ciad of Pope, whose opinions he followed as far as they respected the merits of the dunces whom Pope libelled. For his Essay on Painting, he pleads that it was written at intervals, upon such remarks as casually occurred in his reading, and is therefore deficient in connection. He adds that he had finished the whole before he saw Du Fresnoy, which may readily be believed. He discovers, however, a very correct notion of an art which was not at that time much studied in this country, and has laid down many precepts which, if insufficient to form a good painter, will at least prevent his falling into gross improprieties. So much knowledge of the art, and acquaintance with the works of the most eminent painters, argues a taste surprising at his early age. He had some turn for drawing, and made several sketches when abroad, which were afterwards engraved as head pieces for the poems in the Amaranth. In this Essay, he delights in images, which although in general pleasing and just, are perhaps too frequently, and as it were periodically introduced. With all his admiration of Pope, he was not less attached to Dryden as a model, and if he has less harmony than Pope, has at the same time less monotony. His translations are faithful and not inelegant. His acquaintance with the classics was very intimate, and he has decorated his Essays on Husbandry with a profusion of apt illustrations. The Soliloquy occasioned by the chirping of a Grasshopper is tender and playful, but his other small pieces are not entitled to particular notice. The Amaranth was written, as he informs us" for his private consolation under a lingering and dangerous state of health." There is something so amiable, and we may add so heroic in this, that it is impossible not to make every allowance for defects; but this collection of poems does not upon the whole stand so much in need of indulgence as may be expected. Some of them were sketched when he was abroad, and now were revised and prepared, but others may perhaps be the effusions of a man in sickness and pain. Yet there are more animated passages of genuine poetry scattered over this volume than we find in his former works. The whole of the Amaranth is of the serious cast, such as became the situation of the author. We have, indeed, heard of authors who have sported with unusual glee in their moments of debility and decay, and seemed resolved to meet death with an air of good humour and levity. Such a state of mind, where it does really occur, and is not affectation, is rather to be wondered at, than envied. It is not the feeling of a rational, and an immortal creature. In these poems he adopts various measures, according to his subject. The transition from the ode to the heroic, in the Ascetic, he justifies by the example of Cowley, and from the nature of the precepts, which are most suitable to the solemnity of heroic verse. The Ode to Contentment has many splendid passages and the recurrence of "All, all from Thee, &c." is particularly graceful. The exclamation of "Bless me," is, however, a puerility unworthy of the general strain of this poem. In the Vision of Death, he professes to imitate Dryden by the introduction of more triplets and alexandrines than" he might otherwise have done." But if by this he avoids the perpetual restraint of the couplet, there is too much of visible artifice in the method he takes to relieve himself. This, however, is one of the most ingenious fables of which immortality is the subject; the figure and habitation of Death, are poetically conceived and expressed, and the address of Death is energe tic and striking. The Courtier and Prince is one of the most instructive and interesting fables in our language. Its length will perhaps be objected, but not by those who at tend to the many scattered beauties of sentiment and imagination, and whatever opinion may be entertained on the merit of this and his other poems, it ought not to be forgot that in all he prefers no higher claims than "The sounds of verse, and voice of Truth." POEMS OF WALTER HARTE. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES EARL OF PETERBOROW AND MONMOUTH. My lord, I FANCY the public will be much surprised, when I say your lordship was the first person who was pleased to take notice of me. How little I deserve so much partiality, I leave the world to judge. Yet thus much I can affirm; I only wish that these poems may live to posterity, to be a memorial of the gratitude rather than the genius Of your lordship's ADVERTISEMENT. Ir will be necessary to inform the reader, that the author was under nineteen when all these poems were written. I ought here to say a word or two of my Essay on Painting. This performance is by no means correct in all its parts; I had neither health, leisure, nor abilities equal to my design. 