TO MR. WALPOLE, Cambridge, March 1, 1747. nie in desiring you would continue to entertain a thing so contrary to my own wishes and yours? them: refuse us, if you can. Adieu, dear Sir! I believe it is impossible for me to see you in the north, or to enjoy any of those agreeable hours had flattered myself with. This business will oblige me to be in town several times during the summer, particularly in August, when half the money is to be paid; besides the good people here As ope ought to be particularly careful to avoid would think me the most careless and ruinous of blunders in a compliment of condolence, it would mortals, if I should take such a journey at this be a sensible satisfaction to me (before I testify my time. The only satisfaction I can pretend to, is sorrow, and the sincere part I take in your misfor- that of hearing from you, and particularly at this tune) to know for certain, who it is I lament. I time when I was bid to expect the good news of an knew Zara and Selima, (Selima was it, or Fati- increase of your family. Your opinion of Diodorus ma?) or rather I knew them both together; for I is doubtless right; but there are things in him very can not justly say which was which.-Then as to curious, got out of better authorities now lost. Do your handsome cat, the name you distinguish her you remember the Egyptian history, and particuby, I am no less at a loss, as well knowing one's larly the account of the gold mines? My own handsome cat is always the cat one likes best; or, readings have been cruelly interrupted: what I if one be alive and the other dead, it is usually the latter that is the handsomest. Besides, if the point were never so clear, I hope you do not think me so ill bred or so imprudent as to forfeit all my interest in the surviver: Oh no! I would rather seem to mistake, and imagine to be sure it must be the tabby one that had met with this sad accident. Till this affair is a little better determined, you will excuse me if I do not begin to cry; have been highly pleased with, is the new comedy from Paris by Gresset, called le Mechant; if you have it not, buy his works all together in two little volumes: they are collected by the Dutch booksellers, and consequently contain some trash; but then there are the Ververt, the epistle to P. Bougeant, the Chartreuse, that to his sister, an ode on his country, and another on mediocrity, and the Sidnei, another comedy, all which have great "Tempus inane peto, requiem, spatiumque doloris." beauties. There is also a poem lately published Which interval is the more convenient, as it gives by Thomson, called the Castle of Indolence, with time to rejoice with you on your new honours.* some good stanzas in it. Mr. Mason is my ac This is only a beginning; I reckon next week we quaintance; I liked that ode much, but have found shall hear you are a free-mason, or a gormogon at no one else that did. He has much fancy, little least.-Heigh ho! I feel (as you to be sure have judgment, and a good deal of modesty; I take him done long since) that I have very little to say, at for a good and well-meaning creature; but then least in prose. Somebody will be the better for it; he is really in simplicity a child, and loves every I do not mean you, but your cat, feuë mademoi-body he meets with: he reads little or nothing; selle Sclime, whom I am about to immortalize for writes abundance, and that with a design to make one week or fortnight, as follows:† ***-There's his fortune by it. My best compliments to Mrs. a poem for you; it is rather too long for an epi- Wharton and your family: does that name include taph. any body I am not yet acquainted with? TO DR. WHARTON. TO DR. WHARTON. Cambridge, August 8, 1749. Stoke, June 5, 1743 YOUR friendship has interested itself in my af- I promised Dr. Keene long since to give you an fairs so naturally, that I can not help troubling account of our magnificence here;* but the newsyou a little with a detail of them. * papers and he himself in person, have got the start And now, my dear Wharton, why must I tell you of my indolence, so that by this time you are well acquainted with all the events that adorned that • Mr. Walpole was about this time elected a Fellow of the week of wonders. Thus much I may venture to Royal Society. The reader need hardly be told, that the 4th ode in the col-done it, that our friend **'s zeal and eloquence tell you, because it is probable nobody else has lection of his poems was inserted in the place of these asterisks. This letter (as some other slight ones have been) is printed chiefly to mark the date of one of his compositions. The paragraph here omitted contained an account of Mr. Gray's loss of a house by fire in Cornhill, and the expense he should he at in rebuilding it. Though it was insured, he could at this time ill bear to lay out the additional sum necessary for the purpose. surpassed all power of description. Vesuvio in an eruption was not more violent than his utterance, nor (since I am at my mountains) Pelion, with all