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"When I lean, politicians mark,
Grazing on ether in the park ;"

"In deep seas it oversets By a fierce hurricane of debts;"

"I in no soul consumption wait
Whole years in levees of the great;
And hungry hopes regale the while
On the spare diet of a smile;"

or the lines Johnson himself used to admire

"Though pleased to see the dolphins play,

I mind my compass and my way."

Or let our readers take his account of Glover, and answer our question, if, whatever they may think of its truth, it does not transcend rhetoric, and approach poetry :

"Inspired with sacred art,

He sings and rules the varied heart:

If Jove's fierce anger he rehearse,
We hear the thunder in his verse;
If he describes love turn'd to rage,
The Furies riot in his page;
If he fair liberty and law,
By ruffian power expiring, draw,
The keener passions then engage
Aright, and sanctify their rage."

We are far from wishing to exalt Green to the topmost summits of Parnassus, but surely the critic who praised Blackmore, and Pitt, and "Rag Smith " might have spared a word and a smile for the many poetical and brilliant thoughts to be found in the "Spleen." Green's chief power, however, lay not in imagination, nor perhaps even in art, so much as in keen, strong sense, which he has the power, too, of shaping into the most condensed couplets and sharp-edged lines. In corroboration of this, we remember that nearly a third of his short poem is floating through literature in such oft-quoted lines as

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"Witlings, brisk fools, cursed with half-sense,
That stimulates their impotence."

"Such a face

Love's mercy-seat, and throne of grace."
"The laws are my expositors,

Which in my doubting mind create
Conformity to Church and State

I go, pursuant to my plan,
To Mecca with the caravan."

"Zeal, when baffled, turns to spleen."

"Brown fields their fallow Sabbaths keep,"

and hundreds besides, equally pointed and significant.

Pope, when he read the "Spleen," said "there was a great deal of originality in it." There are, here and there, indeed, traces of resemblance to "Hudibras " and to "Alma," but on the whole, Green has a brain, an eye, and a tongue of his own

-a brain piercing if not profound—an eye clear if not comprehensive and an utterance terse and vigorous, if not grand and lyrical. Perhaps his piece entitled "The Grotto" has more of the purely poetical in it than any of the rest. In his verses on Barclay's "Apology for the Quakers," he discovers the sceptical and uncertain state of his religious views. He says to that fine, bold follower of George Fox

"Well-natured, happy shade! forgive;

Like you I think but cannot live.

Thy scheme requires the world's contempt,
That from dependence life exempt.

Not such my lot-not Fortune's brat;

I live by pulling off the hat."

And then comes the admirable and most poetical couplet66 Eloquent Want, whose reasons sway,

And make ten thousand truths give way."

Altogether Green's little productions give us the impression that he was a man worthy of greater fame than he has acquired, and of a better age than that in which he was destined to live, and early to die. He had very strong powers of thought and observation, much misdirected honesty of aim, lively wit, and a vein of fancy which implied a very considerable portion of poetical genius.

GREEN'S POETICAL WORKS.

THE SPLEEN.

AN EPISTLE TO MR CUTHBERT JACKSON.

THIS motley piece to you I send,
Who always were a faithful friend;
Who, if disputes should happen hence,
Can best explain the author's sense;
And, anxious for the public weal,
Do what I sing so often feel.

The want of method pray excuse,
Allowing for a vapour'd Muse;
Nor to a narrow path confined,
Hedge in by rules a roving mind.

The child is genuine, you may trace
Throughout the sire's transmitted face.
Nothing is stolen: my Muse, though mean,
Draws from the spring she finds within;
Nor vainly buys what Gildon1 sells,
Poetic buckets for dry wells.

School-helps I want, to climb on high,
Where all the ancient treasures lie,
And there unseen commit a theft
On wealth in Greek exchequers left.

1 Gildon's Art of Poetry.

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Then where? from whom? what can I steal, 21

Who only with the moderns deal?
This were attempting to put on
Raiment from naked bodies won: 1
They safely sing before a thief,
They cannot give who want relief;
Some few excepted, names well known,
And justly laurel'd with renown,
Whose stamp of genius marks their ware,
And theft detects: of theft beware;
From More 2 so lashed, example fit,
Shun petty larceny in wit.

First know, my friend, I do not mean
To write a treatise on the Spleen;
Nor to prescribe when nerves convulse;
Nor mend the alarum watch, your pulse.
If I am right, your question lay,
What course I take to drive away
The day-mare Spleen, by whose false pleas
Men prove mere suicides in ease;
And how I do myself demean
In stormy world to live serene.

When by its magic lantern Spleen
With frightful figures spread life's scene,
And threatening prospects urged my fears,
A stranger to the luck of heirs;
Reason, some quiet to restore,

Showed part was substance, shadow more;

1 A painted vest Prince Vortiger had on,

Which from a naked Pict his grandsire won.

HOWARD'S British Princes.

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-2 James More Smith, Esq. See Dunciad, B. ii. 1. 50, and the notes, where the circumstances of the transaction here alluded to are very fully explained.

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With Spleen's dead weight though heavy grown,
In life's rough tide I sunk not down,
But swam, 'till Fortune threw a rope,
Buoyant on bladders filled with hope.

I always choose the plainest food
To mend viscidity of blood.
Hail! water-gruel, healing power,
Of easy access to the poor;

Thy help love's confessors implore,
And doctors secretly adore;

To thee I fly, by thee dilute

Through veins my blood doth quicker shoot,
And by swift current throws off clean
Prolific particles of Spleen.

I never sick by drinking grow,
Nor keep myself a cup too low,
And seldom Chloe's lodgings haunt,
Thirsty of spirits which I want.

Hunting I reckon very good

To brace the nerves, and stir the blood:
But after no field honours itch,
Achieved by leaping hedge and ditch.
While Spleen lies soft relaxed in bed,
Or o'er coal fire inclines the head,
Hygeia's sons with hound and horn,
And jovial cry awake the Morn.
These see her from the dusky plight,
Smeared by the embraces of the Night,
With roral wash redeem her face,
And prove herself of Titan's race,
And, mounting in loose robes the skies,

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