port of a powerful nobleman, whose independence and in tegrity, not even the malevolence of party could assail, the better part of the public were proud of enlisting under his banners, and formed a phalanx in support of this great constitutional question, which administration felt itself unequal to resist.

Whatever difference of opinion may exist as to what mem ber of the House of Lords, during the early part of the reign of George III. was the most distinguished for talents or eloquence, all parties ultimately agreed in awarding to Earl Temple the more honourable meed of praise for unsullied private worth, combined with the most disinterested and consistent public conduct, distinguished alike for constitutional integrity of purpose, and of equal loyalty to the crown and to the people. His powerful vindication of the liberty of the press, and of the subject, was visited by his dismissal from the Lord Lieutenancy of the county of Bucks, at the same time that Wilkes was removed from the command of the militia of that county.

The public, already sufficiently displeased with this marked censure of the crown on Earl Temple, were equally disgusted at seeing that virtuous and high-minded nobleman supplanted, under the influence of Lord Bute, by Lord Le Despencer, his former chancellor of the exchequer, the man to whom a sum of five figures was an impenetrable secret, and to make the contrast still more complete, who had been the leader of the Medmenham revels.

The following lines on occasion of Earl Temple's removal, were said to have been written and presented to him by his amiable countess.

To honour virtue in the Lord of Stowe,
The power of courtiers can no farther go;
Forbid him court, from council blot his name:
E'en these distinctions cannot raze his fame.
Friend to the liberties of England's state,
'Tis not to courts he looks to make him great;
He to his much loved country trusts his cause,
And dares assert the honour of her laws.

THE JOURNEY.*

SOME of my friends, (for friends I must suppose
All, who, not daring to appear my foes,

Feign great good will, and, not more full of spite
Than full of craft, under false colours fight)
Some of my friends, (so lavishly I print)

As more in sorrow than in anger, hint
(Though that indeed will scarce admit a doubt)
That I shall run my stock of genius out,
My no great stock, and, publishing so fast,
Must needs become a bankrupt at the last.

"The husbandman, to spare a thankful soil, Which, rich in disposition, pays his toil

More than a hundredfold, which swells his store

5

10

*This short piece was published soon after the author's death, and was the only complete poem, if such it may be considered, which he left behind him in manuscript. There are no symptoms of any decay of genius perceptible in it; the advice of his friends, and his answers are well managed, and the satire although occasionally misdirected, and throughout unreasonably severe, is conveyed with appropriate energy of diction.

10 When Congreve brought out the Old Bachelor, his first comedy, it is reported, that Dryden, on being asked his opinion of it said, it was the finest comedy in the language, and that he pitied the young author greatly, as he had laid out as much wit in that one piece as would have served half a dozen, and that if he went on at that rate, he must soon become a bankrupt.

E'en to his wish, and makes his barns run o'er,
By long experience taught, who teaches best,
Foregoes his hopes a while, and gives it rest:
The land, allow'd its losses to repair,
Refresh'd, and full in strength, delights to wear
A second youth, and to the farmer's eyes
Bids richer crops, and double harvests rise.

14

20

25

Nor think this practice to the earth confined,
It reaches to the culture of the mind.
The mind of man craves rest, and cannot bear,
Though next in power to God's, continual care.
Genius himself (nor here let Genius frown)
Must, to ensure his vigour, be laid down,
And follow'd well: had Churchill known but this,
Which the most slight observer scarce could miss,
He might have flourish'd twenty years, or more,
Though now, alas! poor man! worn out in four."
Recover'd from the vanity of youth,

I feel, alas! this melancholy truth,
Thanks to each cordial, each advising friend,
And am, if not too late, resolved to mend,
Resolved to give some respite to my pen,
Apply myself once more to books and men,

31

36

30 Our author did not live to complete even his fourth poetic year; the Rosciad having been published in March 1761, and Independence in September, 1764. It is a melancholy reflection, and sufficiently mortifying to men of parts and genius, that most of his brilliant companions fell, with himself, victims, in the prime of life, to the want of that dis cretion in their own conduct which they had as wittily ridi culed in some as they had imprudently despised in others of their less gifted contemporaries.

View what is present, what is past review,
And, my old stock exhausted, lay in new.
For twice six moons, (let winds, turn'd porters,
bear

41

This oath to heaven) for twice six moons, I swear
No Muse shall tempt me with her Siren lay,
Nor draw me from improvement's thorny way.
Verse I abjure, nor will forgive that friend,
Who, in my hearing, shall a rhyme commend.
It cannot be whether I will, or no,
Such as they are, my thoughts in measure flow.
Convinced, determined, I in prose begin,
But ere I write one sentence, verse creeps in,
And taints me through and through, by this good

light

45

46 Two of the most harmonious poets that any age or country has produced, lament the inveteracy of a similar early propensity to poetry in themselves.

Sæpe pater dixit, studium quid inutile tentas
Mæonides nullus ipse reliquit opes.

Motus eram dictis totoque Helicone relicto
Scribere conabar verba soluta modis

Sponte sua carmen numeros veniebat ad aptos

Et quod tentabam dicere, versus eraţ.

As yet a child nor yet a fool to fame

OVID. TRIST.

I lisp'd in numbers, for the numbers came. POPE.

This involuntary tendency to poetry was productive, in the instances before us, of the most happy fruits, calculated amply to repay us for the reams of poetry discharged upon the town by persons labouring under the cacoethes scribendi. In the former case the poet is the only complainant, in the atter the reader is the victim.

In verse I talk by day, I dream by night!
If now and then I curse, my curses chime,
Nor can I pray, unless I pray in rhyme.
E'en now I err, in spite of common sense,
And my confession doubles my offence.

50

Rest then, my friends ;-spare, spare your precious breath,

65

And be your slumbers not less sound than death;
Perturbed spirits rest, nor thus appear,

To waste your counsels in a spendthrift's ear;
On your grave lessons I cannot subsist,
Nor e'en in verse become economist.

Rest then, my friends, nor hateful to my eyes,
Let Envy, in the shape of Pity, rise

To blast me ere my time; with patience wait,
('Tis no long interval) propitious Fate

60

Shall glut your pride, and every son of phlegm 65
Find ample room to censure and condemn.
Read some three hundred lines, (no easy task,
But probably the last that I shall ask)

And give me up for ever; wait one hour,

Nay not so much, revenge is in your power,

70

And yet may cry, ere Time hath turn'd his glass, Lo! what we prophesied is come to pass.

Let those, who poetry in poems claim,

Or not read this, or only read to blame;
Let those who are by fiction's charms enslaved, 73
Return me thanks for half-a-crown well saved;
Let those who love a little gall in rhyme
Postpone their purchase now, and call next time;