and tho' GRAY and HAMMOND have excelled in the laft, POPE's elegy on the death of an unfortunate young lady, will prove those numbers equally expreffive and harmonious; nor fhould I doubt to place our English ballad, fuch as have been written by RowE, GAY, and the natural, eafy SHENSTONE, in the rank of elegy; as they partake more of the fimple pathetic, and display the real feelings of the heart, with less parade, than thofe affected compofitions of clafical labour.
The reader has feen above an original elegy, from one of the antients, which we shall be glad if any of our correfpondents will put into English; and we will, in the mean time, prefent him with ane truly modern, which the learned are very welcome to turn into Greek.
An ELEGY on a TALLOW CANDLE
PEnfive I lay, e'en from the dead of night,
Until the fun his daily course began,
Reflecting on the candle's wafting light,
And moraliz'd the fate of mortal man.
White and unfully'd was that cotton wick, When from the chandler firft to me it came; Behold how black! the greafy drops how thick! Such colour takes it from imparted flame.
Such is the youth, of manners ftrict and pure,
Till led by vice he quits his reafon's guide;
By flatt'ry drawn, he ftoops to vice's lure,
And from the paths of reason wanders wide.
His paffions melt, his manly vigour faints,
Nor mourns he ought his former vigour gone,
For foul fociety his former morals taints,
And mother Douglas marks him for her own.
The fool who feils his freedom for a smile,
Or for a ribband barters peace of mind,
Like wafting wicks just glimmers for a while,
Then dies in fmoke, and leaves a ftink behind.
The many perils that ambition wait,
When foaring high, we ftill the lower fall,
Are but the SNUFFERS of expiring light,
And death's the grand EXTINGUISHER of all.
HORACE, Epift. viii. Book i.
mufe, falute my friend with health and joy
And, if he afk how I my hours employ;
Tell him I talk at large: fometimes I fay,
Stalking in bufkin'd pride, I'll write a play:
A play! that's common; nay, I'll higher fly;
Homer wrote Epic ftrains, and why not I?
Strait fhifts the wind; fome most unlucky blast
Chills my poetic vein; away I caft
The papers; all my huge defigns are done,
Ending in nothing, where they were begun,
Hence with these books! they're pedantry and pain;
Their wit is naufeous, and their learning vain.
Even life itfelf's infipid, like a feaft
Of homely cheer to fome new-pamper'd guest.
At once I'm fick; I'm well; I'm this, I'm that;
I'm mad; I'm cross; I am I know not what.
I rave at fortune; call her false, unkind;
And vow 'tis just that poets paint her blind.
Not that my vineyards or my orchards fail,
Blown down by winds, or batter'd by the hail.
Not that my herds by plague or murrain die ;
Thefe cares belong to wealthier friends than I.
Nor that my riches or my ftores decrease;
Nor yet my ftrength :-my mind is my difeafe.
Would any comfort me? I hate their love.
Would any give advice? I ne'er approve.
Friends are officious: doctors are the devil;
For their own int'reft phyfically civil.
With open eyes I run to meet a foe,
And fwear it is my ftars will have it fo.
In town I cry, Oh! when shall I get down
To country eafe? In country, when to town?
Wrapt up in indolence, 'tis just the fame;
Or bluft'ring in the bufy world of fame.
This to my friend :-He'll fay 'tis fpleen, that's all: Bid him beware; 'tis epidemical:
But, if he's rude, and tells me I'm an afs;
The HIP, dear fir, is many a good man's cafe.
Quod non edideris, nefcit vox missa reverti. HOR.
Printed for the Author, and Sold by T. DAVIES, in Ruffel-ftreet, Covent-Garden.
N. B. Subfcribers are defired to fend for their Books to the above T. DAVIES.
MA'M, is it you? I'm glad you're here.
My Miffefs, tho' refolv❜d to wait,
Is quite unpatient 'tis fo late.
She fancy'd you would not come down,
But pray walk in, MA'M-Mrs. BROWN.
Your fervant, MADAM. Well, I swear
I'd giv❜n you over Child, a chair.
Pray, MA'M, be seated.
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