dignity and patriotic elevation in 'Leonidas,' which might even yet find admirers. Thomson is said to have exclaimed, when he heard of the work of Glover, 'He write an epic poem, who never saw a mountain! Yet Thomson himself, familiar as he was in his youth with mountain scenery, was tame and commonplace when he ventured on classic or epic subjects. The following passage is lofty and energetic :

[Address of Leonidas.]

He alone Remains unshaken. Rising, he displays His godlike presence. Dignity and grace Adorn his frame, and manly beauty, joined With strength Herculean. On his aspect shines Sublimest virtue and desire of fame, Where justice gives the laurel; in his eye The inextinguishable spark, which fires The souls of patriots; while his brow supports Undaunted valour, and contempt of death. Serene he rose, and thus addressed the throng: Why this astonishment on every face,

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Ye men of Sparta? Does the name of death
Create this fear and wonder? O my friends!
Why do we labour through the arduous paths
Which lead to virtue? Fruitless were the toil.
Above the reach of human feet were placed
The distant summit, if the fear of death
Could intercept our passage. But in vain
His blackest frowns and terrors he assumes
To shake the firmness of the mind which knows
That, wanting virtue, life is pain and wo;
That, wanting liberty, even virtue mourns,
And looks around for happiness in vain.
Then speak, O Sparta! and demand my life;
My heart, exulting, answers to thy call,
And smiles on glorious fate. To live with fame
The gods allow to many; but to die
With equal lustre is a blessing Heaven
Selects from all the choicest boons of fate,
And with a sparing hand on few bestows.'
Salvation thus to Sparta he proclaimed.
Joy, wrapt awhile in admiration, paused,
Suspending praise; nor praise at last resounds
In high acclaim to rend the arch of heaven;
A reverential murmur breathes applause.
The nature of the poem affords scope for interesting
situations and descriptions of natural objects in a
romantic country, which Glover occasionally avails
himself of with good effect. There is great beauty
and classic elegance in this sketch of the fountain at
the dwelling of Oileus :-

Beside the public way an oval fount
Of marble sparkled with a silver spray
Of falling rills, collected from above.
The army halted, and their hollow casques
Dipped in the limpid stream. Behind it rose
An edifice, composed of native roots,
And oaken trunks of knotted girth unwrought.
Within were beds of moss. Old battered arms
Hung from the roof. The curious chiefs approach.
These words, engraven on a tablet rude,
Megistias reads; the rest in silence hear:
'Yon marble fountain, by Oileus placed,
To thirsty lips in living water flows;

For weary steps he framed this cool retreat;
A grateful offering here to rural peace,
His dinted shield, his helmet he resigned.
O passenger! if born to noble deeds,

Thou would'st obtain perpetual grace from Jove,
Devote thy vigour to heroic toils,
And thy decline to hospitable cares.
Rest here; then seek Oileus in his vale.'

In the Athenais' we have a continuation of the
same classic story and landscape. The following is
an exquisite description of a night scene :—
Silver Phoebe spreads

A light, reposing on the quiet lake,
Save where the snowy rival of her hue,
The gliding swan, behind him leaves a trail
In luminous vibration. Lo! an isle

Swells on the surface. Marble structures there
New gloss of beauty borrow from the moon
To deck the shore. Now silence gently yields
To measured strokes of oars. The orange groves,
In rich profusion round the fertile verge,
Impart to fanning breezes fresh perfumes
Exhaustless, visiting the scene with sweets,
Which soften even Briareus; but the son
Of Gobryas, heavy with devouring care,
Uncharmed, unheeding sits.

The scene presented by the shores of Salamis on the morning of the battle is thus strikingly depicted. The poet gives no burst of enthusiasm to kindle up his page, and his versification retains most of its usual hardness and want of flow and cadence; yet the assemblage described is so vast and magnificent, and his enumeration is so varied, that the picture carries with it a host of spirit-stirring associations:[The Armies at Salamis.]

