Thus, blest in primal innocence they live, Suffic'd and happy with that frugal fare

Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give : Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare;

Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there!

Nor need'st thou blush that such false themes engage
Thy gentle mind, of fairer stores possess'd;
For not alone they touch the village breast,
But fill'd, in elder time, the historic page.

There, Shakspeare's self, with every garland crown'd, Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen,

In musing hour, his wayward sisters found,
And with their terrors dress'd the magic scene.
From them he sung, when mid his bold design,
Before the Scot, afflicted, and aghast!

The shadowy kings of Banq.o's fated line
Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant pass'd.
Proceed! nor quit the tales which, simply told,
Could once so well my answering bosom pierce;
Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colour bold,
The native legends of thy land rehearse;
To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy powerful verse.

In scenes like these, which, daring to depart
From sober truth, are still to nature true,
And call forth fresh delight to fancy's view,
Th' heroic muse employ'd her Tasso's heart!
How have I trembled, when, a tTancred's stroke,
Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour'd!

When each live plant with mortal accents spoke,
And the wild blast upheav'd the vanish'd sword?
How have I sat, when pip'd the pensive wind,
To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung!
Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind
Believ'd the magic wonders which he sung;
Hence, at each sound, imagination glows!
Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here!

Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows!

Melting it flows, pure, murmuring, strong, and clear,

And fills th' impassion'd heart, and wins the harmonious ear!

MARK AKENSIDE.

Born 1721-Died 1770.

AKENSIDE was educated at the University of Edinburgh with the view of becoming a dissenting minister, but after

wards exchanged the study of theology for that of medicine. At the age of twenty-three he published the Pleasures of the Imagination, which conferred upon him at once a high reputation as a poet. In 1748 he established himself at London as a physician, and was assisted during the early and difficult part of his career with unexampled generosity by his friend Mr. Dyson, with an allowance of three hundred pounds a year. His reputation and practice continued to increase till his death, which took place in the 49th year of his age.

Akenside's poem is apparently the production of a mind well stored with philosophy and imagery collected from books, but possessing little acuteness, pathos, or originality of thought, and not accustomed to the observation of nature. Hence it is artificial and declamatory in its character. It has very little depth or tenderness of feeling, and its poetry rarely takes hold on the heart.

Both the thoughts and style are stately and imposing, but the former are too apt to degenerate into bombast, and the latter becomes superfluous in its pomp of expression.

His versification is regular and harmonious, his morality dignified, though rather cold, and his descriptions of the operations of genius, and of the intellectual abstract qualities, are beautiful.

"The sweetness which we miss in Akenside is that which should arise from the direct representations of life and its warm realities and affections. We seem to pass in his poem through a gallery of pictured abstractions rather than of pictured things. He reminds us of odours which we enjoy artificially extracted from the flower, instead of inhaling them from its natural blossom.

"In treating of novelty he is rather more descriptive; we have the youth breaking from domestic endearments in quest of knowledge, the sage over his midnight lamp, the virgin at her romance, and the village matron relating her stories of witchcraft. Short and compressed as these sketches are, they are still beautiful glimpses of reality, and it is expressly from observing the relief which they afford to his didactic and declamatory passages, that we are led to wish that he had appealed more frequently to examples from nature."

THE ATTRACTIONS OF NOVELTY.

CALL now to mind what high capacious powers

Lie folded up in man; how far beyond

The praise of mortals, may th' eternal growth
Of nature to perfection half divine,
Expand the blooming soul? What pity then
Should sloth's unkindly fogs depress to earth

Her tender blossom, choke the streams of life,
And blast her spring! Far otherwise design'd
Almighty wisdom: Nature's happy cares
Th' obedient heart far otherwise incline.
Witness the sprightly joy when aught unknown
Strikes the quick sense, and wakes each active power
To brisker measures: witness the neglect
Of all familiar prospects though beheld
With transport once; the fond attentive gaze
Of young astonishment; the sober zeal
Of age, commenting on prodigious things.
For such the bounteous providence of Heaven,
In every breast implanting this desire
Of objects new and strange, to urge us on
With unremitted labour to pursue

