and admired. In the present day it seems unnecessarily merciless and severe, yet lines like the following still possess interest. The allusion to Pope is peculiarly appropriate and beautiful : Oh for the good old times! when all was new, F-Tis pitiful, heaven knows; You praise our sires, but, though they wrote with force, P.-Pshaw; I have it here. F.-You suppose These lines perhaps too turgid; what of those? "The mighty mother-' P. Now, 'tis plain you sneer, For Weston's self could find no semblance here: Weston! who slunk from truth's imperious light, Swells like a filthy toad with secret spite, And, envying the fame he cannot hope, Spits his black venom at the dust of Pope. Reptile accursed!-O memorable long, If there be force in virtue or in song, O injured bard! accept the grateful strain, Which I, the humblest of the tuneful train, With glowing heart, yet trembling hand, repay, For many a pensive, many a sprightly lay! So may thy varied verse, from age to age, Inform the simple, and delight the sage. critical than just in including O'Keefe, the amusing farce writer, among the objects of his condemnation. The plays of Kotzebue and Schiller, then first translated and much in vogue, he also characterises as 'heavy, lumbering, monotonous stupidity,' a sentence too unqualified and severe. In the Mæviad' are some touching and affectionate allusions to the author's history and friends. Dr Ireland, dean of Westminster, is thus mentioned : Chief thou, my friend! who from my earliest years Of the Ligurian, stern though beardless sage! The contributions of Mrs Piozzi to this fantastic See Thrale's gray widow with a satchel roam, The 'Baviad' was a paraphrase of the first satire of Persius. In the year following, encouraged by its success, Gifford produced The Maviad, an imitation of Horace, levelled at the corruptors of dramatic poetry. Here also the Della Crusca authors (who attempted dramas as well as odes and elegies) are gibbeted in satiric verse; but Gifford was more He also translated Persius, and edited the plays of Massinger, Ford, and Shirley, and the works of Ben Jonson. In 1808, when Sir Walter Scott and others resolved on starting a review, in opposition to the celebrated one established in Edinburgh, Mr Gifford was selected as editor. In his hands the Quarterly Review became a powerful political and literary journal, to which leading statesmen and authors equally contributed. He continued to discharge his duties as editor until within two years of his death, which took place on the 31st of December 1826. Gifford claimed for himself a soul That spurned the crowd's malign control- He was high spirited, courageous, and sincere. In most of his writings, however, there was a strong tinge of personal acerbity and even virulence. He was a good hater, and as he was opposed to all political visionaries and reformers, he had seldom time to cool. His literary criticism, also, where no such 293 prejudices could interfere, was frequently disfigured by the same severity of style or temper; and whoever, dead or living, ventured to say aught against Ben Jonson, or write what he deemed wrong comments on his favourite dramatists, were assailed with a vehemence that was ludicrously disproportioned to the offence. His attacks on Hazlitt, Lamb, Hunt, Keats, and others, in the Quarterly Review, have no pretensions to fair or candid criticism. His object was to crush such authors as were opposed to the government of the day, or who departed from his canons of literary propriety and good taste. Even the best of his criticisms, though acute and spirited, want candour and comprehensiveness of design. As a politician, he looked with distrust and suspicion on the growing importance of America, and kept alive among the English aristocracy a feeling of dislike or hostility towards that country, which was as unwise as it was ungenerous. His best service to literature was his edition of Ben Jonson, in which he successfully vindicated that great English classic from the unjust aspersions of his countrymen. His satirical poetry is pungent, and often happy in expression, but without rising into moral grandeur or pathos. His small but sinewy intellect, as some one has said, was well employed in bruising the butterflies of the Della Cruscan Muse. Some of his short copies of verses possess a quiet plaintive melancholy and tenderness; but his fame must rest on his influence and talents as a critic and annotator-or more properly on the story of his life and early struggles-honourable to himself, and ultimately to his country-which will be read and remembered when his other writings are forgotten. The Grave of Anna. I wish I was where Anna lies, Go and partake her humble bier. I wish I could! For when she died, And pluck the ragged moss away, And weeds that have no business there?' And who with pious hand shall bring The flowers she cherished, snow-drops cold, And violets that unheeded spring, To scatter o'er her hallowed mould? I did it; and would fate allow, Should visit still, should still deploreBut health and strength have left me now, And I, alas! can weep no more. Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain, The last I offer at thy shrine; Thy grave must then undecked remain, And all thy memory fade with mine. And can thy soft persuasive look, Thy voice that might with music vie, Thy air that every gazer took, Thy matchless eloquence of eye; Thy courage by no ills dismayed, 'Here lies the body of Ann Davies, (for more than twenty years) servant to William Gifford. She died February 6th, 1815, in the forty-third year of her age, of a tedious and painful malady, which she bore with exemplary patience and resignation. Her deeply afflicted master erected this stone to her memory, as a painful testimony of her uncommon worth, and of his perpetual gratitude, respect, and affection for her long and meritorious services.' Though here unknown, dear Ann, thy ashes rest, Greenwich Hill. FIRST OF MAY. Though clouds obscured the morning hour, The blasts in zephyrs died away. On which we both and yet, who knows?— May dwell with pleasure unalloyed, And dread no thorn beneath the rose. How pleasant, from that dome-crowned hill, How sweet, as indolently laid, We overhung that long-drawn dale, The sportive wile, the blameless jest, The careless mind's spontaneous flow, Gave to that simple meal a zest Which richer tables may not know. Looks up to catch a parting smile; Then, then I marked the chastened joy So soft (and yet it seemed to thrill), To gaze in silence on the tide, While soft and warm the sunny gleam Slept on the glassy surface wide! And many a thought of fancy bred, Wild, soothing, tender, undefined, Played lightly round the heart, and shed Delicious languor o'er the mind. So hours like moments winged their flight, Till now the boatmen on the shore, Impatient of the waning light, Recalled us by the dashing oar. Well, Anna, many days like this Still followed by an age of care. The day we passed on Greenwich Hill. To a Tuft of Early Violets. Sweet flowers! that from your humble beds Are not the genial brood of May; Stern winter's reign is not yet past— Lo! while your buds prepare to blow, On icy pinions comes the blast, And nips your root, and lays you low. Álas, for such ungentle doom! But I will shield you, and supply A kindlier soil on which to bloom, A nobler bed on which to die. Come then, ere yet the morning ray Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, And drawn your balmiest sweets away; O come, and grace my Anna's breast. Ye droop, fond flowers! but, did ye know What worth, what goodness there reside, Your cups with liveliest tints would glow, And spread their leaves with conscious pride; For there has liberal nature joined Her riches to the stores of art, Has drunk the dew that gems your crest, By one short hour of transport there. While I, alas! no distant date, Mix with the dust from whence I came, Without a friend to weep my fate, Without a stone to tell my name. We have alluded to the Anti-Jacobin weekly paper, of which Mr Gifford was editor. In this publication various copies of verses were inserted, chiefly of a satirical nature. The poetry, like the prose, of the Anti-Jacobin was designed to ridicule and discountenance the doctrines of the French Revolution; and as party spirit ran high, those effusions were marked occasionally by fierce personality and declamatory violence. Others, however, written in travesty, or contempt of the bad taste and affectation of some of the works of the day, contained well-directed and witty satire, aimed by no common hand, and pointed with irresistible keenness. Among those who mixed in this loyal warfare was the late English minister, the Right Honourable GEORGE CANNING (1770-1827), whose fame as an orator and statesman fills so large a space in the modern history of Britain. Canning was then young and ardent, full of hope and ambition. Without family distinction or influence, he relied on his talents for future advancement; and from interest, no less than feeling and principle, he exerted them in support of the existing administration. Previous to this he had distinguished himself at Eton school for his classical acquirements and literary talents. Entering parliament in 1793, he was, in 1796, appointed under secretary of state, and it was at the close of the following year that the Anti-Jacobin was commenced. The contribu tions of Mr Canning consist of parodies on Southey and Darwin, the greater part of The Rovers (a burlesque on the sentimental German drama), and New Morality, a spirited and caustic satire, directed against French principles and their supporters in England. As party effusions, these pieces were highly popular and effective; and that they are still read with pleasure on account of their wit