point, in modern language, seems to be a necessary quality, of which the Jelly-bags' is a most happy illustration: and unity of thought, concisely expressed (though the Greeks have not always attended to it), appears to be essential to the several species we have attempted to define.

If the Epigrams' of Theocritus had been entitled Idyllia, and his 'Honey Stealer' an Epigram, a modern definer would have found no impropriety in the change. This delicate morçeau (with the Cupid turned Ploughman' of Moschus) hath even smartness enough for a French Epigrammatist.

The first five epigrams of our poet are not very unlike the rustic inscriptions of Akenside. Of the fourth, Akenside's third inscription is plainly an imitation. The sixth closes with something like pleasantry: but the humour would have been stronger, if the shepherd's dogs had asked him, ‘To what purpose he grieved for his kid, when not even a bone of it was left?' This would have been characteristic but the embers of humour are smothered in ashes.

Of the next sixteen, the Inscription on the Image of the heavenly Venus' is perhaps the most pleasing: though the merit of all may be nearly alike. They have no striking beauties. They are deficient in spirit. We do not look for subtilty; but we expect some infusion of vivacity. There is a sickly languor diffused over them; nor can they be read without many a pause of listless indifference.

The wits of the present day have looked on 1 See Oxford Sausage.

epigram as an object too trivial to engage a continuance of attention. To publish a collection (like Martial), and to build on it the hopes of fame, would, at this time, be considered as a glaring absurdity. And, indeed, the epigram should be the product of the moment; the effect of chance, not art; a sparkle from the collision of fortune and fancy. Of such felicities we meet with frequent examples, through a vehicle unknown to the wits of old. The periodical publication they could not boast. But the Oxford Sausage,' and 'Carmina Quadragesimalia,' present us with every species of this little composition; replete with humour and with elegance, and superior, in every point of view, to the most perfect epigrams of antiquity.

DISSERTATION

ON

BION AND MOSCHUS.

THERE are few possessions of the mind more valuable than a well disciplined imagination. Without regularity of genius, the poet runs from one image to another, with little design; and the philosopher forms visionary hypotheses, and makes experiments, with no view to a conclusion. He, who is unable to repress the luxuriances of his fancy, will often wander amidst the false fertility, bewildered in his own creation. It seems the character of such an author, to hunt after new ideas, to catch a glittering image, to intro

duce a superfluity of ornament, to reject no thought that rises, to pursue his subjects without knowing when to drop the pursuit, and to swell his works with generalities.

Whether these observations can, any way, be applied to the poets before us, a cursory view of their productions may possibly determine.

The names of Bion and Moschus have been commonly associated, and not without reason: for their beauties and defects are nearly the same. They flourished also at the same juncture; though Bion was born at Smyrna, and Moschus at Syracuse. The former resided, however, some part of his life, in Italy, where Moschus attended his poetic school, and imbibed his taste and manner. These brothers in genius were contemporary with the great father of pastoral poetry. They have been called his rivals. They have been almost preferred to him by Longepierre. But whether they ought, in justice, to be considered, at all, in the light of pastoral writers, is a question of doubt; which, however, it might be unprofitable to discuss.

The Epitaph on Adonis' is, indisputably, the work of an exuberant invention, and a fine sensibility. Its strains are so musical and so melancholy, that they melt upon the ear, and almost steal into the heart. Yet, amidst these beauties, we discover a blemish the most unpardonable of all poetic errors. Allured by the richness of ornamented imagery, the poet too frequently overlooks the simplicity of nature. The puerile idea of the boar's white teeth wounding the white skin;' and 'the purple blood opposed to

the snowy limbs;' the witticism of the wound of sorrow in the bosom of Venus, as deep as that in the thigh of Adonis;' the quaint effusion of 'her tears, as many in number as the drops of blood that trickled from her lover;' and the truly Ovidian transformation of those tears and drops of blood into roses and anemonies; and the conceit of flowers blushing with grief- not to mention mountains, woods, hills, springs, rivers, all huddled together in the most lamentable confusion-these surely are evident indications of a vicious taste, and a disordered fancy.

The succeeding Idyllia of Bion, particularly Cupid and the Fowler,' and the Teacher Taught,' are sweet and delicate effusions; a few of them resembling the modern sonnet.

The same may be observed of the lighter Idyllia of Moschus; particularly the 'Choice,' and the Evening Star.' In these little pieces, there is a vein of feeling and agreeable sentiment; without that false polish, that varnish of refinement, so plainly perceiveable in the Epitaph on Adonis.' Not that the Epitaph on Bion' is free from objection. It is evidently formed on the plan of the former elegy; and, though more natural, hath not the merit of a very strict adherence to nature. To throw the shade of sympathetic melancholy over the scenery of still life, requires indeed the hand of a master. But the true poet will disdain the cold unaffecting combination of fountains, groves, and plants and flowers, all undistinguishably rueful; except indeed the rose, that turns from red to pale-a

stroke of discrimination not easily overlooked. General images of grief, even though they are founded on the principles of truth and nature, may play round the head, but can never reach the heart. In the Epitaph on Bion,' we may be soothed for a moment, by its mournful air, and its melodious numbers; but are we often affected by strokes of genuine pathos? If, instead of a general description of all the feathered tribe warbling their master's elegy, the poet had pictured the grief of a particular bird, which Bion had taught to sing, that had been sheltered beneath his roof, and been accustomed to peck the crumbs from his table; the painting might have had its effect. We are delighted with Catullus's Swallow,' and Anacreon's Dove:' and these poems must have been peculiarly charming, where the swallow or the dove was held in veneration, or endeared (as the latter is in the Eastern countries) by the fondness of domestic familiarity. The generalities, however, of this elegiac poem, have been frequently imitated by succeeding writers; and modern elegy hath found treasures in Moschus, which she could not find in nature.

If we glance at his other larger Idyllia, his 'Europa,' it may be observed, is more interesting than that of Ovid (who is here indeed a pretty close copyist); and the dialogue between the wife and mother of Hercules contains several very affecting passages.

But to conclude. The character of these halfpastoral poets (under the person of Bion) cannot