THE SEVERING OF THE LOCK.

For lo! the board with cups and spoons is crowned,
The berries crackle and the mill turns round.
On shining altars of Japan they raise
The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze.
From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide,
While China's earth receives the smoking tide.
At once they gratify their scent and taste,
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast.
Straight hover round the fair her airy band;
Some, as she sipped, the fuming liquor fanned;
Some o'er her lap their careful plumes displayed,
Trembling and conscious of the rich brocade.
Coffee, which makes the politician wise,
And see through all things with his half-shut eyes,
Sent up new vapours to the baron's brain,
New stratagems the radiant Lock to gain.
Ah cease, rash youth! desist ere 'tis too late,
Fear the just gods, and think of Scylla's fate!
Chang'd to a bird, and sent to flit in air,
She dearly pays for Nisus' injured hair!
But when to mischief mortals bend their will,
How soon they find fit instruments of ill!
Just then Clarissa drew with tempting grace
A two-edg'd weapon from her shining case:
So ladies in romance assist their knight,
Present the spear and arm him for the fight.
He takes the gift with reverence, and extends
The little engine on his fingers'-ends;
This just behind Belinda's neck he spread,
As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head.
Swift to the Lock a thousand sprites repair,
A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair,
And thrice they twitched the diamond in her ear;
Thrice she drew back and thrice the foe drew near.
Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought
The close recesses of the virgin's thought;
As on the nosegay in her breast reclin'd,
He watch'd th' ideas rising in her mind.
Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art,
An earthly lover lurking at her heart.
Amazed, confused, he found his power expired,
Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired.

The peer now spreads the glittering forceps wide,
T' inclose the lock; now joins it, to divide,

POPE.

Ev'n then, before the fatal engine closed,
A wretched sylph too fondly interposed;
Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in twain,
(But airy substance soon unites again ;)
The meeting points the sacred hair dissever
From the fair head, for ever and for ever!
Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes,
And screams of terror rend th' affrighted skies.
Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast,
When husbands, or when lap-dogs breathe their last!
Or when rich China vessels, fall'n from high,
In glittering dust and painted fragments lie.

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The Rape of the Lock contains more fancy than any of the other poems of its author, though it is exerted only on ludicrous and artificial objects. His Elegy on an Unfortunate Lady, written at the same time, and his Epistle from Eloisa to Abelard, composed a few years later, are the only poems of Pope which contain much passion or deep feeling. The heroine of the former, whose name has not been ascertained, is said to have destroyed herself in France, in consequence of her affections being blighted by the tyranny of an uncle; and the following are some of the more pathetic couplets in which her loss is deplored :

What can atone, oh ever-injured shade,

Thy fate unpitied, and thy rites unpaid?
No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear,
Pleased thy pale ghost, or graced thy mournful bier :
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs composed.
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorned,
By strangers honoured and by strangers mourned !
What though no friends in sable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe

To midnight dances and the public show?
What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace,
Nor polished marble emulate thy face?

What though no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallowed dirge be muttered o'er thy tomb?
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be dressed,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:

There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the first roses of the year shall blow;
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground now sacred by thy relics made.
So, peaceful rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame.
A heap of dust alone remains of thee;

'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be.

When Pope, in 1713, had reached the age of twentyfive, he found his reputation as a poet completely established. Being anxious to increase the small competence which he enjoyed through his father, he resolved to turn his fame to account by a translation of the Iliad, which he justly supposed would prove a profitable undertaking. The publication took place at intervals, but was completed in 1720, when the translator was only thirty-two. Pope's Iliad is not regarded as a faithful version of the original; it does not possess the simple majesty and unaffected grandeur of the heathen poet. Yet, while every succeeding attempt to copy these characteristics has failed, it must be allowed that Pope, in changing those qualities of the original, for his own brilliant and elaborate diction and elegance of description, has produced a most fascinating work, and one that, in all probability, will not soon lose its popularity. Pope next undertook to translate the Odyssey, but twelve of the books were executed by his friends, Elijah Fenton and William Broome, to whom he gave a share of the profits. The two translations realized a very large sum, considering the rate at which literary labour was usually remunerated in those days.

