"A good character should not be rested in as an end, but employed as a means of doing still further good."

Atterb.

"I have read of an author of this taste that compares a ragged coin to a tatter'd colours."

Addison.

Upon which Dr. Lowth asks, ought it not to be a mean? &c. "Means," is not the plural of the noun "mean," but, (notwithstanding etymological alliance) a different word. "Mean," is simply "medium ;"" means" is the instrument or agency for a particular purpose. In like manner, if we withdraw the "s" from colours, we leave the word incapable of expressing the sense for "colours" (ensign) was never called “colour.”

395. "Look, Lucius, here's the book I sought for so."

This is one, among many, of those delicate touches of nature that abound in Shakespear, and which I believe we shall in vain seek for in the works of any other poet; where an incident is introduced wholly immaterial to the plot or conduct of the scene, yet perfectly congenial to the character of the agent, and illustrative of it. Thus the impetuous Hotspur forgets the map, though no inconvenience is propos'd from the want of it; and here the sedate and philosophic Brutus, discomposed a little by the stupendous cares upon his mind, forgets where he had left his book of recreation.

ACT V.

10.-"Fearful bravery."

Fearful," (as Mr. Malone observes) in these works, as often relates to the action as to the passion of fear; but in this place I think Anthony means, not a bravery that is to excite dread, but an exterior or boastful bravery, that is to hide fear. "By this face," (he says) i. e. this outside, they think

"To fasten in our thoughts that they have courage;
"But 'tis not so."

126. "For ever and for ever farewell Cassius!

The tenderness of Brutus here, and throughout his conduct, is no less admirable than his magnanimity.

G-VOL. XIV.

ORIGINAL POETRY.

SONNET XXIII.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE PRECEDING SERIES.

On Recollection of an Inscription-Post in a Cross Road near Ely.

ALTHOUGH no consecrated Earth contains,

Pillow'd beneath the green Turf's soothing hue,
Where Sympathy sheds tears like morning dew,
The hapless Suicide's reproacht remains :
Although that stone fixt by the crossing lanes,
Repugnant to the generous feeling few,
And source of triumph to the scornful view,
Nought but one sad Memorial explains:

II.

Yet might his Heart, like thine, have learnt to know
Each nobler feeling by the Good possest,
Yet might he joy to see another blest;
And sorrow at another's Tale of Woe.
Then let his poor Remains uninjur'd rest,
And leave his Heart and Doom to Heaven's behest.*
23 Apr. 1802.

TO MR. PRATT,

ON

HIS POEM OF "THE POOR," &c.

S. W. L.

HAIL'D be thy Muse ! for O whene'er she sings,
Compassion's angel seems to tune the strings,
Around the chords, the sweet inspirers throng,
And to humanity the notes belong.

A social sense the thrilling sounds impart,
And while it moves our nature mends our heart,

*No one, it is trusted, will think this Sonnet a vindication or an apology for suicide. But the best writers, among whom may be ranked Montesquieu, Beccaria dei Delitti e delli Pene, and Eder on the Principles of Penal Law, have thought this mode of pointing out to scorn and contempt the Remains of the Delinquent, neither suitable to the dignity of Law, the feelings of Humanity, nor the interest of Society, To leave to the behests of Heaven, an Act like this is to leave it with an impression sufficiently aweful. If this does not deter from suicide, vain and useless will be the stake and the Burial in a cross Road.

C. L.

The generous heart-but for those breasts of steel
Like shaggy rocks "unknowing how to feel,"
For those who aggravate the poor man's lot
And rend the last scant comfort from his cot;
Spurn him, tho' prostrate, from gorg'd plenty's gate,
Break from his grasp, and leave him to his fate-
Ah! what can melting lay's with these avail?
What pity's plea, or sorrow's tender tale ?

