With his conceptions, act upon his plan, And form to his, the relish of their souls. Inscription for a Monument to Shakspeare. The secrets of your bosom? Here then round Inscription for a Statue of Chaucer, at Woodstock. Such was old Chaucer: such the placid mien Of him who first with harmony informed The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt For many a cheerful day. These ancient walls Have often heard him, while his legends blithe He sang; of love, or knighthood, or the wiles Of homely life; through each estate and age, The fashions and the follies of the world With cunning hand portraying. Though perchance From Blenheim's towers, O stranger, thou art come Glowing with Churchill's trophies; yet in vain Dost thou applaud them, if thy breast be cold To him, this other hero; who in times Dark and untaught, began with charming verse To tame the rudeness of his native land. GEORGE LORD LYTTELTON. As a poet, LYTTELTON might escape remembrance, but he comes before us as a general author. and is, from various considerations apart from literary reputation, worthy of notice. He was the son of Sir Thomas Lyttelton of Hagley, in Worcestershire-born on the 17th of January 1709; and after distinguishing himself at Eton and Oxford, he went abroad, and passed some time in France and Italy. On his return, he obtained a seat in parliament, and opposed the measures of Sir Robert Walpole. He became secretary to the Prince of Wales, and was thus able to benefit his literary friends, Thomson and Mallet. Pope admired his talents and principles, commemorated him in his verse, and remembered him in his will. In 1741, Lyttelton married Miss Lucy Fortescue of Devonshire, who, dying five years afterwards, afforded a theme for his muse, considered by many the most successful of his poetical efforts. When Walpole and the Whigs were vanquished, Lyttelton was made one of the lords of the treasury. He was afterwards a privy-councillor and chancellor of the exchequer, and was elevated to the peerage. He died August 22, 1773, aged sixty-four. Lyttelton appeared carly as an author. In 1728, he published Blenheim, a poem; in 1732, The Progress of Love; in 1735, Letters from 632 a Persian in England, &c. He was author of a short but excellent treatise on the Conversion of St Paul, which is still regarded as one of the subsidiary bulwarks of Christianity. He wrote this work in 1746, as he has stated, with 'a particular view to the satisfaction' of Thomson the poet, to whom he was strongly attached. Another prose work of Lyttelton's, Dialogues of the Dead (1760), enjoyed considerable popularity. He also wrote an elaborate History of the Reign of Henry II., to which he brought ample information and a spirit of impartiality and justice; but the work is dry and tedious-'not illuminated,' as Gibbon remarks, 'by a ray of genius.' These various works, and his patronage of literary men-Fielding, it will be recollected, dedicated to him his Tom Jones, and to Thomson he was a firm friend -constitute the chief claim of Lyttelton upon the regard of posterity. As a politician, though honest, he was not distinguished. Gray has praised his Monody on his wife's death as tender and elegiac; but undoubtedly the finest poetical effusion of Lyttelton is his Prologue to Thomson's tragedy of Coriolanus. Before this play could be brought out, Thomson had paid the debt of nature. The tragedy was acted for the benefit of the poet's relations, and when Quin spoke the prologue by Lyttelton, many of the audience wept at the lines He loved his friends-forgive this gushing tear: From the Monody. In vain I look around O'er all the well-known ground, My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry; Where oft in tender talk We saw the summer sun go down the sky; Nor by yon fountain's side, Nor where its waters glide Along the valley, can she now be found : Can aught of her espy, But the sad sacred earth where her dear relics lie. Sweet babes, who, like the little playful fawns, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns, By your delighted mother's side: Who now your infant steps shall guide? Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care To every virtue would have formed your youth, And strewed with flowers the thorny ways of truth? O loss beyond repair! O wretched father, left alone To weep their dire misfortune and thy own! Now she, alas! is gone, From folly and from vice their helpless age to save! From Advice to a Lady. The counsels of a friend, Belinda, hear, Some merit's mine to dare to be sincere ; Your heart's supreme ambition?