O sun! thou o'er Athenian towers,
The citadel and fanes in ruin huge,
Dost, rising now, illuminate a scene
More new,
more wondrous to thy piercing eye
Than ever time disclosed. Phaleron's wave
Presents three thousand barks in pendants rich
Spectators, clustering like Hymettian bees,
Hang on the burdened shrouds, the bending yards,
The reeling masts; the whole Cecropian strand,
Far as Eleusis, seat of mystic rites,

Is thronged with millions, male and female race,
Of Asia and of Libya, ranked on foot,
On horses, camels, cars. Ægaleos tall,
Half down his long declivity, where spreads
A mossy level, on a throne of gold,
Displays the king, environed by his court,
In oriental pomp; the hill behind

By warriors covered, like some trophy huge,
Ascends in varied arms and banners clad;
Below the monarch's feet the immortal guard,
Line under line, erect their gaudy spears;
The arrangement, shelving downward to the beach,
Is edged by chosen horse. With blazing steel
Of Attic arms encircled, from the deep
Psyttalia lifts her surface to the sight,
Like Ariadne's heaven-bespangling crown,
A wreath of stars; beyond, in dread array,
The Grecian fleet, four hundred galleys, fill
The Salaminian Straits; barbarian prows
In two divisions point to either mouth
Six hundred brazen beaks of tower-like ships,
Unwieldy bulks; the gently-swelling soil
Of Salamis, rich island, bounds the view.
Along her silver-sanded verge arrayed,
The men-at-arms exalt their naval spears,
Of length terrific. All the tender sex,
Ranked by Timothea, from a green ascent,
Look down in beauteous order on their sires,
Their husbands, lovers, brothers, sons, prepared
To mount the rolling deck. The younger dames
In bridal robes are clad; the matrons sage,
In solemn raiment, worn on sacred days;
But white in vesture, like their maiden breasts,
Where Zephyr plays, uplifting with his breath
The loosely-waving folds, a chosen line
Of Attic graces in the front is placed;
From each fair head the tresses fall, entwined-


With newly-gathered flowerets; chaplets gay
The snowy hand sustains; the native curls,
O'ershading half, augment their powerful charms;
While Venus, tempered by Minerva, fills
Their eyes with ardour, pointing every glance
To animate, not soften. From on high
Her large controlling orbs Timothea rolls,
Surpassing all in stature, not unlike
In majesty of shape the wife of Jove,
Presiding o'er the empyreal fair.

A popular vitality has been awarded to a ballad of Glover's, while his epics have sunk into oblivion:

Admiral Hosier's Ghost.

[Written on the taking of Carthagena from the Spaniards, 1739

[The case of Hosier, which is here so pathetically represented, was briefly this:-In April 1726, that commander was sent with a strong fleet into the Spanish West Indies, to block up the galleons in the ports of that country; or, should they presume to come out, to seize and carry them into England. He accordingly arrived at the Bastimentos near Portobello; but being restricted by his orders from obeying the dictates of his courage, lay inactive on that station until he became the jest of the Spaniards. He afterwards removed to Carthagena, and continued cruising in those seas until the far greater part of his men perished deplorably by the diseases of that unhealthy climate. This brave man, seeing his best officers and men thus daily swept away, his ships exposed to inevitable destruction, and himself made the sport of the enemy, is said to have died of a broken heart.]

As near Portobello lying

On the gentle-swelling flood,
At midnight, with streamers flying,
Our triumphant navy rode;

There while Vernon sat all glorious
From the Spaniards' late defeat,
And his crews, with shouts victorious,
Drank success to England's fleet :

On a sudden, shrilly sounding,

Hideous yells and shrieks were heard; Then, each heart with fear confounding, A sad troop of ghosts appeared;

All in dreary hammocks shrouded,

Which for winding-sheets they wore,
And, with looks by sorrow clouded,
Frowning on that hostile shore.

