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The retainers of the Muses are seldom happy, yet the Heliconean maids are never in want of votaries. William Collins, who exemplifies our remark, was born at Chichester, in Sussex, 1721. His father was a hatter, and Alderman of that city. Having received the rudiments of classical learning in his native place, he was removed to Winchester school, where he continued seven years; but being disappointed in a vacancy at New College, Oxford, he entered a commoner of Queen's, and afterwards became a Demy of Magdalen, where he took a bachelor's degree.

At the university he was equally remarkable for genius and indolence. Weary of an academical life, he fancied that he should be more in his element in London, to which he repaired full of literary enthusiasm, but with little fortune. His “ Persian or Oriental Eclogues," published while at Oxford, had met with little success; and when his “ Odes, Descriptive and Allegorical," appeared in 1746, they were at first very coldly received, and both the bookseller and the poet being disappointed, the latter in a fit of indignation paid the expense of printing, and committed the unsold copies to the flames.

Time, however, which distinguishes between works of merit and those which are merely popular, has reversed the sentence of the public, and the odes of Collins will ever remain a monument of his own genius, and an honour to English poetry to the latest posterity.

Chagrined at his ill success, and alas! often destitute of common necessaries, the susceptible mind of Collins began to give way; and though a legacy of 2000l. relieved him from the most pressing external distresses, it came too late to brighten the mental horizon. He fell into great debility of body, which enchained rather than destroyed his intellectual powers.

“ He was a man," says Johnson, is of extensive literature and vigorous faculties. His morals were pure, and bis opinions pious. In a long continuance of poverty, and long habits of dissipation, it cannot be expected that any character should be exactly uniform. There is a degree of want by which the freedom of agency is almost destroyed, and long association with festuitous companions, will at last relax the strictness of truth, and abate the fervour of sincerity. That this man, wise and virtuous as he was, passed always unentangled through the snares of life, it would be prejudice and temerity to affirm; but it may be said, that at least he preserved the source of action unpolluted; that his principles were never shaken ; that his distinctions of right and wrong were never confounded; and that his faults had nothing of malignity or design, but proceeded from some unexpected pressure, or casual temptation.

“ The latter part of his life cannot be remembered but with pity and sadness. These clouds which he perceived gathering on his intellects, he endeavoured to disperse, by travel, and passed into France; but found himself constrained to yield to his malady, and returned.

“ After his return from France, the writer of this character paid bim a visit at Islington, where he was waiting for his sister, whom he had directed to meet him. There was then nothing of disorder discernible in his mind by any but himself; but he had withdrawn from study, and travelled with no other book than an English Testament, such as children carry to school. When his friend took it into his hand to see what companion a man of letters had chosen, “ I have but one book," said Collins, “ but that is the best.”

Mr. Anderson agrees with Warton, Knox, and Potter in giving Collins a much higher rank as a Poet than Johnson; and allows, that when every possible deduction is made from his merit, he will still stand entitled to a very large proportion of praise; and his Ode on the Passions must ever be joined with the “St. Cecilia" of Dryden, and the “ Bard" of Gray, as among the boldest and brightest efforts of the lyric muse.



Scene a Valley near Bagdat. Time, the Morning.

Ye Persian maids attend your poet's lays,
And hear how shepherds pass their golden days,
Not all are blest whom fortune's hand sustains
With wealth in courts, nor all that haunt the plains:
Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell!
'Tis virtue makes the bliss, where'er we dwell.

Thus Selim sung, by sacred truth inspir'd;
Nor praise, but such as truth bestow'd, desir'd:
Wise in himself, his meaning songs convey'd
Informing morals to the shepherd maid;
Or taught the swains that surest bliss to find,
What groves nor streams bestow, a virtuous mind.

When sweet and blushing, like a virgin bride,
The radiant morn resum'd her orient pride,
When wanton gales along the vallies play,
Breathe on each flower, and bear their sweets away:
By Tigris' wandering waves he sat, and sung
This useful lesson for the fair and young

Ye Persian dames, he said, to you belong,
Well may they please, the morals of my song:
No fairer maids, I trust, than you are found,
Grac'd with soft arts, the peopled world around!
The morn that lights you, to your loves supplies
Each gentler ray delicious to your eyes:
For you those flowers her fragrant hands bestow,

yours the love that kings delight to know.
Yet think not these, all beauteous as they are,
The best kind blessings heaven can grant the fair!
Who trust alone in beauty's feeble ray,
Boast but the worth Bassora's pearls display ;
Drawn from the deep we own their surface bright,
But, dark within, they drink no lustrous light:

Such are the maids, and such the charms they boast,
By sense unaided, or to virtue lost.
Self-flattering sex! your hearts believe in vain
That love shall blind, when once he fires the swain;
Or hope a lover by your faults to win,
As spots on ermin beautify the skin :
Who seeks secure to rule, be first her care
Each softer virtue that adorns the fair ;
Each tender passion man delights to find,
The lov'd perfections of a female mind!

Blest were the days, when wisdom held her reign,
And shepherds sought her on the silent plain ;
With truth she wedded in the secret grove,
Immortal truth, and daughters blest their love.

O haste, fair maids! ye virtues come away, Sweet peace and plenty lead you on your way! The balmy shrub for you shall love our shore, By Ind excell'd, or Araby, no more.

Lost to our fields, for so the fates ordain, The dear deserters shall return again. Come thou, whose thoughts as limpid springs are clear, To lead the train sweet modesty appear : Here make thy court amidst our rural scene, And shepherd-girls shall own thee for their queen, With thee be chastity, of all afraid, Distrusting all, a wise suspicious maid; But man the most-not more the mountain doe Holds the swift faulcon for her deadly toe. Cold is her breast, like flowers that drink the dew, A silken veil conceals her from the view. No wild desires amidst thy train be known, But faith, whose heart is fix'd on one alone: Desponding meekness with her downcast eyes, And friendly pity full of tender sighs ; And love the last: by these your

hearts approve, These are the virtues that must lead to love.

Thus sung the swain ; and ancient legends say,
The maids of Bagdat verified the lay:
Dear to the plains the virtues came along,
The shepherds loy'd, and Selim bliss d his song.



Scene, the Desert. Time, Mid-day.

In silent horror o'er the boundless waste
The Driver Hassan with his camels past :
One cruise of water on his back he bore,
And his light scrip contain'd a scanty store:
A fan of painted feathers in his hand,
To guard his shaded face from scorching sand.
The sultry sun had gain d the middle sky,
And not a tree and not an herb was nigh;
The beasts, with pain, their dusty way pursue,
Shrill roar'd the winds, and dreary was the view!
With desperate sorrow wild, th' affrighted man
Thrice sigh'd, thrice struck bis breast, and thus began:
“ Sad was th' hour, and luckless was the day,
" When first from Schiraz? walls I bent my way!"

Ah! little thought I of the blasting wind,
The thirst or pinching hunger, that I find !
Bethink thee, Hassan, where shall thirst

When fails this cruise, his unrelenting rage?
Soon shall this scrip its precious load resign,
Then what but tears and hunger shall be thine ?

Ye mute companions of my toils, that bear
In all my griefs a more than equal share !
Here, where no springs in murmurs break away,
Or moss-crown'd fountains mitigate the day,
In vain ye hope the green delights to know,
Which plains more blest, or verdant vales bestow :
Here rocks alone, and tasteless sands are found,
And faint and sickly winds for ever howl around.
“ Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
" When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way!"

Curst be the gold and silver which persuade
Weak men to follow far fatiguing trade!

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