His talents and politics introduced him to the notice and favour of Frederick, Prince of Wales, whilst he maintained an intimate friendship with the chiefs of the opposition. In the mean time, he pursued the business of a merchant in the city, and was an able auxiliary to his party, by his eloquence at public meetings, and by his influence with the mercantile body. Such was the confidence in his knowledge and talents, that in 1743 the merchants of London deputed him to plead, in behalf of their neglected rights, at the bar of the house of commons, a duty which he fulfilled with great ability. In 1744, he was offered an employment of a very different kind, being left a bequest of 5001. by the Duchess of Marlborough, on condition of his writing the duke's life, in conjunction with Mallet. He renounced this legacy, while Mallet accepted it, but never fulfilled the terms. Glover's rejection of the offer was the more honourable, as it came at a time when his own affairs were so embarrassed as to oblige him to retire from business for several years, and to lead a life of the strictest economy. During his distresses, he is said to have received from the Prince of Wales a present of 5007. In the year 1751, his friends in the city made an attempt to obtain for him the office of city chamberlain; but he was unfortunately not named as a candidate, till the majority of votes had been engaged to Sir Thomas Harrison. The speech which he made to the livery on this occasion did him much honour, both for the liberality with which he spoke of his successful opponent, and for the manly but unassuming manner in which he expressed the consciousness of his own integrity, amidst his private misfortunes, and asserted the merit of his public conduct as a citizen. The name of Guildhall is certainly not apt to inspire us with high ideas either of oratory or of personal sympathy; yet there is something in the history of this transaction which increases our respect, not only for Glover, but for the scene itself, in which his eloquence is said to have warmly touched his audience with a feeling of his worth as an individual, of his spirit as a politician, and of his powers as an accomplished speaker. He carried the sentiments and endowments of a polished scholar into the most popular meeting of trading life, and showed that they could be welcomed there. Such men elevate the character of a mercantile country.

During his retirement from business, he finished his tragedy of "Boadicea," which was brought out at Drury Lane in 1753, and was acted for nine nights, it is said "successfully," perhaps a misprint for successively. Boadicea is certainly not a contemptible drama: it has some scenes of tender interest between Venusia and Dumnorix; but the defectiveness of its incidents, and the frenzied character of the British queen

mont and Fletcher, in their play on the same subject, have left Boadicea, with all her rashness and revengeful disposition, still a heroine; but Glover makes her a beldam and a fury, whom we could scarcely condemn the Romans for having carted. The disgusting novelty of this impression is at variance with the traditionary regard for her name, from which the mind is unwilling to part. It is told of an eminent portrait-painter,

that the picture of each individual which he took had some resemblance to the last sitter: when he painted a comic actress, she resembled a doctor of divinity, because his imagination had not yet been delivered of the doctor. The converse of this seems to have happened to Glover. He anticipated the hideous traits of Medea, when he produced the British queen. With a singular degree of poetical injustice, he leans to the side of compassion in delineating Medea, a monster of infanticide, and prepossesses us against a high-spirited woman, who avenged the wrongs of her country, and the violation of her daughters. His tragedy of "Medea" appeared in 1761; and the spirited acting of Mrs. Yates gave it considerable effect.

In his later years, his circumstances were greatly improved, though we are not informed from what causes. He returned again to public life; was elected to parliament; and there distinguished himself, whenever mercantile prosperity was concerned, by his knowledge of commerce, and his attention to its interests. In 1770 he enlarged his "Leonidas" from nine to twelve books, and afterwards wrote its sequel, the "Athenaid," and a sequel to "Medea." The latter was never acted, and the former seldom read. The close of his life was spent in retirement from business, but amidst the intimacy of the most eminent scholars of his time.

