Be satisfied from hunger of her maw;

But eats herself as she that hath no law: Gnawing, alas, her carcase all in vain,

Where you may count each sinew, bone and vein.

On her while we thus firmly fix'd our eyes,
That bled for ruth of such a dreary sight,
Lo, suddenly she shright in so huge wise,

As made hell gates to shiver with the might,h Wherewith a dart we saw how it did light Right on her breast, and therewithal pale DEATH Enthrilling it to reve her of her breath.

And by and by a dumb dead corpse we saw,
Heavy and cold, the shape of death aright,
That daunts all earthly creatures to his law;

Against whose force in vain it is to fight;
Ne peers, ne princes, nor no mortal wight;
No town, ne realms, cities, ne strongest tower,
But all perforce must yeild unto his power.

His dart anon out of the corpse he took,
And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see)
With great triumph eftsoons the same he shook,
That most of all my fears affrayed me;

His body dight with nought but bones, perdie,
The naked shape of man there saw I plain,
All, save the flesh, the sinew and the vein.

What an admirable and highly poetical line!

Lastly stood WAR, in glittering arms yclad,

With visage grim, stern looks, and blackly hued, In his right hand a naked sword he had,

That to the hilts was all with blood embrued;

And in his left, that kings and kingdoms rued,
Famine and fire he held, and therewithal
He razed towns, and threw down towers and all.

Cities he sack'd, and realms that whilom flower'd
In honour, glory, and rule above the best,
He overwhelm'd, and all their frame devour'd,
Consum'd, destroy'd, wasted, and never ceas'd,
Till he their wealth, their name, and all opprest,
His face forehew'd with wounds; and by his side
There hung his targe with gnashes deep and wide.

In midst of which depainted there we found
Deadly DEBATE, all full of snaky hair,
That with a bloody fillet was ybound,

Outbreathing nought but discord every where;

And round about were pourtray'd here and there The hugy hosts: Darius and his power,

His kings, princes, his peers, and all his

power!"

i

The merit of these descriptions does not require to be pointed out. They seem to me more picturesque, and of a more sombre and sublime cast

i Mirror for Magistrates, second edition, 1563. But these lines are extracted by Warton in his History of English Poetry, which I did not recollect when I first began to transcribe them.

than those of SPENSER himself. I trust my readers will think they illustrate the point, for which I have introduced them.

To return to Collins. His imagination, if not always quite as moral or as bold as Sackville's, was eminently beautiful and brilliant. In the Ode to the Passions the personifications are exquisitely picturesque, animated, and appropriate; the language is so purely poetical and finished, and the harmony of the numbers is so felicitous, as to leave it without a rival; and indeed without any attempt at rivalry in its own class.

k Mrs. Barbauld has prefixed an excellent Essay on Collins's Poetry, before her edition of his Poems, 1797; but in the view. which I have taken, I am not aware that I have interfered with it.

Dec. 14, 1808.

N° LVII.

On Book-Making.

THERE cannot be a question, that re-combining the old materials of literature, without any new results, or even any material improvement of the order and method pursued, to which the term Book-making has been contemptuously applied, requires discouragemeut and censure. It is, no doubt, a common practice in these, and has been in all days, since the first invention of printing.

But it is equally certain that the word so understood is very often most grossly misdirected. This blame is often thrown upon volumes where new results arise from the new position of the matter; where research has been exercised in bringing it forward; or at least an active and cultivated memory employed in forming its new arrangement. As books increase, they still generate the necessity of others; and compilers, though not among the higher ranks of authors, are labourers whose services in the fields of literature are indispensible. They are often requisite to do the drudgery even of first gathering together and binding up the sheaves, where others have cut the corn.

He, who tells me that he requires no aid to his memory, and that the repetition of any thing which is to be found in print among the books of his library, is absolutely superfluous, must either deem me very stupid, if he hopes to gain my belief, or must allow me to suppose his books very few, and the course of his studies exceedingly limited. I even consider no small benefit gained, in many cases, by the addition of a few notes, or a better type and paper.

The mere use of paste and scissars, the jumbling together the disjointed parts of books in a different form, merely by way of disguising the piracy, and for the mere purpose of lucre, is indeed vile and highly reprehensible. And every one must observe daily instances of this contemptible abuse.

If vanity induces a man, who dares not trust the powers of his own mind, to grasp at the fame of authorship, by re-editing the works of others, the passion is at least innocent, and often produces effects useful and laudable. But it is something much better than vanity that frequently generates this exertion. It is often a generous duty; and often a noble desire of a virtuous intellectual occupation in pursuits productive of public instruction or pleasure.

It may be admitted that persons so employed sometimes mistake the value of their materials, and