Erewhile when, brooding o'er my soul,

Frown'd the black demons of despair, Did not thy voice that power control, And oft suppress the rising tear?

If Fortune should be kind,

If e'er with affluence I'm blest,
I'll often seek some friend distrest,

And when the weeping wretch I find,
Then, tuneful moralist, I'll copy thee,
And solace all his woes with social sympathy.

JOHN LANGHORNE was the son of a beneficed clergyman in Lincolnshire. He was born at Kirkby Steven, in Westmoreland. His father dying when he was only four years old, the charge of giving him his earliest instruction devolved upon his mother, and she fulfilled the task with so much tenderness and care, as to leave an indelible impression of gratitude upon his memory. He recorded the virtues of this parent on her tomb, as well as in an affectionate monody. Having finished his classical education at the school of Appleby, in his eighteenth year, he engaged himself as private tutor in a family near Rippon. His next employment was that of assistant to the free-school of Wakefield. While in that situation he took deacon's orders; and, though he was still very young, gave indications of popular attraction as a preacher. He soon afterwards went as preceptor into the family of Mr. Cracroft, of Hackthorn, where he remained for a couple of years, and during that time entered his name at Clare-hall, Cambridge, though he never resided at his college, and consequently never obtained any degree. He had at Hackthorn a numerous charge of pupils, and as he has not been accused of neglecting them, his time must have been pretty well occupied in tuition; but he found leisure enough to write and publish a great many pieces of verse, and to devote so much of his attention to a fair daughter of the family, Miss Anne Cracroft, as to obtain the young lady's partiality, and ultimately her hand. He had given her some instructions in the Italian, and probably trusting that she was sufficiently a convert to the sentiment of that language, which pronounces that "all time is lost which is not spent in love," he proposed immediate marriage to her. She had the prudence, however, though secretly attached to him, to give him a firm refusal for the present; and our poet, struck with despondency at the disappointment, felt it necessary to quit the scene, and accepted of a curacy in the parish of Dagenham. The cares of love, it appeared, had no bad effect on his diligence as an author. He allayed his despair by an apposite ode to Hope; and continued to pour out numerous productions in verse and prose, with that florid facility which always distinguished his pen. Among

these, his "Letters of Theodosius and Constantia" made him, perhaps, best known as a prose writer. His "Letters on Religious Retirement" were dedicated to Bishop Warburton, who returned him a most encouraging letter on his just sentiments in matters of religion; and, what was coming nearer to the author's purpose, took an interest in his worldly concerns. He was much less fortunate in addressing a poem, entitled "The Viceroy," to the Earl of Halifax, who was then lord-lieutenant of Ireland. This heartless piece of adulation was written with the view of obtaining his lordship's patronage; but the viceroy was either too busy, or too insensible to praise, to take any notice of Langhorne. In his poetry of this period, we find his "Visions of Fancy;" his first part of the "Enlargement of the Mind ;" and his pastoral "Valour and Genius," written in answer to Churchill's “Prophecy of Famine." In consequence of the gratitude of the Scotch for this last poem, he was presented with the diploma of doctor in divinity by the university of Edinburgh. His profession and religious writings gave an appearance of propriety to this compliment, which otherwise would not have been discoverable, from any striking connexion of ideas between a doctorship of divinity and an eclogue on Valour and Genius.

He came to reside permanently in London in 1764, having obtained the curacy and lectureship of St. John's, Clerkenwell. Being soon afterwards called to be assistant-preacher at Lincoln'sinn chapel, he had there to preach before an audience, which comprehended a much greater number of learned and intelligent persons than are collected in ordinary congregations; and his pulpit oratory was put to, what is commonly reckoned, a severe test. It proved to be also an honourable test. He continued in London for many years, with the reputation of a popular preacher and a ready writer. His productions in prose, besides those already named, were his "Sermons," "Effusions of Fancy and Friendship," "Frederick and Pharamond, or the Consolations of Human Life," "Letters between St. Evremond and Waller," "A Translation of Plutarch's Lives," written in conjunction with his brother, which might be reckoned a real service

to the bulk of the reading community," "Memoirs of Collins," and "A Translation of Denina's Dissertation on the Ancient Republics of Italy." He also wrote for several years in the Monthly Review. An attempt which he made in tragedy, entitled "The Fatal Prophecy," proved completely unsuccessful; and he so far acquiesced in the public decision, as never to print it more than once. In an humbler walk of poetry he composed "The Country Justice," and the "Fables of Flora." The Fables are very garish. The Country Justice was written from observations on the miseries of the poor, which came home to his own heart; and it has, at least, the merit of drawing our attention to the substantial interests of humanity.

