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pense of books, and makes us pay an high price for trifles, and often for absurdities. I will only add, with Sir Henry Saville, that various lections are now grown so voluminous, that we begin to value the first editions of books as most correct, because least corrected. There are other critics who think themselves obliged to see no imperfections in their author : from

'the moment they undertake his cause, they look upon him as a lover upon his mistress ; Of partial he has no faults, or his very faults improve into beauties: this, indeed, is a well-natured Critics. errour, but still blameable, because it misguides the judgment. Such critics act no less

erroneously, than a judge who should resolve to acquit a person, whether innocent or guilty, who comes before him upon his trial. It is frequent for the partial critic to praise the work as he likes the author; he admires a book as an antiquary a medal, solely from the impression of the name, and not from the intrinsic value: the copper of a favourite writer shall be more esteemed than the finest gold of a less acceptable author : for this reason many persons have chosen to publish their works without a name, and by this method, like Apelles, who stood unseen behind his own Venus, have received a praise, which perhaps might have been denied if the author had been visible. But there are other critics who act a contrary part, and condemn all as criminals whom they try:

they dwell only on the faults of an author, and endeavour to raise a reputation by disOf envious praising every thing that other men praise; they have an antipathy to a shining character, and mali- like some animals, that hate the Sun only because of its brightness : it is a crime with cious Cri- them to excel; they are a kind of Tartars in learning, who, seeing a person of distinguished tics. qualifications, immediately endeavour to kill him, in hopes to attain just so much merit as

they destroy in their adversary. I never look into one of these critics but he puts me in mind of a giant in romance: the glory of the giant consists in the number of the limbs of men whom he has destroyed; that of the critic in viewing

Disjecti membra poetæ.

Hor. If ever he accidentally deviates into praise, he does it that his ensuing blame may fall with the greater weight; he adorns an author with a few flowers, as the ancients those victims which they were ready to sacrifice: he studies criticism as if it extended only to dispraise; a practice, which, when most successful, is least desirable. A painter might justly be thought to have a perverse imagination, who should delight only to draw the deformities and distortions of human nature, which, when executed by the most masterly hand, strike the beholder with most horrour. It is usual with envious critics to attack the writings of others, because they are good; they constantly prey upon the fairest fruits, and hope to spread their own works by uniting them to those of their adversary. But this is like Mezentius in Virgil, to join a dead carcass to a living body: and the only effect of it, to fill every well-natured mind with detestation : their malice becomes impotent, and, contrary to their design, they give a testimony of their enemy's merit, and show him to be an hero by turning all their weapons against him : such critics are like dead coals; they may blacken, but cannot burn. These writers bring to my memory a passage in the Iliad, where all the inferior powers, the Plebs Superûm, or rabble of the sky, are fancied to unite their endeavours to pull Jupiter down to the Earth : but by the attempt they only betray their own inability ; Jupiter is still Jupiter, and by their unavailing efforts they manifest his superiority.

Modesty is essential to true criticism: no man has a title to be a dictator in knowledge, and the sense of our own infirmities ought to teach us to treat others with humanity. The envious critic ought to consider, that if the authors be dead whom he censures, it is inhumanity to trample upon their ashes with insolence; that it is cruelty to summon, implead, and condemn them with rigour and animosity, when they are not in a capacity to answer his unjust allegations. If the authors be alive, the common laws of society oblige us not to commit any outrage against another's reputation; we ought modestly to convince, not injuriously insult; and contend for truth, not victory; and yet the envious critic is like the tyrants of old, who thought it not enough to conquer, unless their enemies were made a public spectacle, and dragged in triumph at their chariot-wheels: but what is such a triumph but a barbarous insult over the calamities of their fellow-creatures ? the noise of a day, purchased with the misery of nations ? However, I would not be thought to be pleading for an exemption from criticism ; I would only have it circumscribed within the rules of candour and humanity : writers may be told of their errours, provided it be with the decency and tenderness of a friend, not the malice and passion of an enemy; boys may be whipped into sense, but men are to guided with reason.

