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And who, while memory loves to dwell
Upon her name for ever dear,
Shall feel his heart with passion swell,
And pour the bitter, bitter tear?

I did it; and would fate allow,

Should visit still, should still deplore-
But health and strength have left me now,
And I, alas! can weep no more.

Take then, sweet maid! this simple strain,
The last I offer at thy shrine;
Thy grave must then undecked remain,
And all thy memory fade with mine.

And can thy soft persuasive look,

Thy voice that might with music vie,
Thy air that every gazer took,

Thy matchless eloquence of eye;
Thy spirits frolicsome as good,

Thy courage by no ills dismayed,
Thy patience by no wrongs subdued,
Thy gay good-humour, can they fade?

Perhaps but sorrow dims my eye;

Cold turf which I no more must view,
Dear name which I no more must sigh,
A long, a last, a sad adieu !

The above affecting elegiac stanzas were written by Gifford on a faithful attendant who died in his service. He erected a tombstone to her memory in the burying-ground of Grosvenor Chapel, South Audley Street, with the following inscription and epitaph :

Here lies the body of Ann Davies, (for more than twenty years) servant to William Gifford. She died February 6th, 1815, in the forty-third year of her age, of a tedious and painful malady, which she bore with exemplary patience and resignation. Her deeply afflicted master erected this stone to her memory, as a painful testimony of her uncommon worth and of his perpetual gratitude, respect, and affection for her long and meritorious services.

Though here unknown, dear Ann, thy ashes rest,
Still lives thy memory in one grateful breast,
That traced thy course through many a painful year,
And marked thy humble hope, thy pious fear.
Oh! when this frame, which yet, while life remained,
Thy duteous love, with trembling hand sustained,
Dissolves-as soon it must-may that blest Power
Who beamed on thine, illume my parting hour!
So shall I greet thee where no ills annoy,
And what was sown in grief is reaped in joy :
Where worth, obscured below, bursts into day,
And those are paid whom earth could never pay.

Greenwich Hill.

FIRST OF MAY.

Though clouds obscured the morning hour,
And keen and eager blew the blast,
And drizzling fell the cheerless shower,
As, doubtful, to the skiff we passed:

All soon, propitious to our prayer,
Gave promise of a brighter day;
The clouds dispersed in purer air,

The blasts in zephyrs died away.

So have we, love, a day enjoyed,

On which we both-and yet, who knows!May dwell with pleasure unalloyed,

And dread no thorn beneath the rose.

How pleasant, from that dome-crowned hill,
To view the varied scene below,
Woods, ships, and spires, and, lovelier still,
The circling Thames' majestic flow !
How sweet, as indolently laid,

We overhung that long-drawn dale,
To watch the checkered light and shade
That glanced upon the shifting sail !
And when the shadow's rapid growth
Proclaimed the noontide hour expired,
And, though unwearied, 'nothing loath,'
We to our simple meal retired;

The sportive wile, the blameless jest,
The careless mind's spontaneous flow,
Gave to that simple meal a zest

Which richer tables may not know.
The babe that on the mother's breast
Has toyed and wantoned for a while,
And sinking in unconscious rest,

Looks up to catch a parting smile; Feels less assured than thou, dear maid, When, ere thy ruby lips could partAs close to mine thy cheek was laidThine eyes had opened all thy heart. Then, then I marked the chastened joy That lightly o'er thy features stole, From vows repaid-my sweet employFrom truth, from innocence of soul: While every word dropt on my ear

So soft-and yet it seemed to thrillSo sweet that 'twas a heaven to hear, And e'en thy pause had music still. And oh! how like a fairy dream

To gaze in silence on the tide, While soft and warm the sunny gleam Slept on the glassy surface wide! And many a thought of fancy bred,

Wild, soothing, tender, undefined, Played lightly round the heart, and shed Delicious languor o'er the mind.

So hours like moments winged their flight, Till now the boatmen on the shore, Impatient of the waning light,

Recalled us by the dashing oar.

Well, Anna, many days like this

I cannot, must not hope to share ; For I have found an hour of bliss Still followed by an age of care. Yet oft when memory intervenesBut you, dear maid, be happy still, Nor e'er regret, midst fairer scenes,

The day we passed on Greenwich Hill.