In 1767, after a courtship of several years, he obtained Miss Cracroft in marriage, having corresponded with her from the time he had left her father's house; and her family procured for him the living of Blagden, in Somersetshire; but his domestic happiness with her was of short continuance, as she died of her first child-the son who lived to publish Dr. Langhorne's works.

In 1772 he married another lady of the name of Thomson, the daughter of a country gentleman, near Brough, in Westmoreland; and shortly after their marriage, he made a tour with his bride through some part of France and Flanders. At the end of a few years he had the misfortune to lose her, by the same fatal cause which had deprived him of his former partner. Otherwise his prosperity increased. In 1777 he was promoted to a prebend in the cathedral of Wells; and in the same year was enabled to extend his practical usefulness and humanity by being put in the commission of the peace, in his own parish of Blagden. From his insight into the abuses of parochial office, he was led at this time to compose the poem of "The Country Justice," already mentioned. The tale of " Owen of Carron" was

the last of his works. It will not be much to the advantage of this story to compare it with the simple and affecting ballad of "Gill Morrice,” from which it was drawn. Yet having read "Owen of Carron" with delight when I was a boy, I am still so far a slave to early associations as to retain some predilection for it.

The particular cause of Dr. Langhorne's death, at the age of forty-four, is not mentioned by his biographers, further than by a surmise that it was accelerated by intemperance. From the general decency of his character, it may be presumed that his indulgencies were neither gross nor notorious, though habits short of such excess might undermine his constitution.

It is but a cheerless task of criticism, to pass with a cold look and irreverent step, over the literary memories of men, who, though they may rank low in the roll of absolute genius, have yet possessed refinement, information, and powers of amusement, above the level of their species, and such as would interest and attach us in private life. Of this description was Langhorne ; an elegant scholar, and an amiable man. He gave delight to thousands, from the press and the pulpit; and had sufficient attraction, in his day, to sustain his spirit and credit as a writer, in the face of even Churchill's envenomed satire. Yet, as a prose writer, it is impossible to deny that his rapidity was the effect of lightness more than vigour; and, as a poet, there is no ascribing to him either fervour or simplicity. His Muse is elegantly languid. She is a fine lady, whose complexion is rather indebted to art than to the healthful bloom of nature. It would be unfair not to except from this observation several plain and manly sentiments, which are expressed in his poem "On the Enlargement of the Mind," and some passages in his "Country Justice,” which are written with genuine feeling.

Duties of a Country Justice-The venerable mansions of ancient Magistrates contrasted with the fopperies of modern architecture-Appeal in behalf of Vagrants.

THE Social laws from insult to protect,
To cherish peace, to cultivate respect;

The rich from wanton cruelty restrain,
To smooth the bed of penury and pain;
The hapless vagrant to his rest restore,
The maze of fraud, the haunts of theft explore;
The thoughtless maiden, when subdued by art,
To aid, and bring her rover to her heart;
Wild riot's voice with dignity to quell,
Forbid unpeaceful passions to rebel,

*The translation of Plutarch has been since corrected and improved by Mr. Wrangham.

Wrest from revenge the meditated harm,
For this fair Justice raised her sacred arm;
For this the rural magistrate, of yore,
Thy honours, Edward, to his mansion bore.
Oft, where old Air in conscious glory sails,
On silver waves that flow through smiling vales;
In Harewood's groves, where long my youth was
laid,

Unseen beneath their ancient world of shade;
With many a group of antique columns crown'd,
In Gothic guise such mansion have I found.
Nor lightly deem, ye apes of modern race,
Ye cits that sore bedizen nature's face,
Of the more manly structures here ye view;
They rose for greatness that ye never knew!

Ye reptile cits, that oft have moved my spleen
With Venus and the Graces on your green!
Let Plutus, growling o'er his ill-got wealth,
Let Mercury, the thriving god of stealth,
The shopman, Janus, with his double looks,
Rise on your mounts, and perch upon your books!
But spare my Venus, spare each sister Grace,
Ye cits, that sore bedizen nature's face!

