Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue: So pass my days: but when nocturnal shades But if a slumber haply does invade In vain awake I find the settled thirst Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse. * F THOMAS PARNELL was born in Dublin in the year 1679,-his family, which had been established for several centuries at Congleton, in Cheshire, having settled in Ireland at the Restoration. At the age of thirteen he entered Trinity College. In 1700, although under the canonical age, he was ordained a deacon by a dispensation from the Bishop of Derry; and in 1705 he obtained the Archdeaconry of Clogher. Subsequently he obtained a Prebend's stall, and the living of Finglas in the diocese of Dublin. The brilliant society of which London at that time boasted-Swift, Pope, Addison, Steele, Congreve, Arbuthnot, and Gay-had, however, greater attractions for the clergyman than the duties of his charge-and his time was chiefly spent în London either in the companionship of its leading wits, or waiting upon court promises and enjoying the bitter relish of court flattery: one or other of these temptations induced him to "change his party" and desert the Whigs for the Tories, who towards the latter part of Queen Anne's reign for a time succeeded in ejecting from power their political opponents. Disappointed in his expectations,-or, according to the more generous construction of Dr. Johnson, stricken with grief for the death of his wife, to whom he was deeply attached, and perhaps excited by the gay and brilliant associates with whom he mixed,-for he became one of the most prominent of the Scribblerus club-"he fell into intemperance of wine"-seeking from it, "if not relief, at least insensibility"-and, as matter of course, gave way to fits of despondency, and perhaps shortened his life, by a habit which is always a disease. He died at Chester, on his way to Ireland, in July 1717-having scarcely attained the meridian of life and reputation; but having borne the character of an amiable and learned man, a social companion, a writer of pleasant prose, and a sweet and vigorous poet. Of his poems there are several which retain their popularity-the Hermit and the Fairy Tale are to be found in every collection of the beauties of English verse. His other principal productions are the Rise of Woman, the Book-Worm, and the Gift of Poetry-his longest production, indeed his only one of any considerable length. They are not of sufficient merit to place his name among those of the highest in the list of British Poets-but they are gracefully, and at times eloquently written, manifesting a rare fertility of thought, if not a richness of invention. "He is sprightly without effort, and always delights though he never ravishes." Such is the praise of Dr. Johnson; that of Dr. Goldsmith is warmer:-"his language is the language of life, conveying the warmest thoughts in the simplest expression"-" a studious and correct observer of antiquity, he set himself to consider nature with the lights it lent him; and he found that the more aid he borrowed from the one, the more delightfully he resembled the other." We may add also, that a moral is conveyed by every production of his pen. That in the Fairy Tale and that in the Hermit are sufficiently known. The interest of the story in each of these two admirable compositions is also exceedingly great-it would be difficult to produce examples of more interesting, exciting, and highly wrought tales told in such pleasant and harmonious verse. There are also several of Parnell's minor compositions which possess considerable merit-whether the light and graceful or the solemn and contemplative. To Dr. Goldsmith the world is mainly indebted for the scanty materials which constitute the history of his life-" some dates and some few facts, scarcely more interesting than those that make the ornaments of a country tomb-stone." "He wanted that evenness of disposition which bears disappointment with phlegm, and joy with indifference. He was ever very much elated or depressed; and his whole life was spent in agony or rapture"-yet he resolved that his spleen should not annoy his friends, and "when the fit was on him," it was his custom to retire from their society and sojourn among the gloomier parts of Ireland, where "he made out a gloomy kind of satisfaction in giving hideous descriptions of the solitude to which he retired." His neighbours, some of whom " thought themselves wits," took umbrage at his "reproachful" characters of the bogs and mountains that surrounded his Irish home; and he was therefore" without honour in his own country." Consequently, he more eagerly sought the agreeable but fatal relaxation in which he was permitted to indulge in England; and thus lived a life of alternate excitement and despondency -both ending in woe. FAR in a wild, unknown to public view, A life so sacred, such serene repose, So when a smooth expanse receives imprest Swift ruffling circles curl on every side, To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, Now sunk the sun; the closing hour of day There by the moon through ranks of trees they pass, It chanc'd the noble master of the dome Still made his house the wandering stranger's home: Then, led to rest, the day's long toil they drown, At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of day, Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear; He stopp'd with silence, walk'd with trembling heart, While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds, As near the miser's heavy doors they drew, |