circum

From about the year 1715, Pope lived in easy stances in a villa at Twickenham, on the Thames, where he occasionally enjoyed the society of his friends, among whom were some of the most distinguished persons of the time, especially of the Tory party. Though a man of the most brilliant intellect, he did not enjoy a good temper, which may perhaps be partly attributed to, though it cannot be excused by, his sickly and deformed person. He was so weak, notwithstanding the supremacy he had

gained in literature, as to write burlesque and satirical

poems, for the purpose of throwing ridicule upon authors who possessed less ability than himself, and many of whom were too humble for notice of any kind. These attacks producing attacks in return, tended greatly to embitter a life, which is allowed, in other respects, to have exemplified many amiable virtues. His principal satirical poem is the Dunciad, in four books, published in 1728; a work in which there is now nothing to be seen but misdirected talent, and sentiments inconsistent with the character of a Christian author. He next composed, at the suggestion of Lord Bolingbroke, his celebrated metaphysical and moral poem, entitled an Essay on Man, in which he embodied, in four short epistles, a series of arguments respecting the human being, in relation to the universe, to himself, to society, and to the pursuit of happiness. Of this great performance, (published in 1733,) it is sufficient here to observe, that it gave an example of the poet's extraordinary power of managing argument in verse, and of compressing his thoughts into clauses of the most energetic brevity, as well as of expanding them into passages glittering with every poetic ornament. He afterwards published some Imitations of the Satires and Epistles of Horace, and Moral Essays in four Epistles, poems of a satirical cast, and exhibiting many striking views of human life and character. These, with a few short occasional pieces, complete the list of his poetical works. His letters, which, at a late period of life, he collected and gave to the world, are elegant and sprightly, but too evidently written for parade, to be perfectly agreeable specimens of epistolary composition. This illustrious poet died May 30, 1744, at the age of fifty-six.

The other poets of the reigns of Anne and George I., whose names are still remembered, rank much beneath Pope. The most distinguished is JOHN GAY (16881732), a man of simple and amiable character, but gifted with strong powers of wit, and great knowledge of human character. His most popular poems are his Fables, which,

in liveliness and point, have never been matched. His mock-heroic poem in three books, entitled Trivia, or the Art of Walking the Streets of London, was a very happy description of existing manners and customs; but his fame now mainly rests on The Beggar's Opera, produced in 1727, a play certainly very reprehensible on the score of morality, but which was so much admired for its music, and for the ridicule which it threw on the weak points of many human institutions, that it was acted sixty-three nights in succession, and has ever since continued to be a favourite with those who delight in theatrical representations. JONATHAN SWIFT, though more eminent as a prose-writer, ranks among the poets of this age; his verses are chiefly of a satirical kind, referring to passing events and characters, and, with a few exceptions, are not now much read. THOMAS TICKELL, a contributor to the Spectator, was an elegant versifier, with somewhat more tenderness than his contemporaries. His ballad of Colin and Lucy is still popular, and one of the verses, in which the lovelorn maid prognosticates her approaching end, has perhaps fixed itself in more memories than any other stanza of the period :

I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says, I must not stay;
I see a hand you cannot see,
Which beckons me away.

The moral tale of The Hermit, by THOMAS PARNELL, a native of Ireland, is another production of this age, which is still held in estimation. NICOLAS ROWE, poet-laureate to George I., and the friend of Addison, is now less known as a miscellaneous poet than as a tragic dramatist. ELIJAH FENTON wrote some sprightly verses, and, as already mentioned, assisted Pope in translating the Odyssey. The poems of GEORGE GRANVILLE LORD LANSDOWNE, enjoyed much notice in their day, as lively imitations of the school of the Restoration, but are now totally overlooked. The works of HUGHES, PATTISON, BROOME, YALDEN, and