Some contemporary writers, calling themselves critics, preferred "Leonidas" in its day to "Paradise Lost;" because it had smoother versification, and fewer hard words of learning. The re-action of popular opinion, against a work that has been once over-rated, is apt to depress it beneath its just estimation. It is due to "Leonidas" to say, that its narrative, descriptions, and imagery, have a general and chaste congruity with the Grecism of its subject. It is far, indeed, from being a vivid or arresting picture of antiquity; but it has an air of classical taste and propriety in its design; and it sometimes places the religion and, manners of Greece in a pleasing and impressive light. The poet's description of Dithyrambus making his way from the cave of Eta, by a secret ascent, to the temple of the Muses, and bursting, unexpectedly, into the hallowed presence of their priestess Melissa, is a passage fraught with a considerable degree of the fanciful and beautiful in superstition. The abode of Oïleus is also traced with a suavity

of local description, which is not unusual to Glover; and the speech of Melissa, when she first receives the tidings of her venerable father's death, supports a fine consistency with the august and poetical character which is ascribed to her. "A sigh

Broke from her heart, these accents from her lips.
The full of days and honours through the gate
Of painless slumber is retired. His tomb
Shall stand among his fathers, in the shade
Of his own trophies. Placid were his days,
Which flow'd through blessings. As a river pure,
Whose sides are flow'ry, and whose meadows fair,
Meets in his course a subterranean void;
There dips his silver head, again to rise,
And, rising, glide through flowers and meadows new;
So shall Oileus in those happier fields,
Where never gloom of trouble shades the mind."

The undeniable fault of the entire poem is, that it wants impetuosity of progress, and that its characters are without warm and interesting individuality. What a great genius might have made of the subject, it may be difficult to pronounce by supposition; for it is the very character of genius to produce effects which cannot be calculated. But imposing as the names of Leonidas and Thermopylee may appear, the subject which they formed for an epic poem was such, that we cannot wonder at its baffling the powers of Glover. A poet, with such a theme, was furnished indeed with a grand outline of actions and sentiments; but how difficult was it, after all that books could teach him, to give the

close and veracious appearance of life to charaeters and manners beheld so remotely on the verge of the horizon of history! What difficulty to avoid coldness and generality, on the one hand, if he delineated his human beings only with the manners which history could authenticate; and to shun grotesqueness and inconsistency on the other, if he filled up the vague outline of the antique with the particular and familiar traits of modern life! Neither Fenelon, with all his genius, nor Barthelemy, with all his learning, have kept entirely free of this latter fault of incongruity, in modernising the aspect of ancient manners. The characters of Barthelemy, in par ticular, often remind us of statues in modern clothes. Glover has not fallen into this impurity; but his purity is cold: his heroes are like outlines of Grecian faces, with no distinct or minute physiognomy. They are not so much poetical characters, as historical recollections. There are, indeed, some touches of spirit in Artemisia's character, and of pathos in the episode of Teribazus; but Leonidas is too good a Spartan, and Xerxes too bad a Persian, to be pitied; and most of the subordinate agents, that fall or triumph in battle, only load our memories with their names. The local descriptions of "Leonidas," however, its pure sentiments, and the classical images which it recals, render it interesting, as the monument of an accomplished and amiable mind ".

THE virtuous Spartan, who resign'd his life
To save his country at the Etæan straits,
Thermopylae, when all the peopled East
In arms with Xerxes fill'd the Grecian plains,
O Muse, record! The Hellespont they pass'd,
O'erpow'ring Thrace. The dreadful tidings swift
To Corinth flew. Her Isthmus was the seat
Of Grecian council. Alpheus thence returns
To Lacedemon. In assembly full

He finds the Spartan people with their kings;
Their kings, who boast an origin divine,
From Hercules descended. They the sons
Of Lacedemon had convened, to learn
The sacred mandates of th' immortal gods,
That morn expected from the Delphian dome.
But Alpheus sudden their attention drew,
And thus address'd them: For immediate war,
My countrymen, prepare. Barbarian tents
Already fill the trembling bounds of Thrace.
The Isthmian council hath decreed to guard
Thermopyla, the Locrian gate of Greece.

Here Alpheus paused. Leutychides, who shared
With great Leonidas the sway, uprose
And spake. Ye citizens of Sparta, hear.
Why from her bosom should Laconia send

Her valiant race to wage a distant war
Beyond the Isthmus? There the gods have placed
Our native barrier. In this favour'd land,
Which Pelops govern'd, us of Doric blood
That Isthmus inaccessible secures.