Ye royal architects, whose antic taste
Would lay the realms of sense and nature waste;
Forgot, whenever from her steps ye stray,
That folly only points each other way;
Here, though your eye no courtly creature sees,
Snakes on the ground, or monkeys in the trees;
Yet let not too severe a censure fall
On the plain precincts of the ancient hall.

For though no sight your childish fancy meets, Of Thibet's dogs, or China's paroquets ; Though apes, asps, lizards, things without a tail, And all the tribes of foreign monsters fail ; Here shall ye sigh to see, with rust o'ergrown, The iron griffin and the sphinx of stone; And mourn, neglected in their waste abodes, Fire-breathing drakes, and water-spouting gods.

Long have these mighty monsters known disgrace, Yet still some trophies hold their ancient place; Where, round the hall, the oak's high surbase rea.s The field-day triumphs of two hundred years.

Th' enormous antlers here recal the day That saw the forest monarch forced away; Who, many a flood, and many a mountain pass'd, Not finding those, nor deeming these the last, O'er floods, o'er mountains yet prepared to fly, Long ere the death-drop fill'd his failing eye! Here famed for cunning, and in crimes grown old, Hangs his gray brush, the felon of the fold. Oft as the rent-feast swells the midnight cheer, The maudlin farmer kens him o'er his beer, And tells his old, traditionary tale, Though known to ev'ry tenant of the vale.

Here, where of old the festal ox has fed, Mark'd with his weight, the mighty horns are

spread!

Some ox, O Marshall, for a board like thine,
Where the vast master with the vast sirloin
Vied in round magnitude-Respect I bear
To thee, though oft the ruin of the chair.

These, and such antique tokens that record
The manly spirit, and the bounteous board,
Me more delight than all the gewgaw train,
The whims and zigzags of a modern brain,
More than all Asia's marmosets to view,
Grin, frisk, and water in the walks of Kew.
Through these fair valleys, stranger, hast thou
stray'd,

By any chance, to visit Harewood's shade,
And seen with honest, antiquated air,
In the plain hall the magistratial chair?
There Herbert sat-The love of human kind,
Pure light of truth, and temperance of mind,
In the free eye the featured soul display'd,
Honour's strong beam, and Mercy's melting shade:

Justice that, in the rigid paths of law,

Would still some drops from Pity's fountain draw,
Bend o'er her urn with many a gen'rous fear,
Ere his firm seal should force one orphan's tear;
Fair equity, and reason scorning art,

And all the sober virtues of the heart-
These sat with Herbert, these shall best avail
Where statutes order, or where statutes fail.
Be this, ye rural magistrates, your plan:
Firm be your justice, but be friends to man.
He whom the mighty master of this ball
We fondly deem, or farcically call,
To own the patriarch's truth, however loth,
Holds but a mansion crush'd before the moth.

Frail in his genius, in his heart too frail,
Born but to err, and erring to bewail,
Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore,
And give to life one human weakness more?

Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed;
Still mark the strong temptation and the need:
On pressing want, on famine's powerful call,
At least more lenient let thy justice fall.

For him, who, lost to ev'ry hope of life, Has long with fortune held unequal strife, Known to no human love, no human care, The friendless, homeless object of despair; For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains, Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. Alike, if folly or misfortune brought Those last of woes his evil days have wrought; Believe with social mercy and with me, Folly's misfortune in the first degree.

Perhaps on some inhospitable shore The houseless wretch a widow'd parent bore; Who then, no more by golden prospects led, Of the poor Indian begg'd a leafy bed. Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, Perhaps that parent mourn'd her soldier slain; Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew, The big drops mingling with the milk he drew, Gave the sad presage of his future years, The child of misery, baptised in tears⚫ !

[* This passage, beautiful in itself, has an associated interest beyond its beauty. "The only thing I remember," says Sir Walter Scott, "which was remarkable in Burns' manner, was the effect produced upon him by a print of Bunbury's, representing a soldier lying dead on the snow: his dog sitting in misery on one side,-on the other, his widow, with a child in her arms. These lines were written beneath :

Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain, &c. Burns seemed much affected by the print, or rather the ideas which it suggested to his mind. He actually shed tears. He asked whose the lines were, and it chanced that nobody but myself remembered that they occur in a half forgotten poem of Langhorne's, called by the unpromising title of The Justice of Peace I whispered my information to a friend present, who mentioned it to Burns, who rewarded me with a look and a word, which though of mere civility, I then received, and still recollect with very great pleasure."-Lockhart's Life of Burns, Evo ed. p. 151.