On them gleamed the moon's wan lustre,
When the shade of Hosier brave,
His pale bands were seen to muster,
Rising from their watery grave:

O'er the glimmering wave he hied him,
Where the Burford reared her sail,
With three thousand ghosts beside him,
And in groans did Vernon hail.

Heed, oh, heed our fatal story!

I am Hosier's injured ghost;
You who now have purchased glory
At this place where I was lost:

Though in Portobello's ruin,

You now triumph free from fears, When you think on my undoing,

You will mix your joys with tears.

See these mournful spectres sweeping
Ghastly o'er this hated wave,

Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping;
These were English captains brave.

Mark those numbers, pale and horrid,
Who were once my sailors bold;
Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead,
While his dismal tale is told.

I, by twenty sail attended,
Did this Spanish town affright;
Nothing then its wealth defended
But my orders-not to fight!

Oh! that in this rolling ocean

I had cast them with disdain,
And obeyed my heart's warm motion,
To have quelled the pride of Spain !

For resistance I could fear none;
But with twenty ships had done
What thou, brave and happy Vernon,
Hast achieved with six alone.

Then the Bastimentos never

Had our foul dishonour seen,
Nor the seas the sad receiver
Of this gallant train had been.

Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,
And her galleons leading home,
Though condemned for disobeying,
I had met a traitor's doom:
To have fallen, my country crying,
'He has played an English part,'
Had been better far than dying

Of a grieved and broken heart.

Unrepining at thy glory,

Thy successful arms we hail; But remember our sad story,

And let Hosier's wrongs prevail.

Sent in this foul clime to languish,

Think what thousands fell in vain, Wasted with disease and anguish,

Not in glorious battle slain.

Hence with all my train attending,
From their oozy tombs below,
Through the hoary foam ascending,
Here I feed my constant wo.

Here the Bastimentos viewing,

We recall our shameful doom,
And, our plaintive cries renewing,
Wander through the midnight gloom.

O'er these waves forever mourning
Shall we roam, deprived of rest,
If, to Britain's shores returning,
You neglect my just request;

After this proud foe subduing,
When your patriot friends you see,
Think on vengeance for my ruin,

And for England-shamed in me.

The poets who follow are a secondary class, few of whom are now noted for more than one or two favourite pieces.


ROBERT DODSLEY (1703-1764) was an able and spirited publisher of his day, the friend of literature and of literary men. He projected the Annual Register, in which Burke was engaged, and he was the first to collect and republish the Old English Plays,' which form the foundation of our national drama. Dodsley wrote an excellent little moral treatise, The

Economy of Human Life, which was attributed to Lord Chesterfield, and he was author of some dra

With that first ring I married youth,
Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth;
Taste long admired, sense long revered,
And all my Molly then appeared.

If she, by merit since disclosed,
Prove twice the woman I supposed,
I plead that double merit now,
To justify a double vow.

Here, then, to-day (with faith as sure,
With ardour as intense, as pure,
As when, amidst the rites divine,
I took thy troth, and plighted mine),
To thee, sweet girl, my second ring
A token and a pledge I bring:
With this I wed, till death us part,
Thy riper virtues to my heart;
Those virtues which, before untried,
The wife has added to the bride;
Those virtues, whose progressive claim,
Endearing wedlock's very name,
My soul enjoys, my song approves,
For conscience' sake as well as love's.

And why?-They show me every hour Honour's high thought, Affection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, And teach me all things-but repentance.

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[Song-The Parting Kiss.]

One kind wish before we part,
Drop a tear, and bid adieu:
Though we sever, my fond heart,
Till we meet, shall pant for you.
Yet, yet weep not so, my love,

Let me kiss that falling tear;
Though my body must remove,
All my soul will still be here.
All my soul, and all my heart,
And every wish shall pant for you;
One kind kiss, then, ere we part,
Drop a tear, and bid adieu.

