him with writing 'to the rumbling of his chariot-wheels.' Blackmore afterward wrote a number of other epic poems, all of which have sunk into oblivion except one on the Creation, which Johnson says, 'wants neither harmony of numbers, accuracy of thought, nor elegance of diction.' Addison admired this poet's irreproachable private character, and extended his particular friendship to him. Blackmore died on the eighth of October, 1729. The design of the Creation,' by far his best performance, was to demonstrate the existence of a Divine Eternal Mind. The author recites the proof of a Deity from natural and physical phenomena, and afterward reviews the systems of the Epicureans and the Fatalists; concluding with a hymn to the Creator of the world. The piety of Blackmore is everywhere apparent in his writings; but the genius of poetry too often evaporates amid his common-place illustrations and prosing declamation. The following passage, addressed to the disciples of Lucretius, exhibits this author's style under its most favorable aspect:— You ask us why the soil the thistle breeds; Why its spontaneous birth are thorns and weeds; Might every hill have crowned, have honoured all the plains: This Nature might have boasted, had the Mind Who formed the spacious universe designed That man, from labour free, as well as grief, Should pass in lazy luxury his life. Or finished column for the palace give. Yet if from hills unlaboured figures come, Man might have ease enjoyed, though never fame. ANNE, Countess of Winchelsea, belongs to this period, but of her life and history very little is known. She was the daughter of Sir James Kingsmill of Southampton, and died in 1720. The Nocturnal Reverie, her principal poem, is full of calm and contemplative observation, and the versification is sweet and flowing. 'It is remarkable,' says Wordsworth, that, excepting 'The Nocturnal Reverie,' and a passage or two in the 'Windsor Forest of Pope,' the poetry of the period intervening between the publica tion of 'Paradise Lost' and the 'Seasons,' does not contain a single new image of external nature.' A NOCTURNAL REVERIE. In such a night, when every louder wind Or from some tree, formed for the owl's delight, When through the gloom more venerable shows Till the free soul to a composedness charmed, O'er all below a solemn quiet grown, Joys in the inferior world, and thinks it like her own: In such a night let me abroad remain, Till morning breaks, and all 's confused again; Or pleasures seldom reached again pursued. Besides the 'Nocturnal Reverie,' the Countess wrote many other sweet poems, of which the following gem is a specimen :— LIFE'S PROGRESS. How gayly is at first begun Our life's uncertain race! Whilst yet that sprightly morning sun, How smiling the world's prospect lies, How soft the first ideas prove Which wander through our minds! Our sighs are then but venal air, But oh! too soon, alas! we climb, The gently-rising hill of Time, From whence with grief we see that prime, And all its sweetness end. The die now cast, our station known, Fond expectation past: The thorns which former days had sown, Whilst every care 's a driving harm, That helps to bear us down; Which faded smiles no more can charm, But every tear 's a winter storm, And every look 's a frown. MATTHEW GREEN, the last English poet of the period that we are now contemplating, was born of dissenting parents, in 1696. His advantages of early education seem to have been limited, but by persevering application he raised himself to a position of respectability, and finally obtained a situation in the custom-house, where he remained until his death, which occurred in 1737. Green's natural disposition was cheerful, but this did not prevent occasional attacks of low spirits or spleen; and having tried all imaginable remedies for the malady, he at length conceived himself able to treat it in a philosophical spirit, and, therefore, wrote The Spleen, a poem which adverts to all its forms, and their apposite remedies, in a style of comic verse resembling Hudibras, but which is still allowed to be eminently original. 'The Spleen,' was first published by Glover, the author of 'Leonidas;' Gray afterward remarked that 'even the wood-notes of Green often break out into strains of real poetry and music.' As this poem is comparatively little known to modern readers, we present a larger extract from it than we otherwise should. VOL. II.-E Who buzz in rhyme, and, like blind flies, The prior of Newgate's dying speech; A jointured widow's ritual state; A coquette's April-weather face; A Queen 'brough mayor behind his mace, And fops in military show, Are sovereign for the case in view. If spleen-fogs rise at close of day, I clear my evening with a play, In rainy days keep double guard, In such dull weather, so unfit I dress my face with studious looks, And on the drowning world remark: For news, the manna of a day, And from the hipped discourses gather, That politics go by the weather. Sometimes I dress, with women sit, And chat away the gloomy fit; * Law, licens'd breaking of the peace, I never game, and rarely bet, Am loath to lend or run in debt. No Compter-writs we agitate; Who moralizing pass the gate, And then mine eyes on spendthrifts turn, Who vainly o'er their bondage mourn. Wisdom, before beneath their care, Pays her upbraiding visits there, And forces folly through the grate Her panegyric to repeat. This view, profusely when inclined, Reforming schemes are none of mine; Like those who tug a little boat To pull to them the ship afloat, While to defeat their labour'd end, And once both wind and steam contend: Success herein is seldom seen, And zeal, when baffled, turns to spleen. |