If we grant the malicious critic all that he claims, and allow him to have proved his adversary's dulness, and his own acuteness, yet, as long as there is virtue in the world, modest dulness will be preferable to learned arrogance. Dulness may be a misfortune, but arroganee is a crime ; and where is the mighty advantage, if, while he discovers more learning, he is found to have less virtue than his adversary ? and, though he be a better critic, yet proves himself to be a worse man? Besides, no one is to be envied the skill in finding such faults as others are so dull as to mistake for beauties. What advantage is such a quicksightedness even to the possessors of it? It makes them difficult to be pleased, and gives them pain, while others receive a pleasure : they resemble the second-sighted people in Scotland, who are fabled to see more than other persons; but all the benefit they reap from this privilege, is to discover objects of horrour, ghosts, and apparitions.

But it is time to end, though I have too much reason to enlarge the argument for candour in criticism, through a consciousness of my own deficiency: I have in reality been pleading my own cause, that, if I appear too guilty to obtain a pardon, I may find so much mercy from my judges, as to be condemned to suffer without inhumanity. But whatever be the fate of these works, they have proved of use to me, and been an agreeable amusement in a constant solitude. Providence has been pleased to lead me out of the great roads of life, into a private path ; where, though we have leisure to choose the smoothest way, yet we are all sure to meet many obstacles in the journey: I have found poetry an innocent companion, and support from the fatigues of it; how long, or how short, the future stages of it are to be, as it is uncertain, so it is a folly to be over solicitous about it; he that lives the longest, has but the small privilege of creeping more leisurely than others to his grave ; what we call living, is in reality but a longer time in dying: and if these verses prove as short-lived as their author, it is a loss not worth regretting: they only die, as they were born, in obscurity.







When through the mighty flood

He led the murmuring crowd,

What ail'd the rivers that they backward fed?

Why was the mighty flood afraid ?

March'd he against te rivers ? or was he,

Thou mighty Flood ! displeas'd at thce? WHEN, in a glorious terrible array,

The flood beheld from far
From Paran's towering height th’ Almighty took his The deity in all his equipage of war;

Borne on a cherub's wings he rode, [way ; And lo! at once it bursts ! in diverse falls
Intolerable day proclaim'd the God;

On either hand! it swells in chrystal walls !
No earthly cloud

Th’ eternal rocks disclose! the tossing waves Could his effulgent brightness shroud : Rush in loud thunder from a thousand caves ! Glory, and Majesty, and Power,

Why tremble ye, O faithless ! to behold Marca'd in a dreadful pomp before ;

The opening deeps their gulphs unfold? Behind, a grim and meagre train,

Enter the dreadful chasms ! 'tis God, who guides Pining Sickness, frantic Pain,

Your wondrous way! the God who rules the tides ! Stalk'd widely on! with all the dismal band, And lo! they march amid the deafening roar Which Heaven in anger sends to scourge a guilty Of tumbling seas ! they mount the adverse shore ! land.

Advance, ye chosen tribes !--Arabia's sands, With terrour cloth’d, he downward few,

Lonely, uncomfortable lands! And wither'd half the nations with a view;

Void of fountain, void of rain,

Oppose their burning coasts in vain ! Through half the nations of th' astonish'd Earth,

See! the great prophet stand,
He scatter'd war, and plagues, and dearth!

Waving his wonder-working wand !
And when he spoke,
The everlasting hills from their foundations shook; The stubborn rock feels the Almighty blow!

He strikes the stubborn rock, and lo!
The trembling mountains, by a lowly nod,

His stony entrails burst, and rushing torrents flow. With reverence struck, confess'd the God: On Sion's holy hill he took his stand,

2 Then did the Sun his fiery coursers stay, Crasping omnipotence in his right hand;

And backward held the falling day ; Then mighty earthquakes rock'd the ground,

VARIATION. And the Sun darken'd as he frown'd:

? Ah, what new scenes unfold, what voice I hear ! He dealt Amietion from his van,

Sun, stand thou still: thou Moon, thy course forAnd wild Confusion froin his rear;

Ah, Sun, thy wheels obedient stay, [bear: They through the tents of Cushan ran,

Doubling the splendours of the wondrous day. The tents of Cushan quak'd with fear,

The nimble-footed Minutes cease to run And Midian trembled with despair.

And urge the lazy Hours on. I see his sword wave naked in the air :

Time hangs his unexpanded wings, It sheds around a baleful ray,

And all the secret springs The rains pour down, the lightnings play,

That carry on the year And on their wings vindictive thunders bear.

Stop in their full career,

At once th' astonish'd Moon

Forgets her going down,
I see his sword wave with redoubled ire !