There let our standards rest. Your solid strength.
If once you scatter in defence of states
Remote and feeble, you betray your own,
And merit Jove's derision. With assent
The Spartans heard. Leonidas replied:

O most ungen'rous counsel! Most unwise!
Shall we, confining to that Isthmian fence
Our efforts, leave beyond it every state
Disown'd, exposed? Shall Athens, while her fleets
Unceasing watch th' innumerable foes,

[* Glover's Leonidas, though only party spirit could have extolled it as a work of genius, obtained no incon siderable sale, and a reputation which flourished for half a century. It has now a place in the two great general collections, and deserves to hold it. The author has the merit of having departed from bad models, rejected all false ornaments and tricks of style, and trusted to the dignity of his subject. And though the poem is cold and bald, stately rather than strong in its best parts, and in general rather stiff than stately, there is in its very nakedness a sort of Spartan severity that commands respect.-SOUTHEY, Life of Cowper, vol. ii. p. 176]

And trust th' impending dangers of the field
To Sparta's well-known valour, shall she hear,
That to barbarian violence we leave
Her unprotected walls? Her hoary sires,
Her helpless matrons, and their infant race,
To servitude and shame? Her guardian gods
Will yet preserve them. Neptune o'er his main,
With Pallas, power of wisdom, at their helms,
Will soon transport them to a happier clime,
Safe from insulting foes, from false allies,
And Eleutherian Jove will bless their flight.
Then shall we feel the unresisted force
Of Persia's navy, deluging our plains
With inexhausted numbers. Half the Greeks,
By us betray'd to bondage, will support
A Persian lord, and lift th' avenging spear
For our destruction. But, my friends, reject
Such mean, such dang'rous counsels, which would
blast

Your long-establish'd honours, and assist
The proud invader. O eternal king
Of gods and mortals, elevate our minds!
Each low and partial passion thence expel!
Greece is our gen'ral mother. All must join
In her defence, or, sep'rate, each must fall.

This said, authority and shame control'd
The mute assembly. Agis too appear'd.
He from the Delphian cavern was return'd,
Where, taught by Phoebus on Parnassian cliffe,
The Pythian maid unfolded Heaven's decrees.
He came; but discontent and grief o'ercast
His anxious brow. Reluctant was his tongue,
Yet seem'd full charged to speak. Religious dread
Each heart relax'd. On every visage hung
Sad expectation. Not a whisper told
The silent fear. Intensely all were fix'd,
All still as death, to hear the solemn tale.
As o'er the western waves, when every storm
Is hush'd within its cavern, and a breeze,
Soft-breathing, lightly with its wings along
The slacken'd cordage glides, the sailor's ear
Perceives no sound throughout the vast expanse;
None, but the murmurs of the sliding prow,
Which slowly parts the smooth and yielding

main :

So through the wide and listening crowd no sound,
No voice, but thine, O Agis, broke the air!
While thus the issue of thy awful charge
Thy lips deliver'd. Spartans, in your name
I went to Delphi. I inquired the doom
Of Lacedemon from th' impending war,
When in these words the deity replied:

"Inhabitants of Sparta, Persia's arms
Shall lay your proud and ancient seat in dust;
Unless a king, from Hercules derived,
Cause Lacedemon for his death to mourn."

As when the hand of Perseus had disclosed
The snakes of dire Medusa, all who view'd
The Gorgon features were congeal'd to stone,
With ghastly eyeballs on the hero bent,
And horror, living in their marble form;
Thus with amazement rooted, where they stood,

In speechless terror frozen, on their kings The Spartans gazed: but soon their anxious looks

All on the great Leonidas unite,

Long known his country's refuge. He alone
Remains unshaken. Rising, he displays
His godlike presence. Dignity and grace
Adorn his frame, where manly beauty joins
With strength Herculean. On his aspect shine
Sublimest virtue, and desire of fame,
Where justice gives the laurel, in his eye
The inextinguishable spark, which fires
The souls of patriots; while his brow supports
Undaunted valour, and contempt of death.
Serene he cast his looks around, and spake :