To gentle beings gentle means may prove
The rights of sympathy and claims of love;
Verse such as thine, from them may draw the tear,
Stir the warm blood and heave the sigh sincere ;
The Muse for them has but to paint a woe
To make their bounty like their eyes o'erflow.
But sterner natures, such as grind the poor,
And drive "imploring Famine" from the door;
The harsh, the harden'd, other powers require,
Than sounds harmonious from the sacred lyre;
A thousand harps, by choirs of angels strung,
And notes divine by raptur'd seraph's sung,
Reach not the breast by demon Avarice sway'd;
For them the vice-correcting Laws were made;
Justice for them must in her terrors arm,
Their interests threaten and their fears alarm.
The niggard boon, which scoffing they refuse
To weeping Mercy and the wailing Muse;
Law may extort; they yield, but ne'er bestow;
They crouch to Justice, but they mock at Woe.

Yet still proceed, blest poet of the poor!
Congenial spirits shall applaud thy lore;
Taught by thy Muse where the pale victims lie,
The good shall feel the touch of Charity,
And haply those who in gay mansions dwell,
Led by thy lay, shall visit Sorrow's cell.

SONNET.

Written on a visit in Lincolnshire.

A STRANGER, Aislabie! with wand'ring feet,

And mind to melancholy turn'd, now roves

Thy path-worn meadows and dark mantling groves, (Where oft at eve the maid and peasant meet)

52

Delighted for congenial to his breast,

-

Thy landscape richly spreading o'er the sight;
Thy wood-crown'd hills, with proudly towering crest
Rearing toward Heaven sublime their daring height
In leafy grandeur; while at distance seen,

Mingle thy temple's turrets in the view,

Upon whose burnish'd fane of golden hue
The sun of evening darts his parting gleam.—
How pleas'd the world's vain coil could I resign,
Were thy sequestred shades and peaceful vale but mine.
OCTAVIUS.

THE WANDERING SAVOYARD'S SONG.

BY MR. DIMOND, JUNR.

WITHIN a silent, shelter'd spot,
Is rear'd my lov'd paternal cot:
Behind, the Alps their shadows throw,

Here, crown'd with pine, and there with snow :
In front, delightful vineyards blush,

With thymy dales (where browse the flock)
Just bounded by some granite rock,
Whence water-falls in murmurs gush.

Ah! how I sorrow'd when "Farewell!"
I bade unto my native dell!

The wild-bee there gallanting roves,
And sucks the sweet-lip'd flower he loves;
The pigeon weaves her downy nest,
And murmurs o'er her young at rest ;
While little birds of blythest lay,

With shining wings and trilling airs,
O'ersweep the woods, in love-link'd pairs,
And warble all the live-long day.

Ah! faint of phrase is tongue to tell.
The pleasures of my native dell!

And there, when moon-beams frost the green
With mountain-pipe and mandolin,
The youths and maids on light feet hie,
To hold their rustic revelry:

And as the cates and cup pass round,
With mazy dance and merry song
They charm the early night along,
And waken all the sweets of sound.

Ah! how with joy my heart would swell,
Could I regain my native dell!

THE PROSTITUTE.

DACTYLICS.

WOMAN of weeping eye, ah! for thy wretched lot,
Putting on smiles to lure the lewd passenger,
Smiling, while anguish gnaws at thy heavy heart;

Sad is thy chance, thou daughter of misery,
Vice and disease are wearing thee fast away,
While the unfeeling ones sport with thy sufferings.

Destin'd to pamper the vicious one's appetite;
Spurn'd by the beings who lur'd thee from innocence,
Sinking unnotic'd in sorrow and indigence.

Thou hast no friends, for they with thy virtue fled
Thou art an outcast from house and from happiness;
Wand'ring alone on the wide world's unfeeling stage.

Daughter of misery, sad is thy prospect here ;
Thou hast no friend to soothe down the bed of death;
None after thee enquires with solicitude;

Famine and fell disease shortly will wear thee down,
Yet thou hast still to brave often the winter's wind,
Loathsome to those thou wouldst court with thine hollow eyes.

Soon thou wilt sink into death's silent slumbering,
And not a tear shall fall on thy early grave,

Nor shall a single stone tell where thy bones are laid.

Once wert thou happy-thou wert once innocent;
But the seducer beguil'd thee in artlessness,
Then he abandon'd thee unto thine infamy.

Now he perhaps is reclin'd on a bed of down,
But if a wretch like him sleeps in security,
God of the red right arm! Where is thy thunderbolt?

Nottingham.

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.