and humour, is instanced by the fact that the Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin, collected and published in a separate form, has attained to a sixth edition. The genius of Canning found afterwards a more appropriate field in parliament. As a statesman, just alike to freedom and the throne,' and as an orator, eloquent, witty, and of consummate taste, his reputation is established. He had, however, a strong bias in favour of elegant literature, and would have become no mean poet and author, had he not embarked so early on public life, and been so incessantly occupied with its cares and duties. The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder. [In this piece Canning ridicules the youthful Jacobin effusions of Southey, in which, he says, it was sedulously inculcated that there was a natural and eternal warfare between the poor and the rich. The Sapphic rhymes of Southey afforded a tempting subject for ludicrous parody, and Canning quotes the following stanza, lest he should be suspected of painting from fancy, and not from life: Cold was the night wind: drifting fast the snows fell; FRIEND OF HUMANITY. Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going? Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives? Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or (Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, KNIFE-GRINDER. Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir; Constables came up for to take me into Stocks for a vagrant. I should be glad to drink your honour's health in With politics, sir. FRIEND OF HUMANITY. I give thee sixpence! I will see thee dd firstWretch whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded Spiritless outcast! [Kicks the Knife-Grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a This faded form! this pallid hue! niversity of Gottingen, There first for thee my passion grew, niversity of Gottingen, Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu, niversity of Gottingen, [During the last stanza Rogero dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and finally so hard as to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops, the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.] Lines on the Death of his Eldest Son. [By the Right Hon. George Canning.] Though short thy span, God's unimpeached decrees, And, since this world was not the world for thee, transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philan- Which Christ's atoning blood hath washed away!) thropy.] By mortal sufferings now no more oppressed, Another satirical poem, which attracted much attention in literary circles at the time of its publication, was The Pursuits of Literature, in four parts, the first of which appeared in 1794. Though published anonymously, this work was written by Mr THOMAS JAMES MATHIAS, a distinguished scholar, who died at Naples in 1835. Mr Mathias was sometime treasurer of the household to her majesty Queen Charlotte. He took his degree of B. A. in Trinity college, Cambridge, in 1774. Besides the 'Pursuits of Literature,' Mr Mathias was author of some Runic Odes, imitated from the Norse Tongue, The Imperial Epistle from Kien Long to George III. (1794), The Shade of Alexander Pope, a satirical poem (1798), and various other light evanescent pieces on the topics of the day. Mr Mathias also several English poems. He wrote Italian with elewrote some Latin odes, and translated into Italian gance and purity, and it has been said that no Englishman, since the days of Milton, has cultivated that language with so much success. The 'Pursuits of Literature' contains some pointed satire on the author's poetical contemporaries, and is enriched with a vast variety of notes, in which there is a great display of learning. George Steevens said the poem was merely a peg to hang the notes on.' The want of true poetical genius to vivify this mass of erudition has been fatal to Mr Mathias. His works appear to be utterly forgotten. DR JOHN WOLCOT. DR JOHN WOLCOT was a coarse but lively satirist, who, under the name of 'Peter Pindar,' published a variety of effusions on the topics and public men of his times, which were eagerly read and widely circulated. Many of them were in ridicule of the reigning sovereign, George III., who was a good subject for the poet; though the latter, as he himself acknowledged, was a bad subject to the king. Wolcot was born at Dodbrooke, a village in Devon shire, in the year 1738. His uncle, a respectable surgeon and apothecary at Fowey, took the charge of his education, intending that he should become his own assistant and successor in business. Wolcot was instructed in medicine, and 'walked the hospitals' in London, after which he proceeded to Jamaica with Sir William Trelawney, governor of that island, who had engaged him as his medical attendant. The social habits of the doctor rendered him a favourite in