-To be fair. Of those who claim it more than half have none; Be still superior to your sex's arts, Be good yourself, nor think another's shame Without all beauty, and all peace within ; Prologue to the Tragedy of Coriolanus--spoken by I come not here your candour to implore He loved his friends with such a warmth of heart, One line which, dying, he could wish to blot. O may to-night your favourable doom Another laurel add to grace his tomb : Whilst he, superior now to praise or blame, To the Castle of Indolence, Lyttelton contributed the following excellent stanza, containing a portrait of Thomson : A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems, He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat. This 'ditty sweet,' however, Lyttelton did not hesitate to alter and curtail at his pleasure in editions of Thomson's works published in 1750 and 1752. The unwarrantable liberties thus taken with the poet's text have been universally condemned, and were not continued in any subsequent edition. In 1845 appeared Memoir and Correspondence of George Lord Lyttelton, from 1734 to 1773, edited by R. Phillimore. JOHN BYROM. A pastoral poem, My Time, Oye Muses, was happily spent published in the Spectator, Oct. 6, 1714 has served to perpetuate the name and history of its author. JOHN BYROM (1691-1763) was a native of Manchester. He took his degree of B.A. in Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1711, and studied medicine at Montpellier in France. On his return, he applied himself to teach a system of shorthand which he had invented, and which he had secured to him by an act of parliament passed in 1742. Among his pupils were Gibbon and Horace Walpole. The latter part of Byrom's life was, however, spent in easy and opulent circumstances. He succeeded by the death of an elder brother to the family property in Manchester, and lived highly respected in that town. The poetical works of Byrom consist of short occasional pieces, which enjoyed great popularity in their day, and were included by Chalmers in his edition of the poets. His Private Journal and Literary Remains have been published (1854-1858) by the Chetham Society, founded in Manchester to illustrate the local antiquities of the counties of Lancaster and Chester. The Journal is a light, gossiping record, which adds little to our knowledge of the social character or public events of the period, but exhibits its author as an amiable, cheerful, and happy man. A Pastoral. My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent, FROM 1720 When things were as fine as could possibly be, With such a companion to tend a few sheep, The fountain that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among ; Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear: But now she is absent, I walk by its side, And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide : 'Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain,' My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they; How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in their prime; But now, in their frolics when by me they pass, quite mad, My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said: 'Come hither, poor fellow;' and patted his head. But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look Cry 'Sirrah;' and give him a blow with my crook : And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away? When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen, How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, The corn-fields and hedges, and everything made! But now she has left me, though allfare still there, They none of them now so delightful appear : 'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes, Made so many beautiful prospects arise. Sweet music went with us both all the wood through, The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too; Winds over us whispered, flocks by us did bleat, And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet. But now she is absent, though still they sing on, The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone: Her voice in the concert, as now I have found, Gave everything else its agreeable sound. Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue? And made yourselves fine for-a place in her breast: How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return ! Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear, Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say. Will no pitying power, that hears me complain, To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove; For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn. Careless Content." I am content, I do not care, Wag as it will the world for me; Physic and food in sour and sweet: With good and gentle-humoured hearts, I hold my tongue, to tell the truth, For chance or change of peace or pain, I never dodge, nor up nor down: I suit not where I shall not speed, I make no bustling, but abide : Of ups and downs, of ins and outs, Of they're i' the wrong, and we 're i' the right, I shun the rancours and the routs ; And wishing well to every wight, Whatever turn the matter takes, I deem it all but ducks and drakes. With whom I feast I do not fawn, I cook no kind of a complaint: Not that I rate myself the rule How all my betters should behave; I love a friendship free and frank, I talk thereon just as I think; *One poem, entitled Careless Content, is so perfectly in the manner of Elizabeth's age, that we can hardly believe it to be an imitation, but are almost disposed to think that Byrom had transcribed it from some old author.-SOUTHEY. If names or notions make a noise, And read or write, but without wrath; I love my neighbour as myself, Myself like him too, by his leave; Nor to his pleasure, power, or pelf, Came I to crouch, as I conceive: Dame Nature doubtless has designed A man the monarch of his mind. Now taste and try this temper, sirs, Mood it and brood it in your breast; That man does right to mar his rest, Jacobite Toast. God bless the king!