The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain; Whom in a trice he tried to stop, But not performing what he meant, Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels, The postboy's horse right glad to miss The lumb'ring of the wheels. Six gentlemen upon the road, With postboy scamp'ring in the rear, "Stop thief! stop thief! -a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute; And all and each that pass'd that way And now the turnpike gates again And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Now let us sing, Long live the King, Dreading a negative, and overaw'd Lest he should trespass, begg'd to go abroad. "Go, fellow!-whither?"-turning short about"Nay. Stay at home-you 're always going out." ""T is but a step, sir, just at the street's end." "For what?"—"An please you, sir, to see a friend." "A friend!" Horatio cried, and seem'd to start"Yea marry shalt thou, and with all my heart. And fetch my cloak; for, though the night be raw, I'll see him too- the first I ever saw." --- I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, And was his plaything often when a child; But somewhat at that moment pinch'd him close, Else he was seldom bitter or morose. Perhaps his confidence just then betray'd, His grief might prompt him with the speech he made; Perhaps 't was mere good-humour gave it birth, The harmless play of pleasantry and mirth. Howe'er it was, his language in my mind, Bespoke at least a man that knew mankind. But not to moralize too much, and strain, To prove an evil, of which all complain, (I hate long arguments verbosely spun,) One story more, dear Hill, and I have done. Once on a time an emp'ror, a wise man, No matter where, in China, or Japan, Decreed, that whosoever should offend Against the well-known duties of a friend, Convicted once should ever after wear But half a coat, and show his bosom bare. The punishment importing this, no doubt, That all was naught within, and all found out. O happy Britain! we have not to fear Such hard and arbitrary measure here; Else, could a law, like that which I relate, Once have the sanction of our triple state, Some few, that I have known in days of old, Would run most dreadful risk of catching cold; While you, my friend, whatever wind should blow, Might traverse England safely to and fro, An honest man, close-button'd to the chin, Broad cloth without, and a warm heart within. AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, Esq. DEAR JOSEPH-five-and-twenty years ago. YARDLEY OAK. SURVIVOR Sole, and hardly such, of all, It seems idolatry with some excuse, Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, Thou wast a bauble once; a cup and ball, Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay, Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, Thou fell'st mature; and in the loamy clod Who liv'd, when thou wast such? Oh, couldst thou speak, As in Dodona once thy kindred trees By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, Time made thee what thou wast, king of the And Time hath made thee what thou art a cave While thus through all the stages thou hast push'd Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root Delight in agitation, yet sustain The force that agitates, not unimpair'd; Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still The great and little of thy lot, thy growth From almost nullity into a state Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, Slow, into such magnificent decay. Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid, Though all the superstructure, by the tooth Pulveriz'd of venality, a shell Stands now, and semblance only of itself! Thine arms have left thee. them off Winds have rent [left Long since, and rovers of the forest wild But since, although well qualified by age To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice May be expected from thee, seated here * Knee-timber is found in the crooked arms of oak, which, by reason of their distortion, are casily adjusted to the angle formed where the deck and the ship's sides meet. On thy distorted root, with hearers none, One man alone, the father of us all, With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind THE CAST-AWAY. OBSCUREST night involv'd the sky; Th' Atlantic billows roar'd, No braver chief could Albion boast, He lov'd them both, but both in vain, Not long beneath the whelming brine, But wag'd with death a lasting strife, He shouted; nor his friends had fail'd They left their outcast mate behind, And scudded still before the wind. Some succour yet they could afford; And, such as storms allow, The cask, the coop, the floated cord, Delay'd not to bestow. But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore, Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he Alone could rescue them; Yet bitter felt it still to die He long survives, who lives an hour And ever as the minutes flew, 66 At length, his transient respite past, Could catch the sound no more. For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank. No poet wept him; but the page That tells his name, his worth, his age And tears by bards or heroes shed I therefore purpose not, or dream, Descanting on his fate, To give the melancholy theme A more enduring date. But misery still delights to trace It's semblance in another's case. No voice divine the storm allay'd, But I beneath a rougher sea, JAMES BEATTIE. and the "Gothic days" in which he is placed are not historically to be recognised, yet there is great beauty, both moral and descriptive, in the delineation, and