THE ANTI-JACOBIN POETRY. We have alluded to the Anti-Jacobin weekly paper, of which Mr Gifford was editor. In this publication, various copies of verses were inserted, chiefly of a satirical nature. The poetry, like the prose, of the Anti-Jacobin was designed to ridicule and discountenance the doctrines of the French Revolution; and as party-spirit ran high, those effusions were marked occasionally by fierce personality and declamatory violence. Others, however, written in travesty, or contempt of the bad taste and affectation of some of the works of the day, contained well-directed and witty satire, aimed by no common hand, and pointed with

irresistible keenness. Among those who mixed in this loyal warfare was Mr J. H. FRERE (noticed in a subsequent section), and GEORGE CANNING (1770-1827), whose fame as an orator and statesman fills so large a space in the modern history of Britain. Canning was then young and ardent, full of hope and ambition. Without family distinction or influence, he relied on his talents for future advancement; and from interest, no less than feeling and principle, he exerted them in support of the existing administration. Previous to this, he had distinguished himself at Eton School for his classical acquirements and literary talents. To a periodical work, the Microcosm, he contributed several clever essays. Entering parliament in 1793, he was, in 1796, appointed undersecretary of state, and it was at the close of the following year that the Anti-Jacobin was commenced, Gifford being editor. The contributions of Mr Canning consist of parodies on Southey and Darwin, the greater part of The Rovers-a burlesque on the sentimental German dramaand New Morality, a spirited and caustic satire, directed against French principles, and their supporters in England. In this poem of New Morality occur four lines often quoted :

Give me the avowed, the erect, the manly foe;
Bold I can meet-perhaps may turn his blow;
But of all plagues, good Heaven, thy wrath can send,
Save, save, oh! save me from the candid friend!

As party effusions, these pieces were highly popular and effective; and that they are still read with pleasure on account of their wit and humour, and also perhaps on account of their slashing and ferocious style, is instanced by the fact, that the Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin, collected and published in a separate form, has attained to a sixth edition. The genius of Canning found afterwards a more appropriate field in parliament. As a statesman, 'just alike to freedom and the throne,' though somewhat prone to intrigue, and as an orator, eloquent, witty, and of consummate taste, his reputation is established. He had, however, a strong bias in favour of elegant literature, and would have become no mean poet and author, had he not embarked so early on public life, and been so incessantly occupied with its cares and duties. From a speech delivered at Plymouth in 1823, we extract a short passage containing a fine simile:

Ships of the Line in Port.

The resources created by peace are means of war. In cherishing those resources, we but accumulate those means. Our present repose is no more a proof of inability to act, than the state of inertness and inactivity in which I have seen those mighty masses that float in the waters above your town, is a proof they are devoid of strength, and incapable of being fitted out for action. You well know, gentlemen, how soon one of those stupendous masses, now reposing on their shadows in perfect stillness-how soon upon any call of patriotism, or of necessity, it would assume the likeness of an animated thing, instinct with life and motion-how soon it would ruffle, as it were, its swelling plumagehow quickly it would put forth all its beauty and its bravery, collect its scattered elements of strength, and awaken its dormant thunder. Such as is one of these magnificent machines when springing from inaction into a display of its might-such is England herself: while apparently passive and motionless, she silently

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The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-grinder.

In this piece, Canning ridicules the youthful Jacobin effusions of Southey, in which, he says, it was sedulously inculcated that there was a natural and eternal warfare between the poor and the rich. The Sapphic rhymes of Southey afforded a tempting subject for ludicrous parody, and Canning quotes the following stanza, lest he should be suspected of painting from fancy, and not from life: 'Cold was the night-wind: drifting fast the snows fell; Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked; When a poor wanderer struggled on her journey, Weary and way-sore.'

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.
Needy Knife-grinder! whither are you going?
Rough is your road, your wheel is out of order;
Bleak blows the blast-your hat has got a hole in 't,
So have your breeches!

Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
Road, what hard work 'tis crying all day, 'Knives and
Scissors to grind O !'

Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire, or parson of the parish,

Or the attorney?

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[Weeps and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his the Pursuits of Literature, in four parts, the first of eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds.] Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue, Which once my love sat knotting inAlas, Matilda then was true!

At least I thought so at the U

niversity of Gottingen,

niversity of Gottingen.

which appeared in 1794. Though published anonymously, this work was written by Mr THOMAS JAMES MATHIAS, a distinguished scholar, who died at Naples in 1835. Mr Mathias was sometime treasurer of the household to her majesty Queen Charlotte. He took his degree of B.A. in Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1774. Besides the

[At the repetition of this line, Rogero clanks his chains in Pursuits of Literature, Mr Mathias was author of

cadence.]

Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew

Her neat post-wagon trotting in!

Ye bore Matilda from my view;
Forlorn I languished at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.

This faded form! this pallid hue!
This blood my veins is clotting in,
My years are many-they were few
When first I entered at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.

There first for thee my passion grew,
Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen!
Thou wast the daughter of my Tu-
tor, law professor at the U-

niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.

Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu,
That kings and priests are plotting in:
Here doomed to starve on water gru-
el, never shall I see the U-

niversity of Gottingen,

niversity of Gottingen.*

[During the last stanza, Rogero dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and finally so hard as to produce a visible contusion. He then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops, the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.]

The following epitaph on his son who died in 1820, shews that Canning could write in a tender and elegiac as well as satirical strain.

Mr Canning's Epitaph on his Son.
Though short thy span, God's unimpeached decrees,
Which made that shortened span one long disease,
Yet, merciful in chastening, gave thee scope
For mild redeeming virtues, faith and hope,
Meek resignation, pious charity;

And, since this world was not the world for thee,
Far from thy path removed, with partial care,
Strife, glory, gain, and pleasure's flowery snare;
Bade earth's temptations pass thee harmless by,
And fixed on Heaven thine unreverted eye!
Oh! marked from birth, and nurtured for the skies!
In youth, with more than learning's wisdom wise!
As sainted martyrs, patient to endure!
Simple as unweaned infancy, and pure!
Pure from all stain-save that of human clay,
Which Christ's atoning blood hath washed away!-
By mortal sufferings now no more oppressed,
Mount, sinless spirit, to thy destined rest!
While I-reversed our nature's kindlier doom-
Pour forth a father's sorrows on thy tomb.

A satirical poem, which attracted much attention in literary circles at the time of its publication, was

It is stated by Mr C. Edmonds, editor of Poetry of the AntiJacobin (1854), that the above song having been accidentally seen, previous to its publication, by Mr Pitt, he was so amused with

it that he took a pen, and composed the last stanza on the spot.

some Runic Odes, imitated from the Norse Tongue; The Imperial Epistle from Kien Long to George III. (1794), The Shade of Alexander Pope, a satirical poem (1798); and various other light evanescent pieces on the topics of the day. Mr Mathias also wrote some Latin odes, and translated into Italian several English poems. He wrote Italian with elegance and purity, and it has been said that no Englishman, since the days of Milton, has cultivated that language with so much success. The Pursuits of Literature contains some pointed satire on the author's poetical contemporaries, and is enriched with a vast variety of notes, in which there is a great display of learning. George Steevens said the poem was merely a peg to hang the notes on.' The want of true poetical genius to vivify this mass of erudition has been fatal to Mr Mathias. His works appear to be utterly forgotten.

DR JOHN WOLCOT.