-I mean the Faith's Defender; THOMAS GRAY. attached friends. At Cambridge, Gray was considered as an unduly fastidious man, and this gave occasion to practical jokes being played off upon him by his fellow-inmates of St Peter's College, one of which-a false alarm of fire, by which he was induced to descend from his window to the ground by a rope-was the cause of his removing (1756) to Pembroke Hall. In 1765, he took a journey into Scotland, and met his brotherpoet, Dr Beattie, at Glammis Castle. He also penetrated into Wales, and made a journey to Cumberland and Westmoreland, to see the scenery of the lakes. His letters describing these excursions are remarkable for elegance and precision, for correct and extensive observation, and for a dry scholastic humour peculiar to the poet. On returning from these agreeable holidays, Gray set himself calmly down in his college retreatpored over his favourite authors, compiled tables of chronology or botany, moralised on all he felt and all he saw' in correspondence with his friends, and occasionally ventured into the realms of poetry and imagination. He had studied the Greek poets with such intense devotion and critical care, that their spirit and essence seem to have sunk into his mind, and coloured all his efforts at original composition. At the same time, his knowledge of human nature, and his sympathy with the world, were varied and profound. Tears fell unbidden among the classic flowers of fancy, and in his almost monastic cell his heart vibrated to the finest tones of humanity. THOMAS GRAY was born at Cornhill, London, December 26, 1716. His father, Philip Gray, was a money-scrivener-the same occupation carried on by Milton's father; but though a 'respectable citizen,' the parent of Gray was a man of harsh Gray's first public appearance as a poet was and violent disposition. His wife was forced to made in 1747, when his Ode to Eton College was separate from him; and it was to the exertions of published by Dodsley. It was, however, written this excellent woman, as partner with her sister in in 1742, as also the Ode to Spring. In 1751, his a millinery business, that the poet owed the advan- Elegy written in a Country Churchyard was tages of a learned education, first at Eton, and printed, and immediately became popular. His afterwards at Cambridge. The painful domestic Pindaric Odes appeared in 1757, but met with circumstances of his youth gave a tinge of melan- little success. His name, however, was now so choly and pensive reflection to Gray, which is vis- well known, that he was offered the situation of ible in his poetry. At Eton, the young student poet-laureate, vacant by the death of Colley had made the friendship of Horace Walpole, son Cibber. Gray declined the appointment; but of the prime-minister; and when his college edu- shortly afterwards he obtained the more reputable cation was completed, Walpole induced him to and lucrative situation of Professor of Modern accompany him in a tour through France and History, which brought him in about £400 per Italy. They had been about a twelvemonth to- annum. For some years he had been subject to gether, exploring the natural beauties, antiquities, hereditary gout, and as his circumstances imand picture-galleries of Rome, Florence, Naples, proved, his health declined. While at dinner one &c. when a quarrel took place between them at day in the college-hall, he was seized with an Reggio, and the travellers separated, Gray return-attack in the stomach, which was so violent as to ing to England. Walpole took the blame of this resist all the efforts of medicine, and after six difference on himself, as he was vain and volatile, days of suffering, he expired on the 30th of July and not disposed to trust in the better knowledge 1771, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. He was and the somewhat fastidious tastes and habits of buried, according to his desire, by the side of his his associate. Gray went to Cambridge, to take mother, at Stoke Pogeis, near Windsor-adding his degree in civil law, but without intending to one more poetical association to that beautiful and follow up the profession. His father had died, classic district of England.* his mother's fortune was small, and the poet was more intent on learning than on riches. He fixed his residence at Cambridge; and amidst its noble libraries and learned society, passed the greater part of his remaining life. He hated mathematical and metaphysical pursuits, but was ardently devoted to classical learning, to which he added the study of architecture, antiquities, natural history, and other branches of knowledge. His retired life was varied by occasional residence in London, where he revelled among the treasures of the British Museum; and by frequent excursions to the country on visits to a few learned and The poetry of Gray is all comprised in a few pages, yet he appears worthy to rank in quality with the first order of poets. His two great odes, the Progress of Poesy and the Bard, are the most splendid compositions we possess in the Pindaric style and measure. They surpass the odes of Collins in fire and energy, in boldness of imagination, and in condensed and brilliant * Gray's epitaph on his mother has an interesting touch of his peculiar melancholy: Dorothy Gray, widow, the careful, tender mother of many children, one of whom alone had the misfortune to survive her. The churchyard at Stoke Pogeis is supposed to be the scene of the Elegy. FROM 