Grandeur necessary to Invention. The eastern worlds to him their lore unfold And flows his Muse more fruitful than the Nile. 90 Invention loves, on these she bends her view, his attainments were astonishing. He had already become eminent as a lawyer when he accepted his honourable appointment in the East, from which he derived a yearly income of forty or fifty thousand pounds sterling. His Asiatic Researches have enlightened the world, and furnished additional evidences to the Christian religion. His Dissertations on the Poetry of the East, and on the Arts called Imitative, discover nice and accurate critical discernment. His translation of the Speeches of Isæus, throws light upon the practice of the ancient law. As a poet his merit is unquestionably great. His diction is nervous, and his imagery splendid. His versification has the sweetness and correctness of Pope. His Solima,---Palace of Fortune,---Seven Fountains,--Arcadia and Laura,---are enchanting performances. The Moallakat, or the seven Arabian poems of Muriolkais, of Tarafa, of Zohair, of Libeid, of Antara, of Amru, of Hareth, preserved by Sir William Jones, were suspended on the temple at Mecca, with a translation and arguments. Virgil. If she descends to chaunt in sportive lays, * 100 Yet oft she scourges with an honest ire, O, let me listen to those notes of love! For tender Virgil † breathes his softest strain, 110 *Though nothing can be farther from the truth than the assertion of Shaftesbury, that ridicule is the test of Truth; though Virtue needs no such advocate as Ridicule to plead her cause; yet there are many vices and follies which are the proper subjects of its severity and scourging: There are productions of false perverted taste, which more deserve the lash, than the attention of serious and dignified criticism. It is a mistaken opinion, too much indulged, that the excellency of satire consists rather in its severity and exaggeration than in its truth. Satire, like the knife of the surgeon, in most cases should cut, not to destroy, but to save. + The Eclogues of Virgil have been the models of the most finished pastorals that have since been written, Pope's Petrarch. His voice of music lulls the stilly scene, Thou murmuring breeze! O bear upon thy wing That strain, which flows from Petrarch's* mournful string. 120 pastorals have little more to recommend them than their smoothness of versification. The writer who approaches nearest to the great master of this species of poetry, is Gessner. His Idyls observe a style peculiar to themselves. He is happy in his selection of simple and affecting incidents; of such as have great force upon the heart. Dr. Johnson, in his criticism upon Virgil's Eclogues, after noticing the beauties and defects of each one, gives the preference to the first. In this decision he has been generally followed. This singular character was born at Arezzo, in the beginning of the fourteenth century, when Europe began to shake off the long slumbers of Gothic night, and to hail the morning of Literature. Early in life he received the patronage of the noble family of Colonna, under whose shelter he was enabled to prosecute his studies, and to obtain stores of information unequalled in that day. His romantic at Petrarch. O speak those charms which Petrarch's Laura wears! O breathe that passion which he mourn'd in tears! tachment for Laura, who was the wife of the young Hughes de Sades, is well known. He first saw this lady, at the time of matins, in the monastery of St. Claire. He was instantly struck with her face, her air, her person, her dark and tender eyes, "her ringlets interwoven with the hands of love," her gentle and modest carriage, and the melting sound of her voice. Unhappy in his passion, and unable to banish it from him, he mourned over it in his sonnets with the most inimitable tenderness, and sought for its alleviation in the solitary shades of Vaucluse; but all his efforts to forget the object of his affection were in vain. Though he concealed himself in solitude from the observation of men; yet the image of Laura followed him there. During his abode in this retreat, and while engaged in writing an epic poem, in honour of Scipio, which he called Africa, he received a letter from the Roman senate, urging him, with many intreaties, to come to Rome, and receive the crown of laurel. On the same day in which this letter came to his hands, a courier arrived, bearing a similar invitation from the chancellor of the university at Paris: Petrarch decided in favour of Rome; and in the year 1341, amid the joy and shouts of a vast assembly, was crowned, with pomp and solemnity, at that capital.--.Amid these intoxicating honours, "I blushed," says he, "at the applause of the people, and the unmerited commendations with which I was overwhelmed." Soon after, writing to a friend, he says, "These laurels which encircled my head were too green; had I been of riper age and understanding I would Petrarch. Thou stream of Time! bear in thy course, along, The early lustre of Italian song! not have sought them. Old men love only what is useful; young men run after appearances, without regarding their end! This crown rendered me neither more wise nor more eloquent; it only served to raise envy, and to deprive me of the repose I enjoyed. From that time tongues and pens were sharpened against me; my friends became my enemies, and I suffered the just effects of my confidence and presumption."---Such is the unsatisfying nature of all human honours, and all human enjoyments! Seven years after this coronation, Laura died of the plague, which ravaged all Italy. Petrarch has celebrated her virtues and accomplishments, in an exquisite elegy, which bears her name, and which has been admirably translated by Sir William Jones. From the account of biographers she was one of the most beautiful, accomplished, and virtuous ladies of the age in which she lived. On a blank leaf of a manuscript copy of Petrarch's Virgil, the following lines were written by his own hand: "Laura, illustrious by her own virtues, and long celebrated in my verses, appeared to my eyes, for the first time, the sixth of April, 1327, at Avignon, in the church of St. Claire, at the first hour of the day: I was then in my youth. In the same city, on the same day, and at the same hour, in the year 1348, this luminary disappeared from our world! I was then at Verona, ignorant of my wretched situation. That chaste and beautiful body was buried the same day, after vespers, in the church of Cordeliers: her soul returned to its native mansion in heaven! To retrace the melancholy remembrance of this great |