The Duke of Newcastle's nstallation as Chancellor Came University. I hope, and beg, you will support yourself with that resignation we owe to Him, who gave us our being for our good, and who deprives us of it for the same reason. I would have come to you directly, but you do not say whether you desire I should or not; if you do, I beg I may know it, for there is nothing to hinder me, and I am in very its pine-trees in a storm of wind, more impetuous instance of his goodness both to her, and to those than his action; and yet the senate-house still that loved her. She might have languished many stands, and (I thank God) we are all safe and well years before our eyes, in a continual increase of at your service. I was ready to sink for him, and pain, and totally helpless; she might have long scarce dared to look about me, when I was sure it wished to end her misery without being able to atwas all over; but soon found I might have spared tain it; or perhaps even lost all sense, and yet conmy confusion; all people joined to applaud him. tinued to breathe; a sad spectacle to such as must Every thing was quite right; and I dare swear not have felt more for her than she could have done three people here but think him a model of oratory; for herself. However you may deplore your own for all the duke's little court came with a resolu- loss, yet think that she is at last easy and happy: tion to be pleased; and when the tone was once and has no more occasion to pity us than we her. given, the university, who ever wait for the judgment of their betters, struck into it with an admirable harmony: for the rest of the performances, they were just what they usually are. Every one, while it lasted, was very gay and very busy in the morning, and very owlish and very tipsy at night: I make no exceptions from the chancellor to bluecoat. Mason's ode was the only entertainment good health. that had any tolerable elegance; and, for my own part, I think it (with some little abatements) uncommonly well on such an occasion. Pray let me know your sentiments; for doubtless you have seen it. The author of it grows apace into my good graces, as I know him more; he is very ingenious, with great good-nature and simplicity; a little vain, but in so harmless and so comical a way, that it does not offend one at all; a little ambitious, but withal so ignorant in the world and its ways that this does not hurt him in one's opinion; so sincere and so undisguised, that no mind with a spark of generosity, would ever think of hurting him, he lies so open to injury; but so indolent, that if he can not overcome this habit, all his good qualities will signify nothing at all. After all, I like him so well, I could wish you knew him. TO HIS MOTHER. TO MR. WALPOLE. Stoke, June 12 1750. As I live in a place, where even the ordinary tattle of the town arrives not till it is stale, and which produces no events of its own, you will not desire any excuse from me for writing so seldom, especially as of all people living I know you are the least a friend to letters spun out of one's own brains, with all the toil and constraint that accompanies sentimental productions. I have been here at Stoke a few days (where I shall continue good part of the summer;) and having put an end to a thing, whose beginning you have seen long ago, I immediately sent it you. You will, I hope, look upon it in the light of a thing with an end to il; a merit that most of my writings have wanted, and are like to want, but which this epistle I am determined shall not want, when it tells you that I am ever Yours. Cambridge, Nov. 7, 1749. THE unhappy news I have just received from you equally surprises and afflicts me.* I have lost Not that I have done yet; but who could avoid a person I loved very much, and have been used to the temptation of finishing so roundly and so clefrom my infancy; but am much more concerned verly in the manner of good Queen Anne's days? for your loss, the circumstances of which I forbear Now I have talked of writings; I have seen a book, to dwell upon, as you must be too sensible of them which is by this time in the press, against Middleyourself; and will, I fear, more and more need a ton (though without naming him,) by Asheton. consolation that no one can give, except He who has preserved her to you so many years, and, at last, when it was his pleasure, has taken her from us to himself; and perhaps, if we reflect upon what she felt in this life, we may look upon this as an *The death of his aunt Mrs. Mary Antrobus, who died the 8th of November, and was buried in a vault in Stoke churchyard, near the chancel door, in which also his mother and himself (according to the direction in his will) were after wards buried As far as I can judge from a very hasty reading, This was the Elegy i 'he church-yard. - -B. POEMS OF THOMAS GRAY. ODES. ODE I. ON THE SPRING. Lo! where the rosy-bosomed hours, The untaught harmony of spring, While, whispering pleasure as they fly, Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky Their gathered fragrance fling. Where er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader, browner shade, Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade.* Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the crowd, How low, how little, are the proud, How indigent the great. Still is the toiling hand of Care, The panting herds repose, Yet hark! how through the peopled air, And float amid the liquid noon;t a bank D'er-canopied with luscious woodbine. Shaksp. Mid. Dream. Nare per æstatem liquidam. Virg. Georg. lib. 4. sporting with quick glance, Show to the sun their waved coats dropt with gold. Milton's Paradise Lost, b. 7. To contemplation's sober eye,* And they that creep and they that fly In fortune's varying colours drest; The sportive kind reply, Poor moralist! and what art thou? Thy joys no glittering female meets, No painted plumage to display; ODE II. ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT, The azure flowers that blow, Gazed on the lake below. The velvet of her paws, ⚫ While insects from the threshold preach, &c. Mr. Green in the Grotto. Dodsley's Miscellanies, vol v P. 161. Still had she gazed, but, 'midst the tide, The Genii of the stream: The hapless nymph with wonder saw: With many an ardent wish, She stretched in vain to reach the prize: What female heart can gold despise? What Cat's averse to fish? Eight times emerging from the flood, A fav'rite has no friend! From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived, And be with caution bold: ODE III. ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. YE distant Spires! ye antique Towers! That crown the watery glade Where grateful science still adores Her Henry's holy shade; And ye that from the stately brow Of grove, of lawn, of mead, survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way; Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade! Where once my careless childhood strayed, I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing King Henry VI. founder of the College. Dryden's Fable on the Pythag. System. Say, father Thames! for thou hast seer The paths of pleasure trace, The captive linnet which enthral ? To chase the rolling circle's speed, While some, on earnest business bem, Some bold adventurers disdain And unknown regions dare descry And snatch a fearful joy. Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast; Their buxom health of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new, And lively cheer of vigour born; Alas! regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day: Yet see how all around 'em wait And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah! show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah! tell them they are men. These shall the fury passions tear, And shame that skulks behind; That inly gnaws the secret heart; And sorrow's piercing dart. Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter scorn a sacrifice. And grinning infamy, The stings of falsehood those shall try That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen remorse, with blood defiled, And moody madness* laughing wild Amid severest wo. Lo! in the vale of years beneath The painful family of death, More hideous than their queen: This racks the joints, this fires the veins, Those in the deeper vitals rage; To each his sufferings; all are men Yet ah! why should they know their fate And happiness too swiftly flies? ODE IV. TO ADVERSITY. DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless power, With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone. When first thy sire to send on earth And bade to form her infant mind; And from her own she learned to melt at others' wo. Sacred at thy frown terrific fly Self-pleasing folly's idle brood, Wild laughter, noise and thoughtless joy, And leave us leisure to be good. Light they disperse; and with them go The summer friend, the flattering foe: By vain prosperity received, Wisdom, in sable garb arrayed, Immersed in rapt'rous thought profound, With leaden eye, that loves the ground, And pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head, Nor circled with the vengeful band; (As by the impious thou art seen,) With thundering voice and threatening mien, Thy form benign, O Goddess! wear, Awake, my glory! awake, lute and harp. David's Psalms. Pindar styles his own poetry, with its musical accompani. ments, Folian song, Eolian strings, the breath of the Eolian flute. The subject and simile, as usua! with Pindar, are bore united. The various sources of poetry, which gives life and lustre to all it touches, are here described, as well in its quiet To her they vow their truth, and are again be- majestic progrese, enriching every subject (otherwise dry and lieved. 'And Madness laughing in his ireful mood. barren) with all the pomp of diction, and uxuriant harmony of numbers, as in its more rapid and irresistible course when swollen and hurried away by the conflict of tumultuous pas Dryden's Fable of Palamon and Arcite. sions. |