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SAMUEL BISHOP (1731-1795) was an English clergyman, Master of Merchant Tailors' School, London, and author of some miscellaneous essays and poems. The best of his poetry was devoted to the praise of his wife; and few can read such lines as the following without believing that Bishop was an amiable and happy man :

To Mrs Bishop, on the Anniversary of her Wedding-
Day, which was also her Birth-Day, with a Ring.
"Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed'-
So, fourteen years ago, I said.
Behold another ring!- For what?'
To wed thee o'er again? Why not?

Sir William Jones.

His father was an eminent mathematician, but died when his son was only three years of age. The mother, who was well qualified for the duty by her care of educating young Jones devolved upon his virtues and extensive learning. When in his fifth year, the imagination of the young scholar was caught by the sublime description of the angel in the tenth chapter of the Apocalypse, and the impression was never effaced. In 1753 he was placed

at Harrow school, where he continued nearly ten tegrity, disinterested benevolence, and unwearied years, and became an accomplished and critical clas- perseverance. In the intervals of leisure from sical scholar. He did not confine himself merely to his duties, he directed his attention to scientific the ancient authors usually studied, but added a objects, and established a society in Calcutta to proknowledge of the Arabic characters, and acquired mote inquiries by the ingenious, and to concentrate sufficient Hebrew to read the Psalms. In 1764 he the knowledge to be collected in Asia. In 1784, his was entered of University college, Oxford. Here health being affected by the climate and the closehis taste for oriental literature continued, and he ness of his application, he made a tour through engaged a native of Aleppo, whom he had discovered various parts of India, in the course of which he in London, to act as his preceptor. He also assidu- wrote The Enchanted Fruit, or Hindoo Wife, a poetiously perused the Greek poets and historians. In cal tale, and a Treatise on the Gods of Greece, Italy, his nineteenth year, Jones accepted an offer to be and India. He also studied the Sanscrit language, private tutor to Lord Althorp, afterwards Earl being unwilling to continue at the mercy of the Spencer. A fellowship at Oxford was also conferred | Pundits, who dealt out Hindoo law as they pleased. upon him, and thus the scholar was relieved from Some translations from oriental authors, and origi the fear of want, and enabled to pursue his favou-nal poems and essays, he contributed to a periodical rite and unremitting studies. An opportunity of established at Calcutta, entitled The Asiatic Misdisplaying one branch of his acquirements was cellany. He meditated an epic poem on the Disafforded in 1768. The king of Denmark in that covery of England by Brutus, to which his knowledge year visited England, and brought with him an of Hindoo mythology suggested a new machinery, eastern manuscript, containing the life of Nadir the agency of Hindoo deities. To soften the violence Shah, which he wished translated into French. of the fiction into harmony with probability, the Jones executed this arduous task, being, as Lord poet conceived the future comprehension of HindoTeignmouth, his biographer, remarks, the only ori- stan within the circle of British dominion, as proental scholar in England adequate to the performance. spectively visible in the age of Brutus, to the guarHe still continued in the noble family of Spencer, dian angels of the Indian peninsula. This gorgeous and in 1769 accompanied his pupil to the continent. design he had matured so far as to write the arguNext year, feeling anxious to attain an independent ments of the intended books of his epic, but the station in life, he entered himself a student of the poem itself he did not live to attempt. In 1789 Sir Temple, and, applying himself with his characteristic William translated an ancient Indian drama, Saconardour to his new profession, he contemplated with tala, or the Fatal Ring, which exhibits a picture of pleasure the 'stately edifice of the laws of England,' Hindoo manners in the century preceding the Chrisand mastered their most important principles and tian era. He engaged to compile a digest of Hindoo details. In 1774 he published Commentaries on and Mahometan laws; and in 1794 he translated Asiatic Poetry, but finding that jurisprudence was a the Ordinances of Menu or the Hindoo system of jealous mistress, and would not admit the eastern duties, religious and civil. His motive to this task, muses to participate in his attentions, he devoted like his inducement to the digest, was to aid the himself for some years exclusively to his legal benevolent intentions of our legislature in securing studies. A patriotic feeling was