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You, with the tragic muse retired,
The wise Euripides inspired;

You taught the sadly-pleasing air
That Athens saved from ruins bare.
You gave the Cean's tears to flow,
And unlocked the springs of woe;
You penned what exiled Naso thought,
And poured the melancholy note.

With Petrarch o'er Vancluse you strayed,
When death snatched his long-loved maid;
You taught the rocks her loss to mourn,
Ye strewed with flowers her virgin urn.
And late in Hagley you were seen,
With blood-shot eyes, and sombre mien;
Hymen his yellow vestments tore,
And Dirge a wreath of cypress wore.
But chief your own the solemn lay
That wept Narcissa young and gay;
Darkness clapped her sable wing,
While you touched the mournful string;
Anguish left the pathless wild,
Grim-faced Melancholy smiled,
Drowsy Midnight ceased to yawn,
The starry host put back the dawn;
Aside their harps even seraphs flung
To hear thy sweet Complaint, O Young!
When all nature's hushed asleep,
Nor Love, nor Guilt their vigils keep,
Soft you leave your caverned den,
And wander o'er the works of men;
But when Phosphor brings the dawn
By her dappled coursers drawn,
Again you to the wild retreat,
And the early huntsman meet,
Where, as you pensive pace along,
You catch the distant shepherd's song,
Or brush from herbs the pearly dew,
Or the rising primrose view.
Devotion lends her heaven-plumed wings,
You mount, and nature with you sings.
But when mid-day fervours glow,

To upland airy shades you go,

Where never sun-burnt woodman came,

Nor sportsman chased the timid game;
And there beneath an oak reclined,
With drowsy waterfalls behind,
You sink to rest.

Till the tuneful bird of night

From the neighbouring poplar's height,

Wake you with her solemn strain,

And teach pleased Echo to complain.

With you roses brighter bloom,
Sweeter every sweet perfume;

Purer every fountain flows,
Stronger every wildling grows.
Let those toil for gold who please,
Or for fame renounce their ease,
What is fame? an empty bubble.
Gold? a transient shining trouble.
Let them for their country bleed,
What was Sydney's, Raleigh's meed?
Man's not worth a moment's pain,
Base, ungrateful, fickle, vain.
Then let me, sequestered fair,
To your sybil grot repair;
On yon hanging cliff it stands,
Scooped by nature's salvage hands,
Bosomed in the gloomy shade
Of cypress not with age decayed,
Where the owl still-hooting sits,
Where the bat incessant flits,
There in loftier strains I'll sing
Whence the changing seasons spring;
Tell how storms deform the skies,
Whence the waves subside and rise,
Trace the comet's blazing tail,
Weigh the planets in a scale;
Bend, great God, before thy shrine,
The bournless macrocosm's thine. *

NATHANIEL COTTON was born in 1721, and educated for the medical profession. Having taken a doctor's degree, he established himself at St. Albans, and became distinguished for his skill in the treatment of cases of insanity. The melancholy Cowper was, for some time, under his care, and between them a very warm friendship ever after subsisted. His death occurred in 1788, in the sixty-eighth year of his age.

Dr. Cotton was the author of Visions in Verse for Children, and a volume of poetical Miscellanies. Without any pretensions to a high order of genius, Cotton wrote with much delicacy of thought and sweetness of ver sification; and the following lines have long had a permanent popularity:

THE FIRESIDE.

Dear Chloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In folly's maze advance;

Though singularity and pride
Be called our choice, we'll step aside,
Nor join the giddy dance.

From the gay world we'll oft retire
To our own family and the fire,

Where love our hours employs;
No noisy neighbour enters here;
Nor intermeddling stranger near
To spoil our heartfelt joys.

If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies;

And they are fools who roam:
The world has nothing to bestow;
From our ownselves our joys must flow,
And that dear hut-our home.

Of rest was Noah's dove bereft,
When with impatient wing she left
That safe retreat, the ark;
Giving her vain excursions o'er,
The disappointed bird once more
Explored the sacred bark.

Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers,
We, who improve his golden hours,
By sweet experience know,
That marriage, rightly understood,
Gives to the tender and the good
A paradise below.

Our babes shall richest comforts bring;
If tutored right, they'll prove a spring
Whence pleasures ever rise:

We'll form their minds, with studious care,
To all that's manly, good, and fair,
And train them for the skies.

While they our wisest hours engage,
They'll joy our youth, support our age,
And crown our hoary hairs:
They'll grow in virtue every day;
And thus our fondest loves repay,
And recompense our cares.