Why this astonishment on ev'ry face,

Ye men of Sparta? Does the name of death
Create this fear and wonder? O my friends,
Why do we labour through the arduous paths
Which lead to virtue? Fruitless were the toil,
Above the reach of human feet were placed
The distant summit, if the fear of death

Could intercept our passage. But a frown
Of unavailing terror he assumes,

To shake the firmness of a mind, which knows
That, wanting virtue, life is pain and woe,
That, wanting liberty, even virtue mourns,
And looks around for happiness in vain.
Then speak, O Sparta, and demand my life!
My heart, exulting, answers to thy call,

And smiles on glorious fate. To live with fame,
The gods allow to many; but to die
With equal lustre is a blessing, Jove
Among the choicest of his boons reserves,
Which but on few his sparing hand bestows.
Salvation thus to Sparta he proclaim'd.
Joy, wrapt awhile in admiration, paused,
Suspending praise; nor praise at last resounds
In high acclaim to rend the arch of heaven :
A reverential murmur breathes applause.
So were the pupils of Lycurgus train'd
To bridle nature. Public fear was dumb
Before their senate, ephori, and kings,
Nor exultation into clamour broke.
Amidst them rose Dieneces, and thus:

Haste to Thermopylæ. To Xerxes show
The discipline of Spartans, long renown'd
In rigid warfare, with enduring minds,
Which neither pain, nor want, nor danger bend.
Fly to the gate of Greece, which open stands
To slavery and rapine. They will shrink
Before your standard, and their native seats
Resume in abject Asia. Arm, ye sires,
Who with a growing race have bless'd the state
That race, your parents, gen'ral Greece forbid
Delay. Heaven summons. Equal to the cause
A chief behold. Can Spartans ask for more?

Bold Alpheus next. Command my swift return Amid the Isthmian council, to declare Your instant march. His dictates all approve. Back to the Isthmus he unwearied speeds.

FROM BOOK II.

Description of the Dwelling of Ofleus, at which the Spartan
Army halt on their march to Thermopyla.

THE moon rode high and clear. Her light benign
To their pleased eyes a rural dwelling show'd,
All unadorn'd, but seemly. Either side
Was fenced by trees high-shadowing. The front
Look'd on a crystal pool, by feather'd tribes
At ev'ry dawn frequented. From the springs
A small redundance fed a shallow brook,
O'er smoothest pebbles rippling, just to wake
Not startle silence, and the ear of night
Entice to listen undisturb'd. Around
The grass was cover'd by reposing sheep,
Whose drowsy guard no longer bay'd the moon.
The warriors stopp'd, contemplating the seat
Of rural quiet. Suddenly a swain

Steps forth. His fingers touch the breathing reed.
Uprise the fleecy train. Each faithful dog
Is roused. All heedful of the wonted sound
Their known conductor follow. Slow behind
Th' observing warriors move. Ere long they reach
A broad and verdant circle, thick inclosed
With birches straight and tall, whose glossy rind
Is clad in silver from Diana's car.
The ground was holy, and the central spot
An altar bore to Pan. Beyond the orb
Of skreening trees th' external circuit swarm'd
With sheep and beeves, each neighbouring hamlet's
wealth

Collected. Thither soon the swain arrived,
Whom, by the name of Melibus hail'd,

A peasant throng surrounded. As their chief,
He nigh the altar to his rural friends

Address'd these words: O sent from diff'rent lords
With contribution to the public wants,
Time presses. God of peasants, bless our course!
Speed to the slow-paced ox for once impart !
That o'er these valleys, cool'd by dewy night,
We to our summons true, ere noon-tide blaze,
May join Oïleus, and his praise obtain.