mingled with this to the natives, in a qualified degree, the administraresolution. Had I lived at Rome or Athens,' he tion of justice by their own laws. Eager to accomsaid, I should have preferred the labours, studies, plish his digest, Sir William Jones remained in and dangers of their orators and illustrious citizens India after the delicate health of Lady Jones com---connected as they were with banishment and even pelled her departure in December 1793. He prodeath-to the groves of the poets or the gardens of posed to follow her in the ensuing season, but in April the philosophers. Here I adopt the same resolution. he was seized with inflammation of the liver, which The constitution of England is in no respect inferior terminated fatally, after an illness of one week, on the to that of Rome or Athens.' Jones now practised 27th of April 1794. Every honour was paid to his at the bar, and was appointed one of the Commis- remains, and the East India Company erected a sioners of Bankrupts. In 1778, he published a monument to his memory in St Paul's Cathedral. translation of the speeches of Isæus, in causes con- The attainments of Sir William Jones were so procerning the law of succession to property at Athens, found and various, that it is difficult to conceive how to which he added notes and a commentary. The he had comprised them in his short life of fortystirring events of the time in which he lived were eight years. As a linguist he has probably never not beheld without strong interest by this accom- been surpassed; for his knowledge extended to a plished scholar. He was decidedly opposed to the critical study of the literature and antiquities of American war and to the slave trade, then so pre- various nations. As a lawyer he had attained to a valent, and in 1781 he produced his noble Alcaic high rank in England, and he was the Justinian of Ode, animated by the purest spirit of patriotism, India. In general science there were few depart and a high strain of poetical enthusiasm. He also ments of which he was ignorant: in chemistry, joined in representing the necessity that existed for mathematics, botany, and music, he was equally proa reform of the electoral system in England. But ficient. He seems,' says his biographer, 'to have though he made speeches and wrote pamphlets in acted on this maxim, that whatever had been at favour of liberty and pure government, Jones was tained was attainable by him; and he was never obno party man, and was desirous, he said, of being served to overlook or to neglect any opportunity of transported to the distance of five thousand leagues adding to his accomplishments or to his knowledge. from all the fatal discord of contending politicians. When in India, his studies began with the dawn; His wishes were soon accomplished. He was ap- and in seasons of intermission from professional duty, pointed one of the judges of the supreme court at continued throughout the day; meditation retraced Fort William, in Bengal, and the honour of knight- and confirmed what reading had collected or inveshood was conferred upon him. He married the tigation discovered. By a regular application of daughter of Dr Shipley, bishop of St Asaph; and time to particular occupations, he pursued various in April 1783, in his thirty-seventh year, he em- objects without confusion; and in undertakings barked for India, never to return. Sir William which depended on his individual perseverance, he Jones entered upon his judicial functions with all was never deterred by difficulties from proceeding to the advantages of a high reputation, unsullied in- a successful termination.' With respect to the

division of his time, Sir William Jones had written in India, on a small piece of paper, the following lines:

Sir Edward Coke:

Six hours in sleep, in law's grave study six, Four spend in prayer-the rest on nature fix.


Seven hours to law, to soothing slumber seven,
Ten to the world allot, and all to heaven.*

The poems of Sir William Jones have been collected and printed in two small volumes. An early collection was published by himself, dedicated to the Countess Spencer, in 1772. They consist of a few original pieces in English and Latin, and translations from Petrarch and Pindar; paraphrases of Turkish and Chinese odes, hymns on subjects of Hindoo mythology, Indian Tales, and a few songs from the Persian. Of these the beautiful lyric from Hafiz is the most valuable. The taste of Sir William Jones was early turned towards eastern poetry, in which he was captivated with new images, expressions, and allegories, but there is a want of chasteness and simplicity in most of these productions. The name of their illustrious author 'reflects credit,' as Campbell remarks, on poetical biography, but his secondary fame as a composer shows that the palm of poetry is not likely to be won, even by great genius, without exclusive devotion to the pursuit.'

