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tion; the language is laboured into harshness. The mind of the writer seems to work with unnatural violence. 'Double, double, toil and trouble.' He has a kind of strutting dignity, and is tall by walking on tiptoe. His art and his struggle are too visible, and there is too little appearance of ease and nature.

To say that he has no beauties, would be unjust a man like him, of great learning and great industry, could not but produce something valuable. When he pleases least, it can only be said that a good design was ill directed.

His translations of Northern and Welch Poetry deserve praise; the imagery is preserved, perhaps often improved; but the language is unlike the language of other poets.

In the character of his Elegy I rejoice to concur with the common reader; for by the common sense of readers, uncorrupted with literary prejudices, after all the refinements of subtilty and the dogmatism of learning, must finally be decided all claim to poetical honours. The Church-yard' abounds with images which find a mirror in every mind, and with sentiments to which every bosom returns an echo. The four stanzas, beginning 'Yet even these bones,' are to me original: I have never seen the notions in any other place; yet he that reads them here pursuades himself that he has always felt them. Had Gray written often thus, it had been vain to blame, and useless to praise him.

The judgment pronounced by Dr. Johnson on Gray's poetry has been almost universally acknowledged to be exorbitantly severe. But nothing that Johnson has written is to be lost or altered, when it is suitable to the limits of a publication such as the present. We may, however, subtract from the force of his opinions by quoting those of a more recent critic, who possesses a keen sensibility, as well as great literary acuteness and a just, highly cultivated taste. In order' says

Campbell, to distinguish the positive merits of Gray from the loftier excellence ascribed to him by his editor (Mr. Matthias,) it is unnecessary to resort to the criticisms of Dr. Johnson. Some of them may be just; but their general spirit is malignant and exaggerated. When we look to such beautiful passages in Gray's odes, as his Indian poet amidst the forests of Chili, or his prophet bard, scattering dismay on the array of Edward and his awe-struck chieftains, on the side of Snowdenwhen we regard his elegant taste, not only gathering classical flowers from the Arno and Ilissus, but revealing glimpses of barbaric grandeur amidst the darkness of Runic Mythology-when we recollect his "thoughts that breathe and words that burn❞—his rich personifications, and prominent images, and the crowning charm of his versification, we may safely pronounce that Johnson's critical fulminations have passed over his literary character with more noise than destruction."

'The obscurity so often objected to Gray is certainly a defect not to be justified by the authority of Pindar, more than any thing else that is intrinsically objectionable. But it has been exaggerated: he is no where so obscure as not to be intelligible by recurring to the passage. And it may be further observed, that Gray's lineal obscurity never arises, as in some writers, from undefined ideas or paradoxical sentiments. On the contrary his moral spirit is as explicit as it is majestic, and, deeply read as he was in Plato he is never metaphysically perplexed. The fault of his meaning is to be latent, not indefinite or confused. When we give his beauties re-perusal and attention, they kindle and multiply to the view. The thread of association that conducts to his remote allusions, or that connects his abrupt transitions, ceases then to be invisible. His lyrical pieces are like paintings on glass, which must be placed in a strong light to give out the perfect radiance of their colouring.'

ENCOMIUMS ON GRAY.

TO

MR. GRAY, UPON HIS ODES.

BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.*

REPINE not, Gray, that our weak dazzled eyes
Thy daring heights and brightness shun;
How few can trace the eagle to the skies,
Or like him, gaze upon the sun!

Each gentle reader loves the gentle Muse,
That little dares, and little means;
Who humbly sips her learning from Reviews,
Or flutters in the Magazines.

No longer now from Learning's sacred store
Our minds their health and vigour draw;
Homer and Pindar are rever'd no more,
No more the Stagyrite is law.

Though nurs'd by these, in vain thy Muse appears
To breathe her ardours in our souls;

In vain to sightless eyes and deaden'd ears,
The lightning gleams, the thunder rolls:

* From an original MS. in the possession of Isaac Reed, Esq.

Yet droop not GRAY, nor quit thy heav'n-born art,
Again thy wondrous powers eveal;

Wake slumbering Virtue in the Briton's heart,
And rouse us to reflect and feel!

With ancient deeds our long-chill'd bosoms fire, Those deeds that mark Eliza's reign!

Make Britons Greeks again-then strike the lyre, And Pindar shall not sing in vain.

ODE TO MR. GRAY,

ON THE BACKWARDNESS OF SPRING, IN THE YEAR 1742.

BY RICHARD WEST, ESQ.

DEAR GRAY, that always in my heart
Possessest far the better part,

What mean these sudden blasts that rise
And drive the Zephyrs from the skies?
O join with mine thy tuneful lay,
And invocate the tardy May!

Come, fairest Nymph, resume thy reign!
Bring all the Graces in thy train!
With balmy breath and flowery tread,
Rise from thy soft ambrosial bed;
Where, in elysian slumber bound,
Embow'ring myrtles veil thee round.

Awake, in all thy glories dress'd,
Recal the Zephyrs from the west;
Restore the sun, revive the skies,
At mine and Nature's call, arise!
Great Nature's self upbraids thy stay,
And misses her accustom'd May.

See all her works demand thy aid;
The labours of Pomona fade :
A plaint is heard from ev'ry tree;
Each budding flow'ret calls for thee;
The birds forget to love and sing;
With storms alone the forests ring.

Come then, with Pleasure at thy side,
Diffuse thy vernal spirit wide;

Create, where'er thou turn'st thine eye,
Peace, Plenty, Love, and Harmony;
Till every being share its part,
And Heav'n and Earth be glad at heart.

EPITAPH

ON

MR. GRAY'S MONUMENT,

IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY,

BY MR. MASON.

No more the Grecian Muse unrivall'd reigns, To Britain let the nations homage pay! She boasts a Homer's fire in Milton's strains, A Pindar's rapture in the lyre of GRAY.

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