He ceased. To rustic madrigals and pipes,
Combined with bleating notes and tinkling bells,
With clamour shrill from busy tongues of dogs,
Or hollow-sounding from the deep-mouth'd ox,
Along the valley herd and flock are driv'n
Successive, halting oft to harmless spoil
Of flow'rs and herbage, springing in their sight.
While Melibus marshal'd with address
The inoffensive host, unseen in shades
Dieneces applauded, and the youth
Of Menalippus caution'd. Let no word
Impede the careful peasant. On his charge
Depends our welfare. Diligent and staid
He suits his godlike master. Thou wilt see
That righteous hero soon. Now sleep demands
Our debt to nature. On a carpet dry
Of moss beneath a wholesome beech they lay,
Arm'd as they were. Their slumber short retires
With night's last shadow. At their warning roused,

The troops proceed. Th' admiring eye of youth
In Menalippus caught the morning rays
To guide its travel o'er the landscape wide
Of cultivated hillocks, dales, and lawns,
Where mansions, hamlets interposed; where domes
Rose to their gods through consecrated shades.
He then exclaims: O say, can Jove devote
These fields to ravage, those abodes to flames!

The Spartan answers: Ravage, sword, and fire, Must be endured as incidental ills.

Suffice it, these invaders, soon or late,
Will leave this soil more fertile by their blood,
With spoils abundant to rebuild the fanes.
Precarious benefits are these, thou see'st,
So framed by heaven ; but virtue is a good
No foe can spoil, and lasting to the grave.
Beside the public way an oval fount
Of marble sparkled with a silver spray
Of falling rills, collected from above.
The army halted, and their hollow casques
Dipp'd in the limpid stream. Behind it rose
An edifice, composed of native roots,

And oaken trunks of knotted girth unwrought.
Within were beds of moss. Old, batter'd arms
Hung from the roof. The curious chiefs approach.
These words, engraven on a tablet rude,
Megistias reads; the rest in silence hear.
"Yon marble fountain, by Oileus placed,
To thirsty lips in living water flows;

For weary steps he framed this cool retreat;

A grateful off'ring here to rural peace,

His dinted shield, his helmet he resign'd.
O passenger, if born to noble deeds

Thou would'st obtain perpetual grace from Jove,
Devote thy vigour to heroic toils,

And thy decline to hospitable cares.
Rest here; then seek Oïleus in his vale."

FROM BOOK VI.

The Grecian commanders, after a battle, having retired to a cave on the side of Mount Eta, Dithyrambus, die covering a passage through it, ascends to the Temple of the Muses.

A CAVE, not distant from the Phocian wall,
Through ta's cloven side had nature form'd
In spacious windings. This in moss she clad ;
O'er half the entrance downward from the roots
She hung the shaggy trunks of branching firs,
To heaven's hot ray impervious. Near the mouth
Relucent laurels spread before the sun
A broad and vivid foliage. High above,
The hill was darken'd by a solemn shade,
Diffused from ancient cedars. To this cave
Diomedon, Demophilus resort,

And Thespia's youth. A deep recess appears,
Cool as the azure grot where Thetis sleeps
Beneath the vaulted ocean. Whisper'd sounds
Of waters, trilling from the riven stone
To feed a fountain on the rocky floor,
In purest streams o'erflowing to the sea,

Allure the warriors, hot with toil and thirst,
To this retreat serene. Against the sides
Their disencumber'd hands repose their shields;
The helms they loosen from their glowing cheeks;
Propp'd on their spears, they rest: when Agis brings
From Lacedemon's leader these commands.

Leonidas recals you from your toils,

Ye meritorious Grecians. You have reap'd
The first bright harvest on the field of fame.
Our eyes in wonder from the Phocian wall
On your unequal'd deeds incessant gazed.

To whom Plataea's chief. Go, Agis, say
To Lacedemon's ruler, that, untired,
Diomedon can yet exalt his spear,
Nor feels the armour heavy on his limbs.
Then shall I quit the contest? Ere he sinks,
Shall not this early sun again behold
The slaves of Xerxes tremble at my lance,
Should they adventure on a fresh assault?

To him the Thespian youth. My friend, my guide
To noble actions, since thy gen'rous heart
Intent on fame disdains to rest, O grant
I too thy glorious labours may partake,
May learn once more to imitate thy deeds.
Thou, gentlest Agis, Sparta's king entreat
Not to command us from the field of war.
Yes, persevering heroes, he replied,
I will return, will Sparta's king entreat
Not to command you from the field of war.