perhaps no writer has managed the Spenserian stanza with more dexterity and harmony. The second part of this poem, which contains the maturer part of the education of the young bard, did not appear till 1774, and then left the work a fragment. But whatever may be the defects of the Minstrel, it possesses beauties which will secure it a place among the approved productions of the British muse. JAMES AMES BEATTIE, an admired poet and a moralist, | priety applied to such a person as he represents, was born about 1735, in the county of Kincardine, in Scotland. His father was a small farmer, who, though living in indigence, had imbibed so much of the spirit of his country, that he procured for his son a literary education, first at a parochial school, and then at the college of New Aberdeen, in which he entered as a bursar or exhibitioner. In the intervals of the sessions, James is supposed to have added to his scanty pittance by teaching at a country-school. Returning to Aberdeen, he obtained the situation of assistant to the master of the principal grammar-school, whose daughter he married. From youth he had cultivated a talent for poetry; and in 1760 he ventured to submit the fruit of his studies in this walk to the public, by a volume of "Original Poems and Translations." They were followed, in 1765, by "The Judgment of Paris ;" and these performances, which displayed a familiarity with poetic diction, and harmony of versification, seem to have made him favourably known in his neighbourhood. Beattie visited London for the first time in 1771, where he was received with much cordiality by the admirers of his writings, who found equal cause to love and esteem the author. Not long afterwards, the degree of LL. D. was conferred on him by his college at Aberdeen. In 1777 a new edition, by subscription, was published of his " Essay on Truth,' to which were added three Essays on subjects of polite literature. In 1783 he published "Dissertations Moral and Critical," consisting of detached essays, which had formed part of a course of lec The interest of the Earl of Errol acquired for him the post of professor of moral philosophy and logic in the Marischal College of Aberdeen; intures delivered by the author as professor. His which capacity he published a work, entitled "An Essay on the Nature and Immutability of Truth, in opposition to Sophistry and Scepticism," 1770. Being written in a popular manner, it was much read, and gained the author many admirers, especially among the most distinguished members of the Church of England; and, at the suggestion of Lord Mansfield, he was rewarded with a pension of 2004. from the King's privy purse. In 1771 his fame was largely extended by the first part of his "Minstrel," a piece the subject of which is the imagined birth and education of a poet. Although the word Minstrel is not with much pro last work was "Evidences of the Christian Religion, briefly and plainly stated," 2 vols. 1786. His time was now much occupied with the duties of his station, and particularly with the education of his eldest son, a youth of uncommon promise. His death of a decline was a very severe trial of the father's fortitude and resignation; and it was followed some years after by that of his younger son. These afflictions, with other domestic misfortunes, entirely broke his spirits, and brought him to his grave at Aberdeen, in August, 1803, in the 68th year of his age. THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS. Preface. The design was, to trace the progress of a poetical genius, born in a rude age, from the first dawning of fancy and reason, till that period at which he may be supposed capable of appearing in the world as a Minstrel, that is, as an itinerant poet and musician;—a character which, according to the notions of our forefathers, was not only respectable but sacred. I have endeavoured to imitate Spenser in the measure of his verse, and in the harmony, simplicity, and variety of his composition. Antique expressions I have avoided; admitting, however, some old words, where they seemed to suit the subject but I hope none will be found that are now obsolete, or in any degree not intelligible to a reader of English poetry. To those who may be disposed to ask, what could induce me to write in so difficult a measure, I can only answer, that it pleases my ear, and seems, from its Gothic structure and original, to bear some relation to the subject and spirit of the poem. It admits both simplicity and magnificence of sound and of language, beyond any other stanza that I am acquainted with. It allows the sententiousness of the couplet, as well as the more complex modulation of blank verse. What some critics have remarked, of its uniformity growing at last tiresome to the ear, will be found to hold true, only when the poetry is faulty in other respects. Book I. AH! who can tell how hard it is to climb In life's low vale remote has pined alone, And yet the languor of inglorious days, While from his bending shoulder, decent hung Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride, Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand; Then grieve not, thou, to whom th' indulgent Muse Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul O how canst thou renounce the boundless store Would shrink to hear th' obstreperous trump of The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, Fame; Supremely blest, if to their portion fall The rolls of fame I will not now explore; The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, |