of Idleness. [There were several editions of the Hours of Idleness published in England; but no one of them, until that of 1832, contained all the pieces which properly belonged to that collection The following, when added to those in front of the book, make up the complete number.] Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you! To Ida full of may remembrance restore me, But it, through the course of the years which await me, Some new scene of pleasure should open to view, 1 will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me, *Oh! such were the days which my fancy knew." 1806. TO D. 1. In thee I fondly hoped to clasp A friend, whom death alone could sever; Till envy, with malignant grasp, Detach'd thee from my breast for ever. 2. True, she has forced thee from my breast; Yet in my heart thou keep'st thy seat; There, there thine image still must rest, Until that heart shall cease to beat. 3. And, when the grave restores her dead, On thy dear breast I'll lay my head-- TO EDDLESTON. 1... Let Folly smile, to view the names And though unequal is thy, fate, Thine is the pride of modest worth. Our souls at least congenial meet, REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M B. PIGOT, ESQ ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS. 1. Why, Pigot, complain Of this damsel's disdain, Why thus in despair do you fret? For months you may try, Will never obtain a coquette. 2. Would you teach her to love? At first she may frown in a pet; She shortly will smile, And then you may kiss your coquette LINES WRITTEN IN “LETTERS OF AN ITALIAN "Away, away! your flattering arts NSWER TO THE FOREGoing, addrESSED TO MISS Mere phantoms of thine own creation; Then he who tells thee of thy beauty, July, 1804. Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties, Have for my weakness oft reproved me; Yet still the simple gift I prize, For I am sure the giver loved me. He offer'd it with downcast look, This pledge attentively I view'd, ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY Cousin to the Author, and very dear to him. 1. Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening glow Not e'en a zephyr, wanders through the grove, Whilst I return to view my Margaret's tomb, And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 2. Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, That clay where once such animation beam'd; The King of Terrors seized her as his prey, Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem'd 3. Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel, Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate! Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, Nor here the Muse her virtues would relate. 4. But wherefore weep? her matchless spirit soars Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day; And weeping angels lead her to those bowers Where endless pleasures virtue's deeds repay. 5. And shall presumptuous mortals heaven arraign, Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face; Still they call forth my warm affection's tear, Still in my heart retain their wonted place. ΤΟ ΕΜΜΑ. 1. Since now the hour is come at last, When you must quit your anxious lover; Since now our dream of bliss is past, One pang, my girl, and all is over. 2. Alas! that pang will be severe, Which bids us part to meet no more, Which tears me far from one so dear, Departing for a distant shore. 3. Well: we have pass'd some happy hours, Where from the gothic casement's height, 5. O'er fields through which we used to run, 6. Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, Yet envied every fly the kiss It dared to give your slumbering eyes: 7. See still the little painted bark, In which I row'd you o'er the lake; See there, high waving o'er the park, The elm I clamber'd for your sake. 8. These times are past-our joys are gone, You leave me, leave this happy vale; These scenes I must retrace alone; Without thee what will they avail? 9. Who can conceive, who has not proved, This is the deepest of our woes, For this these tears our cheeks bedew; This is of love the final close, Oh, God, the fondest, last adieu! TO M. S. G. 1. WHENE'ER I view those lips of thine, Their hue invites my fervent kiss; Yet I forego that bliss divine, Alas! it were unhallow'd bliss. 2. Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, Yet is the daring wish represt, For that, would banish its repose. A glance from thy soul-searching eye Yet I conceal my love, and why? I would not force a painful tear. I ne'er have told my love, yet thou No! for thou never canst be mine, By any ties but those divine, Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. 6. Then let the secret fire consume, I will not ease my tortured heart, Each thought presumptuous I resign. 8. Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave 9. Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair, And hope no more thy soft embrace, Which to obtain my soul would dare, All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. 10. At least from guilt shalt thou be free, No matron shall thy shame reprove; Though cureless pangs may prey on me, No martyr shalt thou be to love. TO CAROLINE. 1. THINK'ST thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, And heard unmoved thy plenteous sighs, Which said far more than words can say ? 2. Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, But when our cheeks with anguish glow'd, 4. Thou could'st not feel my burning cheek, Thy gushing tears had quench'd its flame And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, In sighs alone it breathed my name. And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, But that will make us weep the more. Again, thou best beloved, adieu! Ah! if thou canst o'ercome regret, Nor let thy mind past joys review,Our only hope is to forget! TO CAROLINE. 1. WHEN I hear you express an affection so warm, Yet still, this fond bosom regrets while adoring, That the time must arrive, when, no longer retaining Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to the |