Then interposed Demophilus. O friend, Who lead'st to conquest brave Platæa's sons ; Thou, too, loved offspring of the dearest man, Who dost restore a brother to my eyes; My soul your magnanimity applauds : But, O reflect, that unabating toil Subdues the mightiest. Valour will repine, When the weak hand obeys the heart no more. Yet I, declining through the weight of years, Will not assign a measure to your strength. If still you find your vigour undecay'd, Stay and augment your glory. So, when time Casts from your whiten'd heads the helm aside; When in the temples your enfeebled arms Have hung their consecrated shields, the land Which gave you life, in her defence employ'd, Shall then by honours, doubled on your age, Bequit the gen'rous labours of your prime.

So spake the senior, and forsook the cave. But from the fount Diomedon receives Th' overflowing waters in his concave helm, Addressing thus the genius of the stream. Whoe'er thou art, divinity unstain'd Of this fair fountain, till unsparing Mars Heap'd carnage round thee, bounteous are thy To me, who ill repay thee. I again [streams Thy silver-gleaming current must pollute, Which,mix'd with gore, shall tinge the Malian slime. He said, and lifted in his brimming casque The bright, refreshing moisture. Thus repairs The spotted panther to Hydaspes' side, Or eastern Indus, feasted on the blood Of some torn deer, which nigh his cruel grasp

Had roam'd, unheeding, in the secret shade;
Rapacious o'er the humid brink he stoops,
And in the pure and fluid crystal cools
His reeking jaws. Meantime the Thespian's eye
Roves round the vaulted space; when sudden sounds
Of music, utter'd by melodious harps,

And melting voices, distant, but in tones
By distance soften'd, while the echoes sigh'd
In lulling replication, fill the vault

With harmony. In admiration mute,

With nerves unbraced by rapture, he, entranced,
Stands like an eagle, when his parting plumes
The balm of sleep relaxes, and his wings
Fall from his languid side. Plataea's chief,
Observing, roused the warrior. Son of Mars,
Shall music's softness from thy bosom steal
The sense of glory? From his neighb'ring camp
Perhaps the Persian sends fresh nations down.
Soon in bright steel Thermopyla will blaze.
Awake. Accustom'd to the clang of arms,
Intent on vengeance for invaded Greece,
My ear, my spirit in this hour admit

No new sensation, nor a change of thought.
The Thespian starting from oblivious sloth
Of ravishment and wonder, quick replied. [Again!
These sounds were more than human. Hark!
O honour'd friend, no adverse banner streams
In sight. No shout proclaims the Persian freed
From his late terror. Deeper let us plunge
In this mysterious dwelling of the nymphs,
Whose voices charm its gloom. In smiles rejoin'd
Diomedon. I see thy soul enthrall'd.

Me thou would'st rank among th' unletter'd rout
Of yon barbarians, should I press thy stay.
Time favours too. Till Agis be return'd,
We cannot act. Indulge thy eager search.
Here will I wait, a sentinel unmoved,
To watch thy coming. In exploring haste
Th' impatient Thespian penetrates the cave.
He finds it bounded by a steep ascent
Of rugged steps; where down the hollow rock
A modulation clear, distinct, and slow
In movement solemn from a lyric string,
Dissolves the stagnant air to sweet accord
With these sonorous lays. Celestial maids!
While, from our cliffs contemplating the war,
We celebrate our heroes, O impart
Orphean magic to the pious strain !

That from the mountain we may call the groves,
Swift motion through these marble fragments
To overleap the high Œtean ridge, [breathe
And crush the fell invaders of our peace.
The animated hero upward springs
Light, as a kindled vapour, which, confined
In subterranean cavities, at length
Pervading, rives the surface to enlarge
The long-imprison'd flame. Ascending soon,
He sees, he stands abash'd, then rev'rend kneels.
An aged temple with insculptured forms
Of Jove's harmonious daughters, and a train
Of nine bright virgins,round their priestess ranged,
Who stood in awful majesty, receive