'Twas written at intervals, upon such remarks as casually occurred in my reading. Of course no exact connexion must be expected: though I might allege, that Horace uses as little in his Art of Poetry. I had finished the whole, before ever I saw Du Fresnoy; as will appear by comparison. AN ESSAY ON PAINTING. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THOMAS EARL OF PEMBROKE. Μιμητική [Ποιήσεως] τέχνη καὶ δύναμις έςιν ἀνα 7ίς ροφος τη ζωγραφία ζωγραφίαν μὲν λέγεσιν εἶναι ΦΘΕΓΓΟΜΕΝΗΝ την Ποίησιν, Ποίησιν δέ ΣΙΓΩΣΑΝ τὴν ζωγραφίαν. Plutarch. de audiend. Poet. -Poema Est pictura loquens, mutum pictura poema. WHATEVER yet in poetry held true, same: Alike by turns they touch the conscious heart, And each on each reflects the lights of art. You nobler youths who listen to my lays, And scorn by vulgar arts to merit praise: Look cautious round, your genius nicely know, Aud mark how far its utmost stretch will go; Pride, envy, hatred, labour to conceal, And sullen prejudice, and party-zeal; Approve, examine, and then last believeFor friends mislead, and critics still deceive. Who takes his censure, or his praise on trust, Is kind, 'tis true, but never can be just. But where's the man with gen'rous zeal in Blest with a genius strong, but unconfin'd, art. Such Titian was, by nature form'd to please, 2 But ah! how long will nature ask to give A proper taste we all derive from Heav'n, Its dubious light, in glimm'ring intervals. Like Maro first with trembling hand design And write as tasteless lines-as I do now. 1 Sit vir talis, qualis verè sapiens appellari possit, nec moribus modo perfectus, sed etiam scientià, & omni facultate dicendi, qualis fortasse adhuc nemo fuerit. Quintilian. 2 Titian was created count Palatine by Charles V. and most intimately acquainted with Ariosto, Aretine, &c. * Odiosa cura est-Optima enim sunt minimè Each painful stroke disgusts the lively mind; Still let due decencies preserve your fame, To bless mankind, for arts descend from Heav'n. Where strength and nature dawn at ev'ry line, But Nature first must be your darling care; Whose lovely lights on ev'ry object fall Yet if the seeds of art we nicely trace"; In flowing robes the monarch sweeps along, But e'er these charms are to perfection wrought, Watchful, and silent move the duteous bands, One look excites them, and one breath commands, Hail happy Painting! to confirm thy sway, Ocean, and air their various tributes pay. The purple insect 9 spreads her wings to thee, Wafts o'er the breeze, or glitters on the tree. Earth's winding veins unnumber'd treasures hold, And the warm champian ripens into gold. A clearer blue the lazuli bestows, Here umber deepens, there vermillion glows. For thee, her tender greens, and flourets rise, Whose colours change in ever-mingling dyes; Ev'n those fair groves (for Eden first design'd) Weep in soft fragrance through their balmy rind: Transparent tears! that glitter as they run, Warm'd with the blushes of the rising Sun. Here cease my song-a gentler theme inspires Each tender thought, and wakes the lover's fires. Once more your aid celestial Muses bring; Sacred the lays! nor to the deaf we sing. In ancient Greece 10 there liv'd, unknown to A nymph, and Mimicina was her name. [fame, Smit by a neighb'ring youth betimes she fell Victim to love, and bade the world farewell. Thoughtful and dull she pin'd her bloom away In lonely groves, nor saw the cheerful day. This might be borne-but lo! her lovely swain Must part, ah, never to return again! One mutual kiss must mutual passion sever, One look divide 'em, and divide for ever! See, now she lies abandon'd to despair, And to rude winds unbinds her flowing hair: Beauteous neglect! when melting to her woes, A Sylvan maid from her dark grotto rose: (Long had she view'd the solitary fair, Her bleeding bosom heav'd with equal care) A heav'nly picture in her hand she bore, She smil'd, she gave it, and was seen no more Pleas'd Mimicina, speechless with surprise, Ey'd the fair form, and lightning of the eyes: She knew—and sighing gave a tender kiss; Her noble passion was content with this: No more his absence, or her woes deplor'd, And as the living, she the dead ador'd. Thus Painting rose, to nourish soft desires, And gentle hopes, and friendship's purer fires: Thus still the lover must his nymph adore, And sigh to charms, that ought to charm no more. Thus when these eyes, with kind illusions blest, |