And paler grows, Ah ! has it set the very clouds on fire ?

To view th' amazing train of woes ; The clouds burst down in deluges of showers; While through the trembling Pagan nation, Fierce lightning flames, vindictive thunder roars. Th’ Almighty ruin deals, and ghastly desolation,


The nimble-footed Minutes ceas'd to run, Nor can even Sickness, which disarras
And urge the lazy Hours on.

All other nymphs, destroy your charms;
Time hung his unexpanded wings,

A thousand beauties you can spare,
And all the secret springs

And still be fairest of the fair.
That carry on the year,

But see! the pain begins to fly;
Stopp'd in their full career:

Though Venus bled, she could not die :
Then the astonishid Moon

See the new Phenix point her eyes,
Forgot her going down;

And lovelier from her ashes rise :
And paler grew,

Thus roses, when the storm is o'er,
The dismal scene to view,

Draw beauties from th' inclement shower.
How through the trembling Pagan nation,
Th’ Almighty ruin dealt, and ghastly desolation. Welcome, ye Hours ! which thus repay

What envious Sickness stole away!
But why, ah! why, 0 Sion, reigns

Welcome as those which kindly bring, Wide wasting Havock o'er thy plains ?

And usher in the joyous Spring : Ah, me! Destruction is abroad!

That to the smiling Earth restore Vengeance is loose, and Wrath from God! The beauteous herb, and blooming flower, See! hosts of spoilers seize their prey !

And give her all the charms she lost See! Slaughter marks in blood his way! By wintery storms, and hoary frost ! See! how embattled Babylon,

And yet how well did she sustain, Like an unruly deluge, rushes on!

And greatly triumph o'er her pain ! Lo! the field with millions swarms !

So flowers, when blasting winds invade,
I hear their shouts! their clashing arms !

Breathe sweet, and beautifully fade.
Now the conflicting hosts engage,
With more than mortal rage !-

Now in her cheeks, and radiant eyes,
Oh! Heaven! I faint- I die!

New: blushes glow, new lightnings rise; The yielding powers of Israel fly!

Behold a thousand charms succeed, Now banner'd hosts surround the walls

For which a thousand hearts must bleed! Of Sion ! now she sinks, she falls !

Brighter from her disease she shines,
Ah Sion ! how for thee I mourn !

As fire the precious gold refines.
What pangs for thee I feel !
Ah! how art thou become the Pagan's scorn,

Thus when the silent grave becomes

Pregnant with life, as fruitful wombs;
Lovely, unhappy Israel !

When the wide seas, and spacious earth,
A shivering damp invades my heart,
A trembling horrour shoots through every part ; Our moulder'd frame, rebuilt, assumes

Resign us to our second birth;
My nodding frame can scarce sustain

New beauty, and for ever blooms;
Th’ oppressive load I undergo :

And, crown'd with youth's iminortal pride,
Speechless I sigh! the envious woe

We angels rise, who mortals dy'd.
Forbids the very pleasure to complain:

Forbids my faultering tongue to tell
What pangs for thee I feel,
Lovely, unhappy Israel!

Yet though the fig-tree should no burthen bear,

Thougb vines delude the promise of the year ;
Yet though the olive should not yield her oil,
Nor the parch'd glebe reward the peasant's toil; 3 The listening #rees Amphion drew
Though the tir'd ox beneath his labours fall, To dance from bills, where once they grew:
And herds in nullions perish from the stall; But you express a power more great;
Yet shall my grateful strings

The flowers you draw not, but create.
For ever praise thy name,

Behold your own creation rise,
For ever thee proclaim,

And smile beneath your radiant eyes !
Thee everlasting God, the mighty King of Kings.

"Tis beauteous all! ant yet receives
From you more graces than it gives.

But say, amid the softer charms
Of blooming flowers, what mean these arms!
So round the fragrance of the rose,

The pointed thorn, to guard it, grows.

But cruel you, who thus employ

Both arms and beauty to destroy !

So Venus marches to the fray

In armour, formidably gay.
Sure never pain such beauty wore,
Or look'd so amiable before !

You graces give to disease,

3 The lovely Flora paints the Earth, Adorn the pain, and make it please:

And calls the morning flowers to birth: Thus burning incense sheds perfumes,

Rut you display a power more great; Still fragrant as it still consumes.

She calls forth flowers, but you create.


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