Under the different claffes into which he has diftributed them, he endeavours to fhew the mode of action of each medicine on the human body; the difeafes in which it is required; the circumftances in which it is contra-indicated, or may be noxious; the manner in which its virtues may be detected; the particular parts of the fubftance in which these virtues refide; and, laftly, the pharmaceutical rules for the extraction of them.

On the whole, as we have already hinted, this work contains much original matter, and feveral ingenious obfervations. By thofe, who poffefs the patience and temper of a Reviewer, and who are befides qualified to pierce through the clouds and darkness, and false lights, caft over their Author's meaning by thefe negligent Editors, it may be perufed with pleasure, notwithstanding its defects. Accordingly it is better calculated for the perufal of the Adepts in the art, than of the Tyro; who will meet with many ftumbling blocks in his progrefs through this performance.

ART. XIII. Poems, confifting of the following Pieces; viz. I. Ode written upon the Death of Mr. Gray. II. For the Monument of a favourite Spaniel. III. Another Infcription for the fame. IV. Tranflation from Dante, Canto xxxiii. By the Earl of Carlife. 4to. 19. Ridley. 1773.

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Let a Lord once own the happy lines,

How the wit brightens! how the style refines!”

So fays Pope; but though we are always glad to find men of fashion cultivating the polite arts, their titles, at our tribunal, have no weight in their favour. Though there is nothing contemptible in any of these poems, the first only, in our opinion, deferves particular notice; and as the public hath been prefented with nothing better on a fubject fo affecting to men of tafte and genius, we fhall prefent our Readers with Lord Carlifle's Verfes on the Death of Mr. Gray:

I.

What Spirit's that which mounts on high,
Borne on the arms of every tuneful Muse?
His white robes flutter to the gale:
They wing their way to yonder opening fky,
In glorious ftate through yielding clouds they fail,
And scents of heavenly flowers on earth diffuse.

II.

What avails the Poet's art?

What avails his magic hand?

Can he arreft Death's pointed dart,

Or charm to fleep his murderous band?

Well

Well I know thee, gentle fhade,

That tuneful voice, that eagle eye..
Quick bring me flowers that ne'er fhall fade,
The laurel wreath that ne'er shall die;
With every honour deck his funeral bier,
For He to every Grace, and every Mufe was dear!
III.

The liftening Dryad, with attention fill,
On tiptoe oft would near the Poet fteal,
To hear him fing upon the lonely hill

Of all the wonders of th' expanded vale;
The diftant hamlet, and the winding stream,
The fteeple fhaded by the friendly yew,
Sunk in the wood the fun's departing gleam,
The grey robed landfcape ftealing from the view.
Or wrapt in folemn thought, and pleasing woe,
O'er each low tomb he breath'd his pious ftrain,
A leffon to the village fwain,

And taught the tear of ruftic grief to flow!
But foon with bolder note, and wilder flight,
O'er the loud frings his rapid hand would run;
Mars hath lit his torch of war,

Ranks of heroes fill the fight!

Hark, the carnage is begun!

And fee the furies through the fiery air

O'er Cambria's frighten'd land the fcreams of horror bear!

IV.

Now led by playful Fancy's hand

O'er the white furge he treads with printlefs feet,
To magic fhores he flies, and fairy land,

Imagination's bleft retreat.

Here rofes paint the crimson way,

No fetting fun, eternal May,

!

Wild as the priestess of the Thracian fane
When Bacchus leads the maddening train,
His bofom glowing with celeftial fire,
To Harmony he ftruck the golden lyre;
To Harmony each hill and valley rung
The bird of Jove, as when Apollo fung,
To melting blifs refign'd his furious foul,
With milder rage his eyes began to roll,
The heaving down his thrilling joys confeft,
Till by a Mortal's hand fubdued, he funk to rest.
V.

O guardian Angel of our early day,

Henry, thy darling plant muft bloom no more!

By thee attended, penfive would he stray,

Where Thames foft-murmuring laves his winding fhore. Thou bad'ft him raife the moralizing fong,

Through life's new feas the little bark to steer: The winds are rude and high, the failor young; Thoughtless he fpies no furious tempeft near,

Prepare the iron fcourge, prepare the venom'd dart,
Adverfity no more with lenient air appears:

The fnakes that twine around her head
Again their frothy poifon fhed,

For who can now her whirlwind flight controul,
Her threatening rage beguile?

He who could ftill the tempeft of her foul,
And force her livid lips to fmile,
To happier feats is fled!

Now feated by his Thracian Sire,
At the full feaft of mighty Jove

To heavenly themes attunes his lyre,

And fills with Harmony the realms above!

The tranflation from Dante is a ftory almoft too fhocking to be framed into verfe. Sunt quæ refugiunt Mufa, horrore perculfa. QUINT.

* Hymn to Adverfity.

ART. XIV. A poetical Epifle to Chriftopher Anstey, Efq; on the Englifh Poets, chiefly thofe who have written in Blank Verfe. 4to. Wilkie. 1773.

I S.

