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tor and Theodora," his largest poem, which importantly increased his reputation as a poet.
His connection with Bolingbroke, and his becoming the editor of his works, reflect little credit on the memory of Mallet as a moralist, though, probably, the love of gain rather than a wish to disseminate dangerous principles, was his ruling motive to this undertaking.
The old Duchess of Marlborough engaged him to write the life of the great Duke; and for this he received a proper compliment, but it is said, never seriously took the task in hand.
In 1759, he published his own works in prose and verse, with a dedication to Lord Mansfield. On the accession of his present majesty, Mallet became poli. tical writer, in favour of the earl of Bute; but his health declining, he soon ceased to interfere in the cabals of faction, and departed this life in 1705.
The character of Mallet has been variously represented, as friendship or enmity have held the
pen. The attachment of his patrons prove that he could not be destitute of merit: and as a poet, he certainly deserves great praise. His plays and poetry have been frequently reprinted. His most popular pieces, of the smaller kind, are “ Edwin and Emma,” and “ William and Margaret," which delighted our childhood, and are still recollected and read with pleasure.
Fair morn ascends : soft zephyr's wing
O'er hill and vale renews the spring :
Where, sown profusely, herb and flower,
Of balmy swell, of healing power,
Their souls in fragrant dews exhale,
And breathe fresh life in
Here, spreads a green expanse of plains,
Where, sweetly pensive, silence reigns ;
And there, at utmost stretch of eye,
A mountain fades into the sky;
While winding round, diffus'd and deep,
A river rolls with sounding sweep.
Of human art no traces near,
I seem alone with nature here!
Here are thy walks, O sacred Health!
The monarch's bliss, the beggar's wealth ;
The seasoning of all good below!
The sovereign friend in joy or woe!
O thou, most courted, most despis'd,
And but in absence duly prizid !
Power of the soft and rosy face!
The vivid pulse, the vermil grace,
The spirits when they gayest shine,
Youth, beauty, pleasure, all are thine!
Oh sun of life! whose heavenly ray
Lights up and cheers our various day,
The turbulence of hopes and fears,
The storm of fate, the cloud of years,
Till nature, with thy parting light,
Reposes late in death's calm night:
Fled from the trophy'd roofs of state,
Abodes of splendid pain and hate;
Fled from the couch, where, in sweet sleep,
Hot riot would his anguish steep,
But tosses through the midnight-shade,
Of death, of life, alike afraid ;
For ever fled to shady cell,
Where temperance, where the muses dwell;
Thou oft art seen, at early dawn,
Slow-pacing o'er the breezy lawn:
Ur on the brow of mountain high,
In silence feasting ear and eye,
With song and prospect, which abound
From birds, and woods, and waters round.
But when the sun, with noon-tide ray,
Flames forth intolerable day;
While heat sits fervent on the plain,
With thirst and languor in his train :
All nature sickening in the blaze:
Thou, in the wild and woody maze,
That clouds the vale with umbrage deep,
Impendent from the neighbouring steep,
Wilt find betimes a calm retreat,
Where breathing coolness has her seat.
There, plung'd amid the shadows brown,
Imagination lays him down;
Attentive, in his airy mood,
To every murmur of the wood :
The bee in yonder flowery nook ;
The chidings of the headlong brook ;
The green leaf shivering in the gale;
The warbling bill, the lowing vale;
The distant woodman's echoing stroke;
The thunder of the falling oak,
From thought to thought in vision led,
He holds high converse with the dead;
Sages, or poets. See they rise !
And shadowy skim before his eyes.
Hark! Orpheus strikes the lyre again,
That softens savages to men:
Lo! Socrates, the sept of heaven,
To whom its moral will was given.
Fathers and friends of human kind,
They form’d the nations, or refin'd;
With all that mends the head and heart,
Enlightening truth, adorning art.
While thus I mus'd beneath the shade,
At once the sounding breeze was laid,
And nature, by the unknown law,
Shook deep with reverential awe;
Dumb silence grew upon the hour;
A browher night involv'd the bower:
When, issuing from the inmost wood,
Appear'd fair freedom's genius good.
O Freedom! sovereign boon of heaven;
Great charter, with our being given;
For which the patriot, and the sage,
Have plann'd, have bled through every age!
High privilege of human race,
Beyond a mortal monarch's grace :
Who could not give, nor can reclaim,
What but from God immediate came.
“ Mark it, Cesario, it is true and plain. “The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, “ And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, “Do use to chant it. It is silly sooth, “ And dallies with the innocence of love, “ Like the old age.”
SHAKESP. TWELFTH NIGHT.
Far in the windings of a vale,
Fast by a sheltering wood,
The safe retreat of health and peace,
An humble cottage stood.
There beauteous Emma flourish'd fair,
Beneath a mother's
Whose only wish on earth was now
To see her blest, and die.
The softest blush that nature spreads
Gave colour to her cheek:
Such orient colours smiles through heaven,
When vernal mornings break.
Nor let the pride of great-ones scorn
This charmer of the plains :
That sun, who bids their diamonds blaze,
To paint our lily deigns,
Long had she fill'd each youth with love,
Each maiden with despair ;
And though by all a wonder own'd,
Yet knew not she was fair.
Till Edwin came, the pride of swains,
A soul devoid of art;
And from whose eye, serenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.
A mutual flame was quickly caught:
Was quickly too reveald:
For neither bosom lodg’d a wish,
That virtue keeps conceal'd.
What happy hours of home-felt bliss
Did love on both bestow!
But bliss too mighty long to last,
Where fortune proves a foe.
His sister, who, like envy form'd,
Like her in mischief joy'd,
To work them harm, with wicked skill,
Each darker art employ'd.
The father too, a sordid man,
Who love nor pity knew, Was all-unfeeling as the clod
From whence his riches grew. Long had he seen their secret flame,
And seen it long unmov’d: Then with a father's frown at last
Had sternly disapprov'd.