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The trackless scenes disperse in Auid air,
And woods, and wilds, and thorny ways appear.
A tedious road the weary wretch returns,
And, as he goes, the transient vision mourns.

A HYMN TO VENUS,

FROM THE GREEK OF SAPPHO.

O Venus, beauty of the skies,
To whom a thousand temples rise,
Gaily false in gentle smiles,
Full of love-perplexing wiles,
0, goddess ! from my heart remove
The wasting cares and pains of love.

If ever thou hast kindly heard
A song in soft distress preferr'd,
Propitious to my tuneful vow,
O, gentle goddess, hear me now
Descend, thou bright immortal guest,
In all thy radiant charms confest.

Thou once didst leave almighty Jove,
And all the golden roofs above :
The car thy wanton sparrows drew;
Hovering in air they lightly flew ;
As to my bower they wing'd their way,
I saw their quivering pinions play.

The birds, dismiss'd, (while you remain,)
Bore back their empty car again :
Then you, with looks divinely mild,
In every heavenly feature smild,
And ask'd, what new complaints I made,
And why I callid you to my aid ?

What phrenzy in my bosom rag'd,
And by what care to be assuag'd ?
What gentle youth I would allure,
Whom in my artful toils secure ?
Who does thy tender heart subdue,
Tell me, my Sappho, tell me who?

Though now he shuns thy longing arms,
He soon shall court thy slighted charms;
Though now thy offerings he despise,
He soon to thee shall sacrifice;
Though now he freeze, he soon shall burn,
And be thy victim in his turn.

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Celestial visitant, once more
Thy needful presence I implore !
In pity come and ease my grief,
Bring my distemper'd soul relief :
Favour thy suppliant's hidden fires,
And give me all my heart desires,

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A FRAGMENT OF SAPPHO.

Blest as the immortal gods is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And hears and sees thee all the while
Softly speak, and sweetly smile.

'Twas this deprived my soul of rest, And rais'd such tumults in my breast; For while I gaz'd, in transport tost, My breath was gone, my voice was lost,

My bosom glow'd; the subtle fame Ran quick through all my vital frame ; O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung, My ears with hollow murmurs rung.

In dewy damps my limbs were chillid,
My blood with gentle horrours thrillid;
My feeble pulse forgot to play,
I fainted, sunk, and died away.

WILLIAM COLLINS.

W ILLIAM COLLINS, a distinguished modern poet, was born at Chichester, in 1720 or 1721, where his father exercised the trade of a hatter. He received his education at Winchester College, whence he entered as a commoner of Queen's college, Oxford. In 1741, he procured his election into Magdalen college as a demy; and it was here that he wrote his poetical “ Epistle to Sir Thomas Hanmer," and his “ Oriental Eclogues ;" of both which pieces the success was but moderate. In 1744, he came to London as a literary adventurer, and various were the projects which he formed in this capacity. In 1746, however, he ventured to lay before the public a volume of “Odes, Descriptive and Allegorical ;" but so callous was the national taste at this time, that their sale did not pay for the printing. Collins, whose spirit was high, returned to the bookseller his copy-money, burnt all the unsold copies, and as soon as it lay in his power, indemnified him for his small loss; yet among these odes, were many pieces which now rank among the finest lyric compositions in the language. After this mortification, he obtained from the booksellers

a small sum for an intended translation of Aristotle's Poetics, and paid a visit to an uncle, Lieutenantcolonel Martin, then with the army in Germany. The Colonel dying soon after, left Collins a legacy of 20001., a sum which raised him to temporary opulence; but he now soon became incapable of every mental exertion. Dreadful depression of spirits was an occasional attendant on his malady, for which he had no remedy but the bottle. It was about this time, that it was thought proper to confine him in a receptacle of lunatics. Dr. Johnson paid him a visit at Islington, when there was nothing of disorder in his mind, perceptible to any but himself. He was reading the New Testament. “I have but one book," said he, “but it is the best.” He was finally consigned to the care of his sister, in whose arms he finished his short and melancholy course, in the year 1756.

It is from his Odes, that Collins derives his chief poetical fame ; and in compensation for the neglect with which they were treated at their first appearance, they are now almost universally regarded as the first productions of the kind in our language with respect to vigour of conception, boldness and variety of personification, and genuine warmth of feeling. They are well characterised in an essay prefixed to his works in an ornamented edition published by Cadell and Davies, with which we shall conclude this article. “ He will be acknowledged (says the author) to possess imagination, sweetness, bold and figurative language. His numbers dwell on the ear, and easily fix themselves in the memory.

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