make Kings, as to conquer them. Mutian in Tacitus prefers the Giving an Empire to the Obtaining of one, the making Vefpafian Emperor, to taking the Empire himfelf: But 'tis rather the Sentiment of the Hiftorian than of the Heroe.

THERE are many noble Thoughts in Mr. Rowe's Tamerlane, one of the beft Tragedies that ever was written, ancient or modern. The King fpeaks,

Oh, Axalla!

Could I forget I am a Man, as thou art,
Would not the Winter's Cold, or Summer's Heat,
Sickness or Thirst, and Hunger, all the Train
Of Nature's clamorous Appetites, afferting
An equal Right in Kings and common Men,
Reprove me daily! No, If I boast of ought,
Be it to have been Heaven's happy Instrument;
The Means of Good to All my Fellow Creatures,
This is a King's beft Praife.

Every one knows Mr. Rowe drew the Picture of King William, of ever glorious Memory, in his Tamerlane. And how agreeable are the Sentiments to the Character? Tamerlane to Bajazet :

Why flept the Thunder,

That should have arm'd thy Idol Deity,

And given thee Pow'r, 'ere yefter Sun was fet,
To shake the Soul of Tamerlane! Hadft thou an Arm
To make thee fear'd, thou shou'dft have prov'd it on me,
Amidst the Sweat and Blood of yonder Field,
When, thro' the Tumult of the War I fought thee,
Fenc'd in with Nations.

Of this Kind is the Comparifon in his Ulyffes:

So the Eagle,

That bears the Thunder of our Grandfire Jove,
With Joy bebolds his hardy youthful Offspring
Forfake the Neft to try his tender Pinions
In the wide untract Air, till bolder grown,
Now like a Whirlwind, on the Shepherd's Fold,
He darts precipitate, and gripes the Prey;
Or fixing on fome Dragon's fcaly Hide,
Eager of Combat, and his future Feaft

Bears

Bears him aloft reluctant, and in vain
Writhing his fpiry Tail.

are,

which

Similes in Paffion.

This Comparison is not fo improper as thofe are made in the Heighth of Paffion. Ulyffes's Joy is fedate and contemplative, capable of fimilating the Courage of his Son with that of the Eagle's young One. But Similes made in the Height of Grief, when the Soul is in a State of Diftraction, and fenfible of Nothing but the Subject of its Sorrow, are unnatural and monftrous. The Duke of Buckingham has effectually expos'd this Folly in the Rehearsal: So Boar and Scw, when any Storm is nigh, Snuff up and smell it, &c.

Mr. Rowe had laugh'd at it often in Mr. Bayes, and yet he is extreamly guilty of it himfelf: Lavinia, in the Fair Penitent, in the Bitterness of Diftrefs goes off with a Simile and a Rhime:

So when the Merchant fees his Veffel loft,

Tho' richly freighted, &c.

Rodogune, in the Royal Convert, in the utmost Impatience of Soul:

So if by Chance the Eagle's noble Offspring.

Dumont, Fane Shore's Husband, fpeaking in an Extream of Tenderness to his Wife:

So when the Spring renews the flow'ry Field,

There wou'd be no End of it to repeat what we meet with of this Kind in other English Tragedies, where very fine Thoughts are loft for want of Judgement in the Ufe of them. Either Mr. Dryden has done Virgil great Wrong in his Tranflation, or Mr. Rowe's Eagle is much fuperiour to Virgil's:

So fleeps the yellow Eagle from on high,
And bears a fpeckled Serpent thro' the Sky,
Faftning his crooked Talons on the Prey,
The Prifoner hiffes thro' the liquid Way;
Refifts the Royal Hawk, and tho' oppreft,
She fights in Volumes, and erects her Creft;

Twin'd

Twin'd to her Foe, fhe stiffens ev'ry Scale,

And shoots her forky Tongue, and whisks her threatning Tail.

The yellow Eagle; the Speckled Serpent; the hiffing and the whisking are not like,

Now like a Whirlwind on the Shepherd's Fold,

He darts precipitate, &c.

One can never enough admire this noble Thought in Milton

Then crown'd again, their golden Harps they took,
Harps ever tun'd, that glittering by their Side
Like Quivers bung, and with Preamble fweet,
Of charming Symphony they introduce
The facred Song, and waken Raptures high,
No One exempt, no Voice, but well could joyn,
Melodious Part, fuch Concord is in Heaven.
Shakespear often thinks very nobly, as in Henry Vth:
This is the State of Man, to Day he puts forth
The tender Leaves of Hopes; to Morrow blooms
And bears his blushing Honours thick upon him :
The third Day comes a Froft, a killing Froft,
And when he thinks, good eafy Man, full furely,
His Greatness is a ripning, nips his Root,
And then he falls as I do.