THO

THOUGH this poem is obviously a partial eulogium on blank verse, and a difparagement of rhyme, the Author has not the hardinefs to deny that the latter is more commo. dious in many fpecies of English poetry. It must ever accompany the lyre. Collins has written an ode in blank verfe, only to fhew us that, fo applied, it muft fail in the hands of the greatest mafters. Neither will elegy bear it. Sorrow loves repeated founds. Rhyme tunes the pipe

Of querulous Elegy; 'tis Rhyme confines
The lawless numbers of the lyric fong.
Who fhall deny the quick retorted found

To Satire, when with this fhe points her fcorn,

Darts her sharp fhaft, and whets her venom'd fang.

There feems to be an incongruity in the laft line; for thofe
animals that whet the fang never dart the shaft, and vice versa.
Befide what is it with which the fang is whetted? A found.
The idea will by no means bear.

Pent in the clofe of fome ftrong period ftands
The victim's blafted name: the kindred note
Firft ftamps it on the ear; then oft recals
To memory, what were better wrapt at once
In dark oblivion.

REV. Feb. 1773.

To incongruity is here added inconfiftency. We are told in one verfe that we must allow to Satire, what in another, it 19 faid, were better difallowed. We are first to empower her to do mifchief, and then we are to condemn her for doing it: Who shall deny the quick-retorted found

To Satire?

The kindred note recals

To memory what were better wrapt at once
In dark oblivion.

The encomium on Pope is a negative injury to the memory of the greater Dryden. Speaking of rhyme the Author fays,

Still unrivall'd here

Pope through his rich dominion reigns alone:
Pope, whofe immortal ftrains Thames ecchoes yet
Through all his winding banks. He fmooth'd the verfe,
Tun'd its foft cadence to the claffic ear,

And gave to Rhyme the dignity of fong.

But did not Dryden fmoothe the verfe? Did not he give to Rhyme the dignity of fong? Did not he teach

the full refounding line,

The long majeftic march and energy divine?

The Author of this poetical Epiftle is very unfortunate in the precision and propriety of his ideas. Thus he fets out: No, not in Rhyme. I hate that iron chain,

Forg'd by the hand of fome rude Goth, which cramps
The fairest feather in the Mufe's wing,

And pins her to the ground.

Here we have an iron chain to cramp a feather, and pin it to the ground.

"Who breaks a butterfly upon a wheel?"

However, we have fome, not inapt, defcriptions of our Englifh poets. Thus of Milton,

The bard of Eden; to the Grecian lyre

be tun'd his verfe; he lov'd the genuine Mufe,
That from the top of Athos, circled all

The fertile islands of the Agean deep,

Or roam'd o'er fair Ionia's winding shore..

Poet of other times, to thee I bow

With lowlist reverence. Oft thou tak'st my fouly
And wafts it by thy potent harmony

To that empyreal mansion, where thine ear
Caught the foft warblings of a feraph's harp.
What time the nightly vifitant unlock'd
The gates of heaven, and to thy mental fight
Difplay'd celestial fcenes. She from thy lyre

· Thames ecchoes yet'- the hardness of this line will be difpleafing to every poetical ear.

With indignation tore the tinkling bells,
And tun'd it to fublimeft argument.
Sooner the bird, that, ufhering in the fpring,
Strike the fame notes, with one unvarying pause,
Shall vye with Philomel, when the purfues
Her evening fong through every winding maze
Of melody, than Rhyme fhall foothe the foul
With mufic fweet as thine.

We have fo often remarked, in the poetical province of our Review, that we are forry to find any further occafion to ob ferve, the inaptitude of introducing epithets which have no alliance with the principal object or idea, in

The fertile islands of th' Ægean deep.

Fertile is merely expletive. How feldom has Virgil fallen into this error! Once, indeed, he became chargeable with it; but it was his fault as a naturalift, not as a poet;

Sandyx pafcentes veftiet Agnos.

The poet took the fandyx for an herb, which, when fed upon, would communicate a vermilion colour. In that cafe his epithet, pafcentes, would have had fufficient propriety.

After these lines on Milton, follows the character of Philips: with vigilant eye,

And cautious step, as fearing to be left,
Thee Philips watches, and with tafte refin'd,
Each precept culling from the Mantuan page,
Difdains the Gothic bond. Silurian wines,
Ennobled by his fong, no more fhall yield
To Setin, or the ftrong Falernian juice,
Bev'rage of Latian chiefs.

But the tafle of Philips was not very refined. His turn lay towards the burlesque. In that he fhone, and he could not forget it in his ferious georgic on cyder, where he makes a most ridiculous comparison of the wonderment of finding a worm, or a maggot, in eating an apple, to the alarm occafioned by the fpringing of a mine in the attack of a fortification. His tafte was here, certainly, far from being refined.

Character of Thomson:

- next, Thomson came,

He, curious bard, examin'd every drop

That gliftens on the thorn; each leaf furvey'd
Which Autumn from the ruling forest shakes,
And mark'd its shape, and trac'd in the rude wind
Its eddying motion. Nature in his hand
A pencil, dip'd in her own colours, plac'd,
With which the ever faithful copyist drew

MILTON.

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