Burns it is said foretold the future fame of Scott: "That boy will be heard of yet: "

'Tis certainly mysterious that the name
Of prophets and of poets is the same.]

GIPSIES.

FROM THE SAME.

THE gipsy-race my pity rarely move;
Yet their strong thirst of liberty I love.
Not Wilkes, our Freedom's holy martyr, more;
Nor his firm phalanx of the common shore.

For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves
The tawny father with his offspring roves;
When summer suns lead slow the sultry day,
In mossy caves, where welling waters play,
Fann'd by each gale that cools the fervid sky,
With this in ragged luxury they lie.
Oft at the sun the dusky elfins strain
The sable eye, then snugging, sleep again;
Oft as the dews of cooler evening fall,
For their prophetic mother's mantle call.

Far other cares that wand'ring mother wait,
The mouth, and oft the minister of fate!
From her to hear, in ev'ning's friendly shade,
Of future fortune, flies the village-maid,
Draws her long-hoarded copper from its hold,
And rusty halfpence purchase hopes of gold.
But, ah! ye maids, beware the gipsy's lures!
She opens not the womb of time, but yours.
Oft has her hands the hapless Marian wrung,
Marian, whom Gay in sweetest strains has sung!
The parson's maid-sore cause had she to rue
The gipsy's tongue; the parson's daughter too.
Long had that anxious daughter sigh'd to know
What Vellum's sprucy clerk, the valley's beau,
Meant by those glances which at church he stole,
Her father nodding to the psalm's slow drawl;
Long had she sigh'd; at length a prophet came,
By many a sure prediction known to fame,
To Marian known, and all she told, for true:
She knew the future, for the past she knew.

FROM THE SAME. PART II.

Appeal for the industrious Poor-Rapacity of Clerks and Overseers-Scene of actual misery, which the Author had witnessed.

BUT still, forgot the grandeur of thy reign,
Descend to duties meaner crowns disdain ;
That worst excrescency of power forego,
That pride of kings, humanity's first foe.

Let age no longer toil with feeble strife,
Worn by long service in the war of life;
Nor leave the head, that time hath whiten'd, bare
To the rude insults of the searching air;
Nor bid the knee, by labour harden'd, bend,
O thou, the poor man's hope, the poor man's friend!
If, when from heav'n severer seasons fall,
Fled from the frozen roof and mouldering wall,
Each face the picture of a winter day,
More strong than Teniers' pencil could portray;
If then to thee resort the shivering train,
Of cruel days, and cruel man complain,

Say to thy heart (remembering him who said,)
"These people come from far, and have no bread."
Nor leave thy venal clerk empower'd to hear;
The voice of want is sacred to thy ear.

He where no fees his sordid pen invite,
Sports with their tears, too indolent to write;
Like the fed monkey in the fable, vain
To hear more helpless animals complain.

But chief thy notice shall one monster claim;
A monster furnish'd with a human frame,
The parish-officer !-though verse disdain
Terms that deform the splendour of the strain;
It stoops to bid thee bend the brow severe
On the sly, pilfering, cruel, overseer;
The shuffling farmer, faithful to no trust,
Ruthless as rocks, insatiate as the dust!
When the poor hind, with length of years decay'd,
Leans feebly on his once-subduing spade,
Forgot the service of his abler days,

His profitable toil, and honest praise,
Shall this low wretch abridge his scanty bread,
This slave, whose board his former labours spread!

When harvest's burning suns and sickening air From labour's unbraced hand the grasp'd hook tear, Where shall the helpless family be fed,

That vainly languish for a father's bread ?
See the pale mother, sunk with grief and care,
To the proud farmer fearfully repair;
Soon to be sent with insolence away,
Referr❜d to vestries, and a distant day!
Referr'd-to perish!-Is my verse severe ?
Unfriendly to the human character ?
Ah! to this sigh of sad experience trust :
The truth is rigid, but the tale is just.

If in thy courts this caitiff wretch appear,
Think not that patience were a virtue here.
His low-born pride with honest rage control;
Smite his hard heart, and shake his reptile soul.
But, hapless! oft through fear of future woe,
And certain vengeance of th' insulting foe,
Oft, ere to thee the poor prefer their pray'r,
The last extremes of penury they bear.

