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Then I poor me!-wi' sighs may ban my fate,
When the young laird's nae mair my heartsome Pate.
Nae mair again to hear sweet tales exprest,
By the blyth shepherd that excell'd the rest.
Nae mair be envied by the tattling gang,
When Patie kiss'd me, when I danc'd or sang;
Nae mair, alake! we'll on the meadow play,
And rin half breathless round the rucks of hay,
As aft times I hae fled from thee right fain,
And fawn on purpose that I might be tane:
Nae mair around the foggy know I'll creep
To watch and stare upon thee, while asleep.
But hear my vow-'twill help to give me ease,--
May sudden death, or deadly sair disease,
And warst of ills attend my wretched life!
If e'er to ane but you I be a wife.

PATIE.

Sure heaven approves-and be assur'd of me,
I'll ne'er gang back o' what I've sworn to thee:
And time, tho' time maun interpose a while,
And I maun leave my Peggy and this isle,
Yet time, nor distance, nor the fairest face,
If there's a fairer, e'er shall fill thy place.
I'd hate my rising fortune should it move
The fair foundation of our faithfu' love.
If at my feet were crowns and sceptres laid,
To bribe my soul frae thee, delightfu' maid,
For thee I'd soon leave these inferior things
To sic as hae the patience to be kings.—
Wherefore that tear? believe, and calm thy mind.

PEGGY.

I greet for joy, to hear my words sae kind;

When hopes were sunk, and nought but mirk despair,
Made me think life was little worth my care:
My heart was like to burst; but now I see

Thy gen'rous thoughts will save thy love for me:
Wi' patience then, I'll wait each wheeling year,
Hope time away, till thou wi' joy appear;
And all the while I'll study gentler charms
To make me fitter for my trav'ler's arms.

ALEXANDER POPE, the son of Alexander Pope, a linen-draper of London, was born in Lombard-street, on the 22d of May, 1688. The sickliness and sensitiveness of his youth attended him through life; nor did the sweetness and gentleness of disposition, for which his childhood was remarkable, ever in reality desert him. His voice, when a boy, was so pleasing, that he was called the little nightingale; and he justified the fond name still more, by warbling boyish verses. His father encouraged and assisted him.

"As yet a child, nor yet a fool to fame,

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

I left no calling for this idle trade,

No duty broke, no father disobey'd;

The muse but serv'd to ease some friend, not wife;

To help me through this long disease, my life."

These touching lines express the career of Pope. Nature had denied him the more active and sensual enjoyments, and thrown him upon the resources of friendship and poetry as the business and the support of life. He was, consequently, more tremblingly alive than other men to the failure of the one, and the correctness and success of the other. His first appearance in public was in Tonson's Miscellany of 1709, which contained his Pastorals. They had been handed about in manuscript previously, and had won for him the notice of Garth, Steele, Addison, Congreve, Walsh, Wycherley, and other wits of that accomplished time. Though then little more than seventeen, he became a regular frequenter at Will's Coffee-house, took part in the conversations there, and, it is to be imagined, profited by them not a little. His "Essay on Criticism," which next appeared, may be supposed to have originated in this society. It was praised warmly by Steele and Addison, and very bitterly attacked by Dennis. From this moment, the literary life of Pope was a series of great triumphs, singularly and touchingly contrasted with a series of petty vexations. Unfortunately for his happiness, the constitution of his body was such as to leave him more exposed to be hurt by the one, than to be comforted by the other. It would be impossible, in our limited space, to glance even at the names of the works which hereafter occupied his life. Pope, after receiving the consolations of the Roman Catholic faith, in which he had lived, died calmly, on the 30th of May, 1744. His last intelligible words were, that there was nothing meritorious but virtue and friendship, and indeed that friendship itself was only a part of virtue.

Pope was deformed in person. He has compared himself to a spider; and one of his friends describes him as protuberant behind and before. His stature was so low, that to bring him to the level of common tables, it was necessary to raise his seat. The faults of his character are all to be attributed to these bodily infirmities, while his virtues were eminently his own. In the midst of insincerities he was fond and sincere. His face was remarkably fine. His features were richly and most sensitively marked, and he had an eye like a gazelle's.

Alexander Pope holds an independent rank in poetry. We do not think of him as inferior to any poet, for he is entitled to his own domain. In wit, in fancy, in sense, in personal satire, in exquisite personal compliment, in delicacy, in refinement of sentiment, and in that subtle power which brings the creative part of imagination to wait upon the obvious things that lie about us, Pope has never been excelled. When an immediate comparison with Dryden is provoked, he must be held indeed inferior. But the comparison, except with reference to versification, (for Pope never aims at Dryden's magnificence of satire), is not called for. In point of versification it is certainly curious and instructive, seeing that the one was evidently modelled on the other, to mark the wide distinction between the easy and lax vigour of Dryden, and the correct strength of Pope. It is the distinction between the physical conformation of the men, for in Pope's strength there is weakness, while in Dryden's very weakness there is strength. The over-consciouness of power in Dryden gave rise to carelessness, which was yet nobly set off by his masterly sense of numbers and of the true principles of musical beauty;-while the excessively nervous apprehensiveness of Pope kept him always tremblingly correct, for, alive to his complexional want of strength, he was struggling to make up for it by the nicest and most unvaried system

There, wrapt in clouds, the bluish hills ascend.
Ev'n the wild heath displays her purple dyes,

And, midst the desert, fruitful fields arise,

That, crown'd with tufted trees and springing corn, Like verdant isles the sable waste adorn.

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See Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona crown'd, Here blushing Flora paints th' enamell'd ground; Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand,

And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand.

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timent, and in that subtle power which brings the creative part of imagination to wait upon the obvious things that lie about us, Pope has never been excelled. When an immediate comparison with Dryden is provoked, he must be held indeed inferior. But the comparison, except with reference to versification, (for Pope never aims at Dryden's magnificence of satire), is not called for. In point of versification it is certainly curious and instructive, seeing that the one was evidently modelled on the other, to mark the wide distinction between the easy and lax vigour of Dryden, and the correct strength of Pope. It is the distinction between the physical conformation of the men, for in Pope's strength there is weakness, while in Dryden's very weakness there is strength. The over-consciouness of power in Dryden gave rise to carelessness, which was yet nobly set off by his masterly sense of numbers and of the true principles of musical beauty;-while the excessively nervous apprehensiveness of Pope kept him always tremblingly correct, for, alive to his complexional want of strength, he was struggling to make up for it by the nicest and most unvaried system

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HERE in full light the russet plains extend;
There, wrapt in clouds, the bluish hills ascend.
Ev'n the wild heath displays her purple dyes,
And, midst the desert, fruitful fields arise,

That, crown'd with tufted trees and springing corn,
Like verdant isles the sable waste adorn.

[blocks in formation]

See Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona crown'd, Here blushing Flora paints th' enamell'd ground; Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand,

And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand.

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