This of Dryden agrees with the Subject:

Thus born alike from Virtue, first began
The Difference that diftinguif'd Man from Man;
He claim'd no Title from Defcent of Blood,
But that which made him Noble, made him Good.
Warm'd with more Particles of Heavenly Flame,
He wing'd his upward Flight, and foar'd to Fame.

Milton is fo full of noble Thoughts that we can not look into his Paradice Loft without meeting them. How noble and how lovely is his Image of the Creation?

I faw the Birth

Of Nature, from the unapparent Deep.

I faw, when, at his Word, this formless Mafs,
The World's material Mould, came to a Heap.
Confufion beard his Voice.

Milton,

Milton, tho' he had little Benefit of the Sun, being blind, yet he never fpeaks of that great Luminary but with a Sort of Tranfport, as if the Lofs of it had endear'd it to him ftill the more, and the Remembrance of what it was, ftill living in his Soul, had improv'd his Idea's of it by frequent Contemplation :

Then of Celestial Bodies, firft the Sun,

A mighty Sphere he fram'd: unlightfome first,
Tho' of etherial Mold. He form'd the Moon
Globofe, and every Magnitude of Stars:
Of Light by far the greater Part he took,
Tranfplanted from her cloudy Shrine, and plac'd
In the Sun's Orb, made porous to receive
And drink the liquid Light, firm to retain
Her gather'd Beams. Great Palace now of Light!
Hither, as to their Fountain, other Stars
Repairing in their Golden Urns drew Light:
And hence the Morning Planet gilds her Horns!
Firft in his Eaft the glorious Lamp was seen,
Regent of Day, and all th' Horizon round,
Invefted with bright Rays.

Let us run thro' all Antiquity, and fee if we can find fuch a noble Image as this:

Hither, as to their Fountain, other Stars

Repairing, in their Golden Urns drew Light: And hence the Morning Planet gilds her Horns. In another Place:

Oh, Sun of this great World, both Eye and Soul.
Again,

Oh, thou! that with furpaffing Glory crown'd,
Look' ft from thy fole Dominion like the God
Of this great World, at whofe Sight all the Stars
Hide their diminish'd Heads.

Again,

The Golden Sun in Splendour likeft Heaven,
Alcof the vulgar Conftellations thick,
That from his Lordly Eye keep Distance due,
Difpences Light from far. They as they move.
Their ftarry Dance, in Numbers that compute

Days,

Days, Months, and Years, tow'rds his all-chearing
Lamp.

Turn fwift their various Motions, or are turn'd
By his magnetick Beams that gently warm
The Universe.

How GREAT and how New are all thefe Thoughts on a Subject the most common, because the most visible of of any under the Sun? Whofe Glories have been a _Temptation to many a Muse to finge her Wings in his Etherial Fire. Milton always maintains the Majefty of Thought on fo majestick a Subject. Cowley in the following Verfes begins well, but does not keep on fo

Mark how the lufty Sun falutes the Spring,
And gently kiffes every Thing:

His loving Beams unlock each maiden Flow'r,
Search all the Treafure, all the Sweets devour.
Then on the Earth with Bridegroom Heat,
He does ftill new Flowers beget.

Is not this triffling, in Comparison with Milton's Thoughts; and how different is this Image from that even of the Devil lying on the burning Lake! Book I.

Thus Satan talking to his nearest Mate,
With Head uplift above the Wave, and Eyes
That Sparkling blaz'd, his other Parts befide
Prone on the Flood extended, long and large,
Lay floating many a Rood-

Forthwith upright he reers from off the Pool
His mighty Stature, on each Hand the Flames
Driv'n backwards, flope their pointing Spires and rowl'd
In Billows, leave i'th' midft a horrid Vale,

Then with expanded Wings he fteers his Flight
Aloft, incumbent on the dusky Air,

That feels unufual Weight, till on dry Land
He lights, if it were Land that ever burn'd
With folid as the Lake with liquid Fire.

IN the Beginning of the Fourth Book of Taffo's Gieru fallemme, the Devil holds a Synod, as Satan in the Pandemonium, Book I. of Paradice Loft:

Taffo: