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The eastern worlds to him their lore unfold

And Mecca* gives her glittering rolls of gold.
Both strength and elegance adorn his style,

And flows his Muse more fruitful than the Nile. 90
In his sweet song Arcadia blooms again,
Breathes its perfumes and waves its yellow grain.
Subjects of grandeur, beautiful or new

Invention loves, on these she bends her view,
These her great plans, her loftiest thoughts inspire,
From these she catches an increasing fire.
If she descends to chaunt in sportive lays,
She like Alcides with the spindle plays.

Tho' Genius mostly loves the epic lyre

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Yet oft she scourges with an honest ire,
The crimes, the follies of an impious aget,
The warbling nonsense of some hot-press'd page.

ness and correctness of Pope. His "Solima" "Palace of Fortune," "Seven Fountains," Arcadia and Laura are enchanting performances.

"The Moallakat," or the seven Arabian poems of Muriolkais, of Tarafa, of Zohair, of Liheid, of Antara, of Amru, of Hareth, preserved by Sir William Jones, were suspended on the temple at Mecca, with a translation and arguments.

†Though nothing can be farther from the truth than the assertion of Shaftesbury, that ridicule is the test of

Tho' Genius mostly loves some daring theme, Yet she can warble with the tinkling stream;

Tho' her bold hand strikes the hoarse thundering

strings,

Yet not the nightingale more sweetly sings.
Hush! every sound....let not a zephyr move;
O, let me listen to those notes of love!

For tender Virgil* breathes his softest strain,
And Amaryllis fills the shady plain:

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Truth; though Virtue needs no such advocate as Ridicule to plead her cause; yet there are many vices and follies which are the proper subjects of its severity and scourging: There are productions of false, perverted taste which more deserve the lash, than the attention of serious and dignified criticism. It is a mistaken opinion too much indulged, that the excellency of satire consists rather in its severity and exaggeration than in its truth. Satire like the knife of the surgeon, in most cases should cut, not to destroy but to save.

* The Eclogues of Virgil have been the models of the most finished pastorals, that have since been written. Pope's pastorals have little more to recommend them than their smoothness of versification. The writer who approaches nearest to the great master of this species of poetry, is Gessner. His Idyls observe a style peculiar to themselves. He is happy in his selection of simple and affecting incidents; of such as have great force upon the

F

His voice of music lulls the stilly scene,
And not a whisper flits across the green.
In transport lost I tread some fairy shade,
And hear the accents of my peerless maid!
Her silent footsteps thro' the glade I trace,
And seem to clasp her in my fond embrace;
Around me flows the breath of every flower,
And wildest music breaks from every bower.
Thou murmuring breeze! O bear upon thy wing
That strain, which flows from Petrarch's* mourn-
'ful string.

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heart. Dr. Johnson in his criticism upon Virgil's Eclogues, after noticing the beauties and defects of each one, gives the preference to the first. In this decision he has been generally followed.

*This singular character was born at Arezzo, in the beginning of the fourteenth century, when Europe began to shake off the long slumbers of Gothic night, and to hail the morning of Literature. Early in life he received the patronage of the noble family of Colonna, under whose shelter he was enabled to prosecute his studies, and to obtain stores of information unequalled in that day. His romantic attachment for Laura, who was the wife of the young Hughes de Sades, is well known. He first saw this lady, at the time of matins, in the monastery of St. Claire. He was instantly struck with her face, her air, her per

O speak those charms which Petrarch's Laura

wears!

O breathe that passion which he mourn'd in tears!

son, her dark and tender eyes, "her ringlets interwoven with the hands of love,” her gentle and modest carriage, and the melting sound of her voice. Unhappy in his passion, and unable to banish it from him, he mourned over it in his sonnets with the most inimitable tenderness, and sought for its alleviation in the solitary shades of Vaucluse ; but all his efforts to forget the object of his affection were in vain. Though he concealed himself in solitude from the observation of men; yet the image of Laura followed him there. During his abode in this retreat, and while engaged in writing an epic poem, in honour of Scipio, which he called Africa, he received a letter from the Roman senate urging him, with many intreaties, to come to Rome, and receive the crown of laurel. On the sanie day in which this letter came to his hands, a courier arrived, bearing a similar invitation from the chancellor of the university at Paris: Petrarch decided in favour of Rome; and in the year 1341, amid the joy and shouts of a vast assembly, was crowned, with pomp and solemnity, at that capital..... Amid these intoxicating honours, "I blushed," says he "at the applauses of the people, and the unmerited commendations with which I was overwhelmed." Soon after, writing to a friend, he says, "These laurels which encircled my head were too green; had I been of riper age and understanding I would not have sought them. Old men love only what is useful; young men run after appearances, without regarding their end

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Thou stream of Time! bear in thy course, along,

The early lustre of Italian song!

This crown rendered me neither more wise nor more eloquent; it only served to raise envy, and to deprive me of the repose I enjoyed. From that time tongues and pens were sharpened against me; my friends became my enemies, and I suffered the just effects of my confidence and presumption."....Such is the unsatisfying nature of all human honours, and all human enjoyments! Seven years after this coronation, Laura died of the plague which ra vaged all Italy. Petrarch has celebrated her virtues and accomplishments, in an exquisite elegy, which bears her name, and which has been admirably translated by Sir William Jones. From the account of biographers she was one of the most beautiful, accomplished and virtuous ladies of the age in which she lived. On a blank leaf of a manuscript copy of Petrarch's Virgil, the following lines were written by his own hand: "Laura, illustrious by her own virtues, and long celebrated in my verses, appeared to my eyes, for the first time, the sixth of April, 1327, at Avignon, in the church of St. Claire, at the first hour of the day I was then in my youth. In the same city, on the same day, and at the same hour, in the year 1348, this luminary disappeared from our world! I was then at Verona, ignorant of my wretched situation. That chaste and beautiful body was buried the same day, after vespers, in the church of Cordeliers: her soul returned to its native mansion in heaven! To retrace the melancholy remembrance of this great loss, I have written it, with a pleasure mixed with bitterness, in a book to which I often

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