Hark!

35

LEONORA.

ALMERIA,

No, all is hush'd and still as death.Tis dread

ful!

:

How reverend is the face of this tall pile, Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, To bear aloft its arch'd and pond'rous roof, By its own weight made steadfast and immoveable, Looking tranquillity! it strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chilness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice, Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear Thy voice-my own affrights me with its echoes.

He who reads these lines enjoys for a moment the powers of a poet; he feels what he remembers to have felt before; but he feels it with great increase of sensibility; he' recognizes a familiar image, but meets it again amplified and expanded, embellished with beauty and enlarged with majesty.

Yet could the Author, who appears here to have enjoyed the confidence of Nature, lament the death of Queen Mary in lines like these:

The rocks are cleft, and new-descending rills Furrow the brows of all th' impending hills. The water-gods to floods their rivulets turn, And each, with streaming eyes, supplies his wanting urn.

The fauns forsake the woods, the nymphs the

grove,

And round the plain in sad distractions rove:
In prickly brakes their tender limbs they tear,
And leave on thorns their locks of golden hair.

With their sharp nails, themselves the satyrs

wound,

And tug their shaggy beards, and bite with grief
the ground.

Lo Pan himself, beneath a blasted oak,
Dejected lies, his pipe in pieces broke.
See Pales weeping too, in wild despair,
And to the piercing winds her bosom bare.
And see yon fading myrtle, where appears.
The Queen of Love, all bath'd in flowing tears!
See how she wrings her hands, and beats her breast,
And tears her useless girdle from her waist!
Hear the sad murmurs of her sighing doves!
For grief they sigh, forgetful of their loves.

And, many years after, he gave no proof that time
had improved his wisdom or his wit; for, on the
death of the Marquis of Blandford, this was his

song:

And now the winds, which had so long been still,
Began the swelling air with sighs to fill:
The water-nymphs, who motionless remain'd,
Like images of ice, while she complain'd,
-Now loos'd their streams; as when descending

rains

Roll the steep torrents headlong o'er the plains.
The prone creation who so long had gaz'd,
Charm'd with her cries, and at her griefs amaz'd,
Began to roar and howl with horrid yell,
Dismal to hear and terrible to tell!

Nothing but groans and sighs were heard around,
And echo multiplied each mournful sound.

In both these funeral poems, when he has yelled
out many syllables of senseless dolour, he dis-
misses his reader with senseless consolation: from
the grave of Pastora rises a light that forms a
star; and where Amaryllis wept for Amyntas, from
every tear sprung up a violet.

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But William is his hero, and of William he will
sing:

The hovering winds on downy wings shall wait
around,

And catch, and waft to foreign lands, the flying

sound.

It cannot but be proper to shew what they shall
have to catch and carry :

Twas now, when flowery lawns the prospect
made,

And flowing brooks beneath a forest-shade,
A lowing heifer, loveliest of the herd,

Stood feeding by; while two fierce bulls prepar'd
Their armed heads for fight, by fate of war to prove
The victor worthy of the fair one's love;
Unthought presage of what met next my view;
For soon the shady scene withdrew.

And now, for woods, and fields, and springing
flowers,

Behold a town arise, bulwark'd with walls and
lofty towers;

Two rival armies all the plain o'erspread,

Each in battalia rang'd, and shining arms array'd;
With eager eyes beholding both from far
Namur, the prize and mistress of the war.

"The Birth of the Muse" is a miserable fiction.
One good line it has, which was borrowed from
Dryden. The concluding verses are these:

This said, no more remain'd. Th' ethereal host
Again impatient crowd the crystal coast.
The father now, within his spacious hands,
Encompass'd all the mingled mass of seas and

lands;

And, having heav'd aloft the ponderous sphere,
He launch'd the world, to float in ambient air.

Of his irregular poems, that to Mrs. Arabella
Hunt seems to be the best; his "Ode for St. Ceci-

lia's Day," however, has some lines which Pope had in his mind when he wrote his own.

His imitations of Horace are feebly paraphrasti. cal, and the additions which he makes are of little value. He sometimes retains what were more properly omitted, as when he talks of vervain and gums to propitiate Venus.

Of his translations, the satire of Juvenal was written very early, and may therefore be forgiven, though it have not the massiness and vigour of the original. In all his versions strength and spright liness are wanting; his Hymn to Venus, from Homer, is perhaps the best. His lines are weakened with expletives, and his rhymes are frequently imperfect.

His petty poems are seldom worth the cost of criticism; sometimes the thoughts are false, and some. times common. In his verses on Lady Gethin, the latter part is in imitation of Dryden's Ode on Mrs. Killigrew; and Doris, that has been so lavishly flattered by Steele, has indeed some lively stanzas, but the expression might be mended; and the most striking part of the character had been already shewn in "Love for Love." His " Art of Pleasing" is founded on a vulgar, but perhaps impracticable, principle, and the staleness of the sense is not con cealed by any novelty of illustration or elegance of diction.

This tissue of poetry, from which he seems to have hoped a lasting name, is totally neglected, and known only as it appended to his plays.

While comedy or while tragedy is regarded, his plays are likely to be read; but, except what relates to the stage, I know not that he has ever written a stanza that is sung or a couplet that is

"Except!" Dr. Warton exclaims, "Is not this a high sort of poetry?" He mentions, likewise, that Congreve's Opera, or Oratorio, of "Semele" was set to music by Handel, I believe in 1743.-C.

39

quoted. The general character of his Miscellanies
is, that they shew little wit and little virtue.

Yet to him it must be confessed that we are indebted for the correction of a national error, and for the cure of our Pindaric madness. He first taught the English writers that Pindar's odes were regular; and, though certainly he had not the fire requisite for the higher species of lyric poetry, he has shewn us, that enthusiasm has its rules, and that in mere confusion there is neither grace nor greatness.

BLACKMORE.

IR RICHARD BLACKMORE is one of those men whose writings have attracted much notice, but of whose life and manners very little has been communicated, and whose lot it has been to be much oftener mentioned by enemies than by friends.

He was the son of Robert Blackmore, of Corsham, in Wiltshire, styled by Wood, Gentleman, and supposed to have been an attorney. Having been for some time educated in a country school, he was sent, at thirteen, to Westminster; and, in 1668, was entered at Edmund Hall, in Oxford, where he took the degree of M. A. June 3, 1676, and resided thir teen years; a much longer time than it is usual to spend at the university; and which he seems to have passed with very little attention to the business of the place; for, in his poems, the ancient names of nations or places, which he often produces, are pronounced by chance. He afterwards travelled: at Padua he was made doctor of physic; and, after having wandered about a year and a half on the Continent, returned home.