An Ode, in Imitation of Alcaus.

What constitutes a state?

Not high-raised battlement or laboured mound,
Thick wall or moated gate;

Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned;
Not bays and broad-armed ports,
Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;
Not starred and spangled courts,

Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride.
No: men, high-minded men,

With powers as far above dull brutes endued
In forest, brake, or den,

As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude;
Men who their duties know,

But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain,
Prevent the long-aimed blow,

And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain:

These constitute a state,

And sovereign Law, that state's collected will,
O'er thrones and globes elate

Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill;
Smit by her sacred frown,

The fiend Discretion like a vapour sinks,
And e'en the all-dazzling Crown

Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks.

Such was this heaven-loved isle,
Than Lesbos fairer, and the Cretan shore!
No more shall Freedom smile?

Shall Britons languish, and be men no more?
Since all must life resign,

Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave,
Tis folly to decline,

And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

*As respects sleep, the example of Sir Walter Scott may be added to that of Sir William Jones, for the great novelist has stated that he required seven hours of total unconsciousness to fit him for the duties of the day.

A Persian Song of Hafiz.

Sweet maid, if thou would'st charm my sight,
And bid these arms thy neck enfold;
That rosy cheek, that lily hand,
Would give thy poet more delight
Than all Bocara's vaunted gold,
Than all the gems of Samarcand.

Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy pensive heart be glad,
Whate'er the frowning zealots say:
Tell them, their Eden cannot show
A stream so clear as Rocnabad,
A bower so sweet as Mosellay.

O! when these fair perfidious maids,
Whose eyes our secret haunts infest,
Their dear destructive charms display,
Each glance my tender breast invades,
And robs my wounded soul of rest,
As Tartars seize their destined prey.

In vain with love our bosoms glow:
Can all our tears, can all our sighs,
New lustre to those charms impart ?
Can cheeks, where living roses blow,
Where nature spreads her richest dyes,
Require the borrowed gloss of art?

Speak not of fate: ah! change the theme,
And talk of odours, talk of wine,
Talk of the flowers that round us bloom:
'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream;
To love and joy thy thoughts confine,
Nor hope to pierce the sacred gloom.
Beauty has such resistless power,
That even the chaste Egyptian dame
Sighed for the blooming Hebrew boy:
For her how fatal was the hour,
When to the banks of Nilus came
A youth so lovely and so coy!

But ah! sweet maid, my counsel hear
(Youth should attend when those advise
Whom long experience renders sage):
While music charms the ravished ear;
While sparkling cups delight our eyes,
Be gay, and scorn the frowns of age.

What cruel answer have I heard?
And yet, by Heaven, I love thee still:
Can aught be cruel from thy lip?
Yet say, how fell that bitter word
From lips which streams of sweetness fill,
Which nought but drops of honey sip?

Go boldly forth, my simple lay,
Whose accents flow with artless ease,
Like orient pearls at random strung:
Thy notes are sweet, the damsels say;
But oh! far sweeter, if they please

The nymph for whom these notes are sung!

The Concluding Sentence of Berkeley's Siris Imitated.
Before thy mystic altar, heavenly Truth,

I kneel in manhood as I knelt in youth:
Thus let me kneel, till this dull form decay,
And life's last shade be brightened by thy ray:
Then shall my soul, now lost in clouds below,
Soar without bound, without consuming glow.*

*The following is the last sentence of the Siris:-' He that would make a real progress in knowledge must dedicate his age as well as youth, the latter growth as well as the first fruits, at the altar of Truth.'

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