For I would rather never judge than wrong
That friend of all men, generous Fenelon.
But in the name of goodness, must I be
The dupe of charms I never yet could see?
And then to flatter where there's no reward-
Better be any patron-hunting bard,

Who half our lords with filthy praise besmears, And sing an anthem to All Ministers:

Taste the' Attic salt in every peer's poor rebus, And crown each Gothic idol for a Phoebus.

Alas! so far from free, so far from brave,
We dare not show the little Taste we have.
With us you'll see e'en vanity control
The most refined sensations of the soul.
Sad Otway's scenes, great Shakspeare's we defy:
'Lard, madam! 'tis so unpolite to cry!—
For shame, my dear! do 'ye credit all this stuff?-
I vow-well, this is innocent enough!'
At Athens long ago, the ladies-(married)
Dreamt not they misbehaved, though they mis-
carried

When a wild poet with licentious rage
Turn'd fifty furies loose upon the stage.

They were so tender and so easy moved,
Heavens! how the Grecian ladies must have loved!
For all the fine sensations still have dwelt,
Perhaps, where one was exquisitely felt.
Thus he, who heavenly Maro truly feels,
Stands fix'd on Raphael, and at Handel thrills.
The grosser senses too, the taste, the smell,
Are likely truest where the fine prevail:
Who doubts that Horace must have cater'd well?
Friend, I'm a shrewd observer, and will guess
What books
you dote on from your favourite mess.

K

Brown and L'Estrange will surely charm whome'er
The frothy pertness strikes of weak small beer:
Who steeps the calf's fat loin in greasy sauce,
Will hardly loathe the praise that bastes an ass:
Who riots on Scotch collops, scorns not any
Insipid, fulsome, trashy miscellany;

And who devours whate'er the cook can dish up,
Will for a classic consecrate each bishop 13.
But I am sick of pen and ink; and you
Will find this letter long enough. Adieu!

13 See Felton's Classics.

IMITATIONS

OF

SHAKSPEARE AND SPENSER.

Advertisement from the Publisher'.

THE following Imitation of Shakspeare was one of our author's first attempts in poetry, made when he was very young. It helped to amuse the solitude of a winter passed in a wild romantic country; and, what is rather particular, was just finished when Mr. Thomson's celebrated poem upon the same subject appeared. Mr. Thomson, soon hearing of it, had the curiosity to procure a copy by the means of a common acquaintance. He showed it to his poetical friends, Mr. Mallet, Mr. Aaron Hill, and Dr. Young, who, it seems, did great honour to it: and the first-mentioned gentleman wrote to one of his friends at Edinburgh, desiring the author's leave to publish it; a request too flattering to youthful vanity to be resisted. But Mr. Mallet altered his mind; and this little piece has hitherto remained unpublished.

The other Imitations of Shakspeare happen to have been saved out of the ruins of an unfinished tragedy on the story of Tereus and Philomela; attempted upon an irregular and extravagant plan, at an age much too early for such achievements. However, they are here exhibited for the sake of such guests as may like a little repast of scraps.

Prefixed to these Imitations in Cadell's edition of 1770.

IMITATIONS OF SHAKSPEARE.

Now Summer with her wanton court is gone
To revel on the south side of the world,
And flaunt and frolic out the livelong day:
While Winter, rising pale from northern seas,
Shakes from his hoary locks the drizzling rheum.
A blast so shrewd makes the tall-bodied pines
Unsinew'd bend, and heavy-paced bears
Sends growling to their savage tenements.
Now blows the surly North, and chills through-

out

The stiffening regions; while, by stronger charms Than Circè e'er or fell Medea brew'd,

Each brook, that wont to prattle to its banks, Lies all bestill'd and wedged betwixt its banks, Nor moves the wither'd reeds: and the rash flood That from the mountains held its headstrong

course,

Buried in livid sheets of vaulting ice,

Seen through the shameful breaches, idly creeps
To pay a scanty tribute to the ocean.

What wonder? when the floating wilderness
That scorns our miles, and calls Geography
A shallow pryer; from whose unsteady mirror
The high-hung pole surveys his dancing locks;
When this still-raving deep lies mute and dead,
Nor heaves its swelling bosom to the winds.
The surges, baited by the fierce north-east,

Tossing with fretful spleen their angry heads
To roar and rush together,

E'en in the foam of all their madness, struck

To monumental ice, stand all astride

The rocks they wash'd so late. Such execution,
So stern, so sudden, wrought the grisly aspect
Of terrible Medusa, ere young Perseus

With his keen sabre cropp'd her horrid head,
And laid her serpents rolling on the dust;
When, wandering through the woods, she frown'd

to stone

Their savage tenants: just as the foaming lion
Sprung furious on his prey, her speedier power
Outrun his haste; no time to languish in,
But fix'd in that fierce attitude he stands
Like Rage in marble.-Now portly argosies
Lie wedged 'twixt Neptune's ribs. The bridged
abysm

Has changed our ships to horses; the swift bark
Yields to the heavy wagon and the cart,

That now from isle to isle maintain the trade;
And where the surface-haunting dolphin led
Her sportive young, is now an area fit
For the wild school-boy's pastime.

Meantime the evening skies, crusted with ice, Shifting from red to black their weighty skirts, Hang mournful o'er the hills; and stealing Night Rides the bleak puffing winds, that seem to spit Their foam sparse through the welkin, which is nothing

If not beheld.

Anon the burden'd heaven Shakes from its ample sieve the bolted snow, That, fluttering down, besprinkles the sad trees In mockery of leaves; piles up the hills