Wouldst thou then raise thy patriot office higher, To something more than magistrate aspire! And, left each poorer, pettier chase behind, Step nobly forth, the friend of human kind? The game I start courageously pursue! Adieu to fear! to insolence adieu ! And first we'll range this mountain's stormy side, Where the rude winds the shepherd's roof deride, As meet no more the wintry blast to bear, And all the wild hostilities of air. -That roof have I remember'd many a year; It once gave refuge to a hunted deerHere, in those days, we found an aged pair ;But time untenants-hah! what seest thou there! "Horror-by Heav'n, extended on a bed Of naked fern, two human creatures dead! Embracing as alive !-ah, no !—no life! Cold, breathless!"

"Tis the shepherd and his wife. I knew the scene, and brought thee to behold

What speaks more strongly than the story told.

They died through want—

"By every power I swear,

If the wretch treads the earth, or breathes the air,
Through whose default of duty, or design,
These victims fell, he dies."

They fell by thine.

"Infernal Mine !-by-"

Swear on no pretence: A swearing justice wants both grace and sense.

FROM THE SAME.

A case where Mercy should have mitigated Justice.

UNNUMBER'D objects ask thy honest care,
Beside the orphan's tear, the widow's prayer:
Far as thy power can save, thy bounty bless,
Unnumber'd evils call for thy redress.

Seest thou afar yon solitary thorn,

Whose aged limbs the heath's wild winds have torn?

While yet to cheer the homeward shepherd's eye,
A few seem straggling in the evening sky!
Not many suns have hasten'd down the day,

Or blushing moons immersed in clouds their way, Since there, a scene that stain'd their sacred light,

With horror stopp'd a felon in his flight;
A babe just born that signs of life exprest,
Lay naked o'er the mother's lifeless breast.
The pitying robber, conscious that, pursued,
He had no time to waste, yet stood and view'd;
To the next cot the trembling infant bore,
And gave a part of what he stole before;
Nor known to him the wretches were, nor dear,
He felt as man, and dropp'd a human tear.

Far other treatment she who breathless lay,
Found from a viler animal of prey.

Worn with long toil on many a painful road, That toil increased by nature's growing load, When evening brought the friendly hour of rest, And all the mother throng'd about her breast, The ruffian officer opposed her stay, And, cruel, bore her in her pangs away, So far beyond the town's last limits drove, That to return were hopeless, had she strove, Abandon'd there-with famine, pain and cold, And anguish, she expired-the rest I've told. "Now let me swear. For by my soul's last sigh, That thief shall live, that overseer shall die."

Too late his life the generous robber paid, Lost by that pity which his steps delay'd! No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear, No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear; No liberal justice first assign'd the gaol,

Or urged, as Camplin would have urged, his tale.

OWEN OF CARRON.

I.

ON Carron's side the primrose pale,
Why does it wear a purple hue ?

Ye maidens fair of Marlivale,

Why stream your eyes with pity's dew?

"Tis all with gentle Owen's blood

That purple grows the primrose pale; That pity pours the tender flood

From each fair eye in Marlivale.

The evening star sat in his eye,

The sun his golden tresses gave, The north's pure morn her orient dye, To him who rests in yonder grave!

Beneath no high, historic stone,

Though nobly born, is Owen laid; Stretch'd on the greenwood's lap alone, He sleeps beneath the waving shade.

There many a flowery race hath sprung,

And fled before the mountain gale, Since first his simple dirge he sung;

Ye maidens fair of Marlivale !

Yet still, when May with fragrant feet Hath wander'd o'er your meads of gold, That dirge I hear so simply sweet

Far echo'd from each evening fold.

II.

"Twas in the pride of William's day, When Scotland's honours flourish'd still, That Moray's earl, with mighty sway,

Bare rule o'er many a Highland hill.

And far for him their fruitful store

The fairer plains of Carron spread; In fortune rich, in offspring poor,

An only daughter crown'd his bed.

Oh! write not poor-the wealth that flows
In waves of gold round India's throne,
All in her shining breast that glows,
To Ellen's charms, were earth and stone.

For her the youth of Scotland sigh'd,
The Frenchman gay, the Spaniard grave.
And smoother Italy applied,

And many an English baron brave.

In vain by foreign arts assail'd,
No foreign loves her breast beguile,
And England's honest valour fail'd,
Paid with a cold, but courteous smile.

Ah! woe to thee, young Nithisdale,

That o'er thy cheek those roses stray'd,

Thy breath, the violet of the vale,
Thy voice, the music of the shade!