1720 expression. Collins is as purely and entirely poetical, but he is less commanding and sublime. Gray's stanzas, notwithstanding their varied and complicated versification, flow with lyrical ease and perfect harmony. Each presents rich personification, striking thoughts, or happy imagery Sublime their starry fronts they rear. The Bard is more dramatic and picturesque than In climes beyond the solar road, To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. And oft beneath the odorous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, In loose numbers wildly sweet, Their feather-cinctured chiefs and dusky loves. Glory pursue and generous shame, The unconquerable mind and Freedom's holy flame. A others have attached inordinate value to the Elegy, as the main prop of Gray's reputation. manuscript copy of the poem in Gray's handwriting (a small neat hand; he always wrote with a crow-quill) was sold in 1854 for the large sum of £131! The Elegy is, doubtless, the most frequently read and repeated of all his productions, because it is connected with ordinary existence and genuine feeling, and describes, in exquisite harmonious verse, what all persons must, at some time or other, have felt or imagined. But the highest poetry can never be very extensively popular. A simple ballad air will convey pleasure to a greater number of persons than the most successful efforts of accomplished musical taste and genius; and, in like manner, poetry which deals with subjects of familiar life, must find more readers than those inspired flights of imagination, or recondite allusions, however graced with the charms of poetry, which can only be enjoyed by persons of fine sensibility, and something of kindred taste and knowledge. Gray's classical diction, his historical and mythological personifications, must ever be lost on the multitude. Even Dr Johnson was tempted into a coarse and unjust criticism of Gray, chiefly Or the poetical characters of Shakspeare, Milton, because the critic admired no poetry which did and Dryden: Far from the sun and summer gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, To him the mighty mother did unveil Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled. "This pencil take,' she said, whose colours clear Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal boy! Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.' Nor second he, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, He passed the flaming bounds of space and time: Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car not contain some weighty moral truth, or some chain of reasoning. To restrict poetical excellence to this standard, would be to blot out Spenser from the list of high poets, and to curtail Shakspeare and Milton of more than half their glory. Let us recollect with another poet-the author of the Night Thoughts—that ‘a fixed star is as much in the bounds of nature as a flower of the field, though less obvious, and of far greater dignity.' Or as Pope has versified the same sentiment: Though the same sun, with all-diffusive rays, In the character of Gray there are some seeming inconsistencies. As a man, he was nice, reserved, and proud-a haughty, retired scholar; yet we find him in his letters full of English idiom and English feeling, with a spice of the gossip, and sometimes not over-fastidious in his allusions and remarks. He was indolent, yet a severe With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding student--hating Cambridge and its college disci pace. The Ode to Eton College, the Ode to Adversity, and the far-famed Elegy, present the same careful and elaborate finishing; but the thoughts and imagery are more simple, natural, and touching. A train of moral feelings, and solemn or affecting associations, is presented to the mind, in connection with beautiful natural scenery and objects of real life. In a letter to Beattie, Gray remarks: 'As to description, I have always thought that it made the most graceful ornament of poetry, but never ought to make the subject.' He practised what he taught; for there is always some sentiment or reflection arising out of the poet's descriptive passages. These are generally grave, tender, or pathetic. The cast of his own mind, and the comparative loneliness of his situation and studies, nursed a sort of philosophic spleen, and led him to moralise on the vanity of life. Byron and He loved pline, yet constantly residing there. intellectual ease and luxury, and wished, as a sort of Mohammedan paradise, to 'lie on a sofa, and read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.' Yet all he could say of Thomson's Castle of Indolence, when it was first published, was, that there were some good verses in it! Akenside, too, whom he was so well fitted to appreciate, he thought often obscure, and even unintelligible.' As a poet, Gray studied in the school of the ancient and Italian poets, labouring like an artist to infuse part of their spirit, their melody, and even some of their expressions, into his inimitable mosaic work, over which he breathed the life and fragrance of eternal spring. In his country tours, the poet carried with him a plano-convex mirror, which, in surveying landscapes, gathers into one confined glance the forms His imagina and tints of the surrounding scene. tion performed a similar operation in collecting, |