Those sacred stores that wait the ripening soul,
In truth's exhaustless bosom. What need words
To paint its power? For this the daring youth
Breaks from his weeping mother's anxious arms,
In foreign climes to rove: the pensive sage,
Heedless of sleep, or midnight's harmful damp,
Hangs o'er the sickly taper: and untir'd
The virgin follows, with enchanted step,
The mazes of some wild and wondrous tale,
From morn till eve; unmindful of her form,
Unmindful of the happy dress that stole
The wishes of the youth, when every maid
With envy pin'd. Hence finally, by night,
The village matron round the blazing hearth
Suspends the infant audience with her tales,
Breathing astonishment! of witching rhymes,
And evil spirits; of the death-bed call
Of him who robb'd the widow, and devour'd
The orphan's portion; of unquiet souls
Risen from the grave to ease the heavy guilt
Of deeds in life conceal'd: of shapes that walk
At dead of night, and clank their chains, and wave
The torch of hell around the murderer's bed.
At every solemn pause the crowd recoil,
Gazing each other speechless, and congeal'd ›
With shivering sighs: till eager for th' event,
Around the beldame all erect they hang;
Each trembling heart with grateful terrors quell'd.

PLEASURES OF A CULTIVATED IMAGINATION.
OH! blest of Heave'n, whom not the languid songs
Of luxury, the siren! not the bribes
Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils
Of pageant honor, can seduce to leave

4

Those ever-blooming sweets, which from the store
Of nature fair imagination culls

To charm th' enliven'd soul! what though not all
Of mortal offspring can attain the heights
Of envied life; though only few possess
Patrician treasures or imperial state;
Yet nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures and an ampler state,
Indows at large whatever happy man

Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp,
The rural honors his. Whate'er adorns
The princely dome, the column and the arch,
The breathing marbles and the sculptur'd gold,
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim,
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the spring
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him, the hand
Of autumn tinges every fertile branch
With blooming gold and blushes like the morn.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings;
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes
The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure, unreprov'd. Nor thence partakes
Fresh pleasure only for th' attentive mind,
By this harmodious action on her powers,
Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft.
In outward things to meditate the charm
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home
To find a kindred order, to exert
Within herself this elegance of love,
This fair inspir'd delight: her temper'd powers
Refine at length, and every passion wears
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.
But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze
On nature's form, where, negligent of all
Thése lesser graces, she assumes the port
Of that eternal majesty that weigh'd

:

The world's foundations, if to these the mind
Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far

Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms
Of servile custom cramp her generous power?
Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth
Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down
To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear?
Lo! she appeals to nature, to the winds

And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course,

The elements and seasons: all declare
For what th' eternal Maker has ordain'd'
The powers of man: we feel within ourselves
His energy divine; he tells the heart,

He meant, he made us to behold and love
What he beholds and loves, the general orb
Of life and being; to be great like him,
Beneficent and active. Thus the men

Whom nature's work can charm, with God himself
Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day,
With his conceptions; act upon his plan;
And form to his, the relish of their souls.

JOHN HOME.

Born 1724-Died 1808.

IT was to Mr. Home that Collins addressed his romantic ode on the Superstitions of the Highlands, predicting in the opening stanza the future exhibition of those tragic powers which were afterwards displayed so remarkably in Douglass. He was born in Scotland, studied at the University of Edinburgh, and was licensed to preach the gospel in 1747. In 1750 he became minister of the church at Athelstanford, over which the poet Blair had previously presided.

The tragedy of Douglass was first exhibited with great applause on the theatre in Edinburgh, and afterwards appeared with equal fame in London. It was attended in Scotland with consequences more unpleasant to the author. The Scotish presbytery esteemed it so great an outrage on the rules of propriety and religion for a clergyman to compose a tragedy for the stage, and be present at its performance, that Mr. Home judged it best to retire from his profession, and accordingly in 1758 took leave of his congregation in a deeply pathetic sermon. His own mind, it is to be feared, was more agitated by ambition, than obedient to the calls of duty.

He spent the remainder of his life, which was prolonged to the age of eighty five, at London, and published many tragedies, not one of which exhibited a glimpse of the genius that conceived and executed Douglass. It is upon this tragedy that Home's literary reputation rests exclusively; and by this it will always be supported. He has displayed in it much power of the descriptive and pathetic, a good degree of fancy, a discriminating hand in the delineation, of his characters, and a style of versification, easy, regular, and sometimes strong. Its moral influence is also pure. As a whole it is simple, chaste, and grand; like an ancient Grecian temple, severe in classic beauty, amidst the corruptions of the reigning taste.