Jamaica; but his time being only partly employed by his professional avocations, he solicited and obtained from his patron the gift of a living in the church, which happened to be then vacant. The bishop of London ordained the graceless neophyte, and Wolcot entered upon his sacred duties. His congregation consisted mostly of negroes, and Sunday being their principal holiday and market, the attendance at the church was very limited. Sometimes not a single person came, and Wolcot and his clerk (the latter being an excellent shot) used at such times, after waiting for ten minutes, to proceed to the sea-side, to enjoy the sport of shooting ring-tailed pigeons! The death of Sir William Trelawney cut off all further hopes of preferment, and every inducement to a longer residence in the island. Bidding adieu to Jamaica and the church, Wolcot accompanied Lady Trelawney to England, and established himself as a physician at Truro, in Cornwall. He inherited about £2000 by the death of his uncle. While resident at Truro, Wolcot discovered the talents of Opie The Cornish boy in tin mines bred whose genius as an artist afterwards became so distinguished. He also materially assisted to form his taste and procure him patronage; and when Opie's name was well established, the poet and his protegé, forsaking the country, repaired to London, as affording a wider field for the exertions of both. Wolcot had already acquired some distinction by his satirical efforts; and he now poured forth a series of odes and epistles, commencing with the royal academicians, whom he ridiculed with great success and some justice. In 1785 he produced no less than twenty-three odes. In 1786 he published The Lousiad, a Heroi-comic Poem, in five cantos, which had its foundation in the fact, that an obnoxious insect (either of the garden or the body) had been discovered on the king's plate among some green peas, which produced a solemn decree that all the servants in the royal kitchen were to have their heads shaved. In the hands of an unscrupulous satirist like Wolcot, this ridiculous incident was an admirable theme. The publication of Boswell's Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides afforded another tempting opportunity, and he indited a humorous poetical epistle to the biographer, commencing O Boswell, Bozzy, Bruce, whate'er thy name, Triumphant thou through Time's vast gulf shalt sail, A president, on butterflies profound, Of whom all insect-mongers sing the praises, Went on a day to catch the game profound On violets, dunghills, violet-tops, and daisies, &c. He had also Instructions to a Celebrated Laureate; Peter's Pension; Peter's Prophecy; Epistle to a Fallen Minister; Epistle to James Bruce, Esq., the Abyssinian Traveller; Odes to Mr Paine; Odes to Kien Long, Emperor of China; Ode to the Livery of London, and brochures of a kindred description on most of the celebrated events of the day. From 1778 to 1808 above sixty of these poetical pamphlets were issued by Wolcot. So formidable was he considered, that the ministry, as he alleged, endeavoured to bribe him to silence. He also boasted that his writings had been translated into six different languages. In 1795 he obtained from his booksellers an annuity of £250, payable half-yearly, for the copyright of his works. This handsome allowance he enjoyed, to the heavy loss of the other parties, for upwards of twenty years. Neither old age nor blindness could repress his witty vituperative attacks. He had recourse to an amanuensis, in whose absence, however, he continued to write himself, till within a short period of his death. His method was to tear a sheet of paper into quarters, on each of which he wrote a stanza of four or six lines, according to the nature of the poem: the paper he placed on a book held in the left hand, and in this manner not only wrote legibly, but with great ease and celerity.' In 1796 his poetical effusions were collected and published in four volumes 8vo., and subsequent editions have been issued; but most of the poems have sunk into oblivion. Few satirists can reckon on permanent popularity, and the poems of Wolcot were in their nature of an ephemeral description; while the recklessness of his censure and ridicule, and the want of decency, of principle, and moral feeling, that characterises nearly the whole, precipitated their downfall. He died at his house in Somers' Town on the 14th January 1819, and was buried in a vault in the churchyard of St Paul's, Covent Garden, close to the grave of Butler. Wolcot was equal to Churchill as a satirist, as ready and versatile in his powers, and possessed of a quick sense of the ludicrous, as well as a rich vein of fancy and humour. Some of his songs and serious effusions are tender and pleasing; but he could not write long without sliding into the ludicrous and burlesque. His critical acuteness is evinced in his Odes to the Royal Acade |