DR JOHN WOLCOT (1738-1819) was a coarse but lively satirist, who, under the name of Peter Pindar,' published a variety of effusions on the topics and public men of his times, which were eagerly read and widely circulated. Many of them were in ridicule of the reigning sovereign, George III., who was a good subject for the poet; though the latter, as he himself acknowledged, was a bad subject to the king. Wolcot was born at Dodbrooke, a village in Devonshire, in the year 1738. His uncle, a respectable surgeon and apothecary at Fowey, took the charge of his education, intending that he should become his own assistant and successor in business. Wolcot was instructed in medicine, and 'walked the hospitals' in London, after which he proceeded to Jamaica with Sir William Trelawney, governor of that island, who had engaged him as his medical attendant. The social habits of the doctor rendered him a favourite in Jamaica; but his time being only partly employed by his professional avocations, he solicited and obtained from his patron the gift of a living in the church, which happened to be then vacant. The bishop of London ordained the graceless neophyte, and Wolcot entered upon his sacred duties. His congregation consisted mostly of negroes, and Sunday being their principal holiday and market, the attendance at the church was very limited. Sometimes not a single person came, and Wolcot and his clerk-the latter being an excellent shot-used at such times, after waiting for ten minutes, to proceed to the sea-side, to enjoy the sport of shooting_ring-tailed pigeons ! The death of Sir William Trelawney cut off all further hopes of preferment, and every inducement to a longer residence in the island. Bidding adieu to Jamaica and the church, Wolcot accompanied Lady Trelawney to England, and established himself as a physician at Truro, in Cornwall. He inherited about £2000 by the death

of his uncle. While resident at Truro, Wolcot payable half-yearly, for the copyright of his works. discovered the talents of Opie

The Cornish boy in tin-mines bred— whose genius as an artist afterwards became so distinguished. He also materially assisted to form his taste and procure him patronage; and when Opie's name was well established, the poet and his protégé, forsaking the country, repaired to London, as affording a wider field for the exertions of both. Wolcot had already acquired some distinction by his satirical efforts; and he now poured forth a series of odes and epistles, commencing with the Royal Academicians, whom he ridiculed with great success and some justice. In 1785 he produced no less than twenty-three odes. In 1786 he published The Lousiad, a Heroi-comic Poem, in five cantos, which had its foundation in the fact, that an obnoxious insect-either of the garden or the body-had been discovered on the king's plate among some green peas, which produced a solemn decree that all the servants in the royal kitchen were to have their heads shaved. In the hands of an unscrupulous satirist like Wolcot, this ridiculous incident was an admirable theme. The publication of Boswell's Journal of a Tour to the Hebrides afforded another tempting opportunity, and he indited a humorous poetical epistle to the biographer, commencing:

O Boswell, Bozzy, Bruce, whate'er thy name,
Thou mighty shark for anecdote and fame;
Thou jackal, leading lion Johnson forth
To eat Macpherson 'midst his native north;
To frighten grave professors with his roar,
And shake the Hebrides from shore to shore,
All hail!...

Triumphant thou through Time's vast gulf shalt sail,
The pilot of our literary whale ;

Close to the classic Rambler shalt thou cling,

Close as a supple courtier to a king;

Fate shall not shake thee off with all its power;
Stuck like a bat to some old ivied tower.

Nay, though thy Johnson ne'er had blessed thine eyes,
Paoli's deeds had raised thee to the skies :

Yes, his broad wing had raised thee-no bad hackA tomtit twittering on an eagle's back. In addition to this effusion, Wolcot levelled another attack on Boswell, entitled Bozzy and Piozzi, or the British Biographers. The personal habits of the king were ridiculed in Peeps at St James's, Royal Visits, Lyric Odes, &c. Sir Joseph Banks was another subject of his satire :

A president, in butterflies profound,

Of whom all insect-mongers sing the praises, Went on a day to hunt this game renowned,

On violets, dunghills, nettle-tops, and daisies, &c. He had also Instructions to a Celebrated Laureat; Peter's Pension; Peter's Prophecy; Epistle to a Fallen Minister; Epistle to James Bruce, Esq., the Abyssinian Traveller; Odes to Mr Paine; Odes to Kien Long, Emperor of China; Ode to the Livery of London, and brochures of a kindred description on most of the celebrated events of the day. From 1778 to 1808, above sixty of these poetical pamphlets were issued by Wolcot. So formidable was he considered, that the ministry, as he alleged, endeavoured to bribe him to silence. He also boasted that his writings had been translated into six different languages. In 1795, he obtained from his booksellers an annuity of £250,

This handsome allowance he enjoyed, to the heavy loss of the other parties, for upwards of twenty years. Neither old age nor blindness could repress his witty vituperative attacