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persuasion of Swift, with his treasurer's staff in his hand, to inquire for him, and to bid him welcome; and, as may be inferred from Pope's dedication, admitted him as a favourite companion to his convivial hours, but, as it seems often to have happened in those times to the favourites of the great, without attention to his fortune, which, however, was in no great need of improvement.

Parnell, who did not want ambition or vanity, was desirous to make himself conspicuous, and to show how worthy he was of high preferment. As he thought himself qualified to become a popular preacher, he displayed his elocution with great success in the pulpits of London; but the queen's death putting an end to his expectations, abated his diligence; and Pope represents him as falling from that time into intemperance of wine. That in his latter life he was too much a lover of the bottle, is not denied; but I have heard it imputed to a cause more likely to obtain forgiveness from mankind, the untimely death of a darling son; or, as others tell, the loss of his wife, who died (1712) in the midst of his expectations.

He was now to derive every future addition to his preferments from his personal interest with his private friends, and he was not long unregarded. He was warmly recommended by Swift to archbishop King, who gave him a prebend in 1713; and in May 1716 presented him to the vicarage of Finglass, in the diocese of Dublin, worth four hundred pounds a year. Such notice from such a man inclines me to believe, that the vice of which he has been accused was not gross, or not notorious.

But his prosperity did not last long. His end, whatever was its cause, was now approaching. He enjoyed his preferment little more than a year; for in July 1717, in his thirty-eighth year, he died at Chester on his way to Ireland.

He seems to have been one of those poets who take delight in writing. He contributed to the papers of that time, and probably published more than he owned. He left many compositions behind him, of which Pope selected those which he thought best, and dedicated them to the earl of Oxford. Of these Goldsmith has given an opinion, and his criticism it is seldom safe to contradict. He bestows just praise upon The Rise of Woman, The Fairy Tale, and the Pervigilium Veueris; but has very properly remarked, that in The Battle of Mice and Frogs the Greek names have not in English their original effect,

He tells us, that The Book Worm is borrowed from Beza; but he should have added with modern applications; and, when he discovers that Gay Bacchus is translated from Augurellus, he ought to have remarked, that the latter part is purely Parnell's. Another poem, When Spring comes on, is, he says, taken from the French. I would add, that the description of Barrenness, in his verses to Pope, was borrowed from Secundus; but lately searching for the passage, which I had formerly read, I could not find it. The Night-piece on Death is indirectly preferred by Goldsmith to Gray's Church-yard; but, in my opinion, Gray has the advantage of dignity, variety, and originality of sentiment. He observes, that the story of the Hermit is in More's Dialogues and Howell's Letters, and supposes it to have been originally Arabian.

Goldsmith has not taken any notice of the Elegy to the old Beauty, which is, perhaps, the meanest; nor of the Allegory on Man, the happiest of Parnell's performances. The hint of the Hymn to Contentment I suspect to have been borrowed from Cleiveland.

The general character of Parnell is not great extent of comprehension, or fertility of mind. Of the little that appears still less is his own. His praise must be derived from

the easy sweetness of his diction: in his verses there is more happiness than pains; he is sprightly without effort, and always delights, though he never ravishes; every thing is proper, yet every thing seems casual. If there is some appearance of elaboration in the Hermit, the narrative, as it is less' airy is less pleasing. Of his other compositions it is impossible to say whether they are the productions of Nature, so excellent as not to want the help of Art, or of Art so refined as to resemble Nature.

This criticism relates only to the pieces published by Pope. Of the large appendages which I find in the last edition, I can only say, that I know not whence they came, nor have ever inquired whither they are going. They stand upon the faith of the compilers.

Dr. Warton asks, "less than what?" C.

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AND

EARL MORTIMER.

SUCH were the notes thy once-lov'd poet sung,

Till death untimely stopp'd his tuneful tongue. Oh, just beheld, and lost! admir'd, and mourn'd! With softest manners, gentlest arts adorn'd! Blest in each science, blest in every strain; Dear to the Muse, to Harley dear-in vain! For him thou oft hast bid the world attend, Fond to forget the statesman in the friend: For Swift and him, despis'd the farce of state, The sober follies of the wise and great; Dextrous, the craving, fawning crowd to quit, And pleas'd to 'scape from flattery to wit.

Absent or dead, still let a friend be dear,
(A sigh the absent claims, the dead a tear)
Recall those nights that clos'd thy toilsome days,
Still hear thy Parnell in his living lays:
Who, careless now, of interest, fame, or fate,
Perhaps forgets that Oxford e'er was great;
Or, deeming meanest what we greatest call,
Beholds thee glorious only in thy fall.

And sure, if aught below the seats divine
Can touch immortals, 'tis a soul like thine:
A soul supreme, in each hard instance try'd,
Above all pain, all anger, and all pride;
The rage of power, the blast of public breath,
The lust of lucre, and the dread of death.

In vain to deserts thy retreat is made;
The Muse attends thee to thy silent shade:
"Tis hers, the brave man's latest steps to trace,
Re-judge his acts, and dignify disgrace.
When Interest calls off all her sneaking train,
When all th' oblig'd desert, and al! the vain;
She waits, or to the scaffold, or the cell,
When the last lingering friend has bid farewel.
Ev'n now she shades thy evening-walk with bays,
(No hireling she, no prostitute to praise)
Ev'n now observant of the parting ray,
Eyes the calm sun-set of thy various day;
Through Fortune's cloud one truly great can see,
Nor fears to tell, that Mortimer is he.
Sept. 25, 1721.

A. POPE.

HESIOD:

OR,

THE RISE OF WOMAN.

WHAT ancient times (those times we fancy wise)
Have left on long record of woman's rise,
What morals teach it, and what fables hide,
What author wrote it, how that author dy'd,
All these I sing. In Greece they fram'd the tale
(In Greece 'twas thought a woman might be frail);
Ye modern beauties! where the poet drew
His softest pencil, think he dreamt of you;
And, warn'd by him, ye wanton pens beware
How Heaven's concern'd to vindicate the fair.
The case was Hesiod's; he the fable writ;
Some think with meaning, some with idle wit:
Perhaps 'tis either, as the ladies please;
I wave the contest, and commence the lays.

In days of yore (no matter where or when,
'Twas ere the low creation swarm'd with men)
That one Prometheus, sprung of heavenly birth,
(Our author's song can witness) liv'd on Earth:
He carv'd the turf to mould a manly frame,
And stole from Jove his animating flame.
The sly contrivance o'er Olympus ran,
When thus the monarch of the stars began:
"Overs'd in arts! whose daring thoughts aspire,
To kindle clay with never-dying fire!
Enjoy thy glory past, that gift was thine;
The next thy creature meets, be fairly mine:
And such a gift, a vengeance so design'd,
As suits the counsel of a god to find;
A pleasing bosom-cheat, a specious ill,
Which felt the curse, yet covets still to feel.”

He said, and Vulcan straight the sire commands, To temper mortar with etherial hands; In such a shape to mould a rising fair, As virgin goddesses are proud to wear; To make her eyes with diamond-water shine, And form her organs for a voice divine. 'Twas thus the sire ordain'd; the power obey'd; And work'd, and wonder'd at the work he made The fairest, softest, sweetest frame beneath, Now made to seem, now more than seem to breathe. As Vulcan ends, the cheerful queen of charms Clasp'd the new-panting creature in her arms: From that embrace a fine complexion spread, Where mingled whiteness glow'd with softer red.

;

Then in a kiss she breath'd her various arts,
Of trifling prettily with wounded hearts;
A mind for love, but still a changing mind;
The lisp affected, and the glance design'd;
The sweet confusing blush, the secret wink,
The gentle swimming walk, the courteous sink;
The stare for strangeness fit, for scorn the frown;
For decent yielding, looks declining down;
The practis'd languish, where well-feign'd desire
Would own its melting in a mutual fire;
Gay smiles to comfort; April showers to move;
And all the nature, all the art of love.

Gold scepter'd Juno next exalts the fair;
Her touch endows her with imperious air,
Self-valuing fancy, highly-crested pride,
Strong sovereign will, and some desire to chide;
For which, an eloquence, that aims to vex,
With native tropes of anger, arms the sex.
Minerva, skilful goddess, train'd the maid
To twirle the spindle by the twisting thread;
To fix the loom, instruct the reeds to part,
Cross the long weft, and close the web with art,
An useful gift; but what profuse expense,
What world of fashions, took its rise from hence!
Young Hermes next, a close contriving god,
Her brows encircled with his serpent rod;
Then plots and fair excuses fill'd her brain,
The views of breaking amorous vows for gain;
The price of favours; the designing arts
That aim at riches in contempt of hearts;
And, for a comfort in the marriage life,
The little pilfering temper of a wife.

Full on the fair his beams Apollo flung, And fond persuasion tipp'd her easy tongue; He gave her words, where oily flattery lays The pleasing colours of the art of praise; And wit, to scandal exquisitely prone, Which frets another's spleen to cure its own.

Those sacred Virgins whom the bards revere Tun'd all her voice, and shed a sweetness there, To make her sense with double charms abound, Or make her lively nonsense please by sound.

To dress the maid, the decent Graces brought A robe in all the dies of beauty wrought, And plac'd their boxes o'er a rich brocade, Where pictured Loves on every cover play'd; Then spread those implements that Vulcan's art Had fram'd to merit Cytherea's heart; The wire to curl, the close indented comb To call the locks, that lightly wander, home; And chief, the mirror, where the ravish'd maid Beholds and loves her own reflected shade.

Fair Flora lent her stores; the purpled Hours Confin'd her tresses with a wreath of flowers; Within the wreath arose a radiant crown; A veil pellucid hung depending down; Back roll'd her azure veil with serpent fold, The purfled border deck'd the floor with gold. Her robe (which closely by the girdle brac'd Reveal'd the beauties of a slender waist) Flow'd to the feet, to copy Venus' air, When Venus' statues have a robe to wear.

The new-sprung creature, finish'd thus for Adjusts her habit, practises her charms, [harms, With blushes glows, or shines with lively smiles, Confirms her will, or recollects her wiles: Then, conscious of her worth, with easy pace Glides by the glass, and turning views her face.

A finer flax than what they wrought before, Through Time's deep cave, the sister Fates explore,

Then fix the loom, their fingers nimbly weave,
And thus their toil prophetic songs deceive.

"Flow from the rock, my flax! and swiftly flow,
Pursue thy thread; the spindle runs below.
A creature fond and changing, fair and vain,
The creature woman, rises now to reign.
New beauty blooms, a beauty form'd to fly;
New love begius, a love produc'd to die;
New parts distress the troubled scenes of life,
The fondling mistress, and the ruling wife.

"Men born to labour, all with pains provide; Women have time to sacrifice to pride: They want the care of man, their want they know,

And dress to please with heart-alluring show;
The show prevailing, for the sway contend,
And make a servant where they meet a friend.
"Thus in a thousand wax-erected forts

A loitering race the painful bee supports;
From sun to sun, from bank to bank he flies,
With honey loads his bag, with wax his thighs;
Fly where he will, at home the race remain,
Prune the silk dress, and murmuring cat the gain.
"Yet here and there we grant a gentle bride,
Whose temper betters by the father's side;
Unlike the rest that double human care,
Fond to relieve, or resolute to share:
Happy the man whom thus his stars advance!
The curse is general, but the blessing chance.”

Thus sung the sisters, while the gods admire
Their beauteous creature, made for man in ire;
The young Pandora she, whom all contend
To make too perfect not to gain her end:
Then bid the winds, that fly to breathe the spring
Return to bear her on a gentle wing;
With wafting airs the winds obsequious blow,
And land the shining vengeance safe below.
A golden coffer in her hand she bore,
The present treacherous, but the bearer more;
'Twas fraught with pangs; for Jove ordain'd above,
That gold should aid, and pangs attend on love.
Her gay descent the man perceiv'd afar,
Wondering he ran to catch the falling star:
But so surpris'd, as none but he can tell,
Who lor'd so quickly, and who lov'd so well.
O'er all his veins the wandering passion burns,
He calls her nymph, and every nymph by turns.
Her form to lovely Venus he prefers,

Or swears that Venus' must be such as hers.
She, proud to rule, yet strangely fram'd to teaze,
Neglects his offers while her airs she plays,
Shoots scornful glances from the bended frown,
In brisk disorder trips it up and down;
Then hums a careless time to lay the storm,
And sits, and blushes, smiles, and yields, in form.
"Now take what Jove design'd," she softly
cry'd,

"This box thy portion, and myself the bride."
Fir'd with the prospect of the double charmis,
He snatch'd the box, and bride, with eager arms.
Unhappy man! to whom so bright she shone,
The fatal gift, her tempting self, unknown!
The winds were silent, all the waves asleep,
And Heaven was trac'd upon the flattering deep:
But, whilst he looks unmindful of a storm,
And thinks the water wears a stable form,
What dreadful din around his ears shall rise!
What frowns confuse his picture of the skies!

At first the creature man was fram`d alone,
Lord of himself, and all the world his own.

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