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caused harshness and obscurity, they likewise produced in happier inonents sublimity and splendour. This idea which he had formed of excellence, led him 10 orien. tal fictions and allegorical imagery: and, perhaps, while he was intent upon description, he did not sufficiently cultivate sentiment. His poems are the productions of a mind not deficient in fire, nor unfurnished with knowledge either of books or life, but somewhat obstructed in its progress by deviation in quest of mistaken beauties.

• His morals were pure, and his opinions pious; in a Jong continuance of poverty, and long habits of dissipa. tion, 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 fortuitous 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 unpollated, 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. He languished some years under that depression of mind which unchains the fa. culties without destroying them, and leaves reason the knowledge of right, without the power of pursuing it. These clouds which he perceived gathering on his in. tellects, he endeavoured to disperse by travel, and passed into France: but found himself constrained to yield to his malady, and returned. He was for some tine confined in a house for lunatics, and afterward retired to the care of his sister in Chichester, where death, in 1756, came to his relief.

• After his return from France, the writer of this cha. racter paid him a visit at Islington, where he was wait. ing for his sister, whom he had directed to meet him: there was then nothing of disorder discernibie 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mind by any but himself; but he had withdrawn from study, and travelled with no other book than an English Testament, such as children carry to the school : when his friend took it into bis band, out of curiosity to see what companion a man of letters had chosen, “ I have but one book," said Collins,“ but that is the best.”

•Such was the fate of Collins, with whom I once delighted to converse, and whom I yet remember with tenderness.

• He was visited at Chichester, in his last illness, by his learned friends Dr. Warton and his brother; to whom he spoke with disapprobation of his Oriental Eclogues, as not sufficiently expressive of Asiatic man. ners, and called them his Irish Eclogues. He shewed them, at the same time, an ode inscribed to Mr. John Hume, on the Superstitions of the Highlands; which they thought superior to his other works.

• His disorder was not alienation of mind, but general laxity and feebleness, a deficiency rather of his vital than intellectual powers. What he spoke wanted neither judgment nor spirit; but a few minutes exhausted him, so that he was forced to rest upon the couch, till a short cessation restored his powers, and he was again able to talk with his former vigour.

• The approaches of this dreadful malady he began to feel soon after his uncle's death; and, with the usual weakness of men so diseased, eagerly snatched that temporary relief with which the table and the bottle flatter and seduce. But his health continually declined, and he grew more and more burthensome to himself.

• To what I have formerly said of his writings may be added, that his diction was often harsh, unskilfully laboured, and injudiciously selected. He affected the obsolete when it was not worthy of revival; and he puts his words out of the common order, seeming to think, with some later candidates for fame, that not to write prose is certainly to write poetry. His lines commonly are of slow motion, clogged and impeded with clusters of consonants. As men are often esieemed who cannot be loved, so the poetry of Collins may sometimes extort praise, when it gives little pleasure.

Mr. Collins's first production is added bero from the •Poetical Calendar.'

On her weeping at her Sister's Wedding.
Cease, fair Aurelia, cease tc motra ;

Lament not llanvah's bappy state :
Yon may be happy in your turn,

And seize the treasure you regret.
With Love united Ilymen stands,

And softly whispers to your charms, -
* Meet but your lover in my bands,

You'll find your sister in his arms.' A monument has been erected by public subscription to Collins. He is represented as just recovered froni a wild fit of phrensy, to which he was subject, and in a calm and reclining posture, seeking refuge from his misfortunes in the consolations of the Gospel, while his lyre and one of the first of his poems !ie neglected on the ground, &c. The whole was executed by Flaxman, at that time lately returned from Rome : the following most excellent epitaph was written by Mr. Hayley.

Ye who the merits of the dead revere,
Who hold misfortune's sacred genius dear,
Regard this tomb, where Collins, hapless name,
Solicits kindness with a double c!aim.
Though Nature gave him, and though Science_taught
The fire of Fancy, and the reach of thought,
Severely doom'd to Penury's extreme,
He pass'd in madd’ning pain life's fev'rish dream,
While rays of genius only served to shew
The thick'ning horror, and exalt his woe.
Ye walls, that echo'd to his frantic moan,
Guard the due records of this grateful stone;
Strangers to him, enamour'd of his lays,
This fond memorial to his talents raise.
For this the ashes of the bard require,
Who touch'd the tend'rest aotes of Pity's lym;
Who join'd pure faith to strong poetic powers,
Who, in reviving Reason's Iccid hours,
Sought on one book his troubled mind to rest,
And rightly deem'd the book of God the best

STANZAS, Written by Scott, of Amwell, on his eturn from Chi

chester, where he had in vain attempted to find the

burial place of Collins. To view the beauties of my native land,

O’er many a pleasing, distant scene, I rove;
Now climb the rock, or wander on the strand,

Or trace the rill, or penetrate the grove.
From Baia's hills, from Portsca's spreading wave,

To fair Cicestria's lonely walls I stray;
To her famed Poet's venerated grave

Anxions my tribute of respect to pay. O'er the dim pavement of the solemn fane,

Midst the rude stones that croud th'adjoining space, The sacred spot I seek : but seek in vain

In vain I ask-for nonc can point the place. What boots the eye whose quick observant glance

Marks every nobler, every fairer form? What,the skill'd ear that sound's sweet charms entrance,

And the fond breast with generous passion warm? What boots the power each image to portray,

The power with force each feeling to express? How vain the hope that through life's litile day,

The soul with thought of future fame can bless. While Folly frequent boasts th' insculptured tomb,

By fattory's per inscribed with purchased praise ; While rustic Labour's undistinguish'd doom

Fond Friendship's hand records in humbie pbrase ; Of Genius oft and Learning worse the lot,

For them no care, to them no honour shewn : Alive neglected, and wben dead forgot,

E'en COLLINS slumbers in a grave unknown.



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 whero'er we dwell."

'Thus Selim sung, by sacred Truth inspired; Nor praise, but such as Truth bestow'd, desired : Wise in himself, bis meaning songs convey’u 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 resumed her orient pride; When wanton gales along the valleys play, Breathe on each Aower, and bear their sweets away; By Tigris' wand'ring waves he sat, and sung This useful lesson for the fair and young :

• Ye Persian dames, he said, to you belongWell may they please-lhe morals of my song : No fairer maids, I trust, than you are found, Graced with soft arts, the peopled world around ! The morn that lights you, to your love supplies Rach gentler ray delicious to your eyes :


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