No borrowed joys, they 're all our own,
While to the world we live unknown,
Or by the world forgot:

Monarchs! we envy not your state;
We look with pity on the great,
And bless our humbler lot.

Our portion is not large indeed;
But then how little do we need!
For nature's calls are few:

In this the art of living lies,
To want no more than may suffice,
And make that little do.

We'll therefore relish with content
Whate'er kind Providence had sent,
Nor aim beyond our power;

For, if our stock be very small.
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,

Nor lose the present hour.

To be resigned when ills betide,
Patient when favours are denied,

And pleased with favours given;
Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part;
This is that incense of the heart,

Whose fragrance smells to heaven.
We'll ask no long protracted treat,
Since winter-life is seldom sweet;
But when our feast is o'er,
Grateful from table we 'll arise,

Nor grudge our sons with envious eyes
The relics of our store.

Thus, hand in hand, through life we 'll go;
Its chequered paths of joy and woe

With cautious steps we 'll tread;
Quit its vain scenes without a tear,
Without a trouble or a fear,

And mingle with the dead:

While conscience like a faithful friend,
Shall through the gloomy vale attend,
And cheer our dying breath;
Shall, when all other comforts cease,
Like a kind angel, whisper peace,
And smooth the bed of death.

Joseph and Thomas Warton, two brothers of eminence in the literary circles of this period, belonged to a poetic race. DR. THOMAS WARTON, their father, was a native of Godalmin, in Surrey, and was educated at Magdalen College, Oxford, of which he was afterwards chosen fellow. He filled the professorship of poetry in the university, from 1718 until 1728, and though not gifted with exalted genius, his enthusiasm contributed greatly to elevate the poetical art at the venerable institution to which he belonged. His death occurred in 1745. The following sonnet from the pen of this author is well worthy of being preserved, from the striking similarity it bears to the future productions of the younger son:

[Written after seeing Windsor Castle.]

From beauteous Windsor's high and storied halls,
Where Edward's chiefs starts from the glowing walls,
To my low cot from ivory beds of state,
Pleased I return unenvious of the great.
So the bee ranges o'er the varied scenes
Of corn, of heath, of fallows, and of greens,
Pervades the thicket-soars above the hill,
Or murmurs to the meadow's murmuring rill:
Now haunts old hollowed oaks, deserted cells,
Now seeks the low vale lily's silver bells;
Sips the warm fragrance of the green-house bowers,
And tastes the myrtle and the citron's flowers;
At length returning to the wonted comb,
Prefers to all his little straw-built home.

JOSEPH WARTON, the eldest son of Thomas, was born at Dunsfold, Surrey, in 1722. He studied, preparatory to entering the university, at Westminster school, where Collins was one of his schoolfellows. He was afterwards a commoner of Oriel College, Oxford, and particularly distinguished himself by his application and regularity. Having taken his collegiate degrees, Warton entered into orders, and was ordained on his father's curacy, at Basingstoke. In 1751 he accompanied the duke of Bolton to France as his chaplain, and soon after his return to England was made rector of Tamworth. In this rectory he remained until 1766, when he was elected head master of Winchester school, to which were subsequently added a prebend of St. Paul's, and of Winchester. His death occurred on the twenty-third of February, 1800.

Dr. Warton early appeared as a poet, having published, while at the university, his Enthusiasts, his Dying Indian, and some Satires. His style is graphic and romantic, and his Ode to Fancy possesses a very high degree of merit. He also edited Pope's works, and prefixed, to his edition, an elegant and highly interesting essay on the genius and writings of that celebrated author. The following Ode has attained a permanent popularity :

TO FANCY.

O parent of each lovely muse!
Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,
O'er all my artless songs preside,
My footsteps to thy temple guide,
To offer at thy turf-built shrine
In golden cups no costly wine,
No murdered fatling of the flock,
But flowers and honey from the rock.
O nymph with loosely-flowing hair,
With buskined leg, and bosom bare,
Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,
Thy brows with Indian feathers crowned,
Waving in thy snowy hand

An all-commanding magic wand,
Of power to bid fresh gardens grow
'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow,
Whose rapid wings thy flight convey
Through air, and over earth and sea,
While the various landscape lies
Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes!
O lover of the desert, hail!
Say in what deep and pathless vale,
Or on what hoary mountain side,
'Midst falls of water, you reside;
'Midst broken rocks a rugged scene,
With green and grassy dales between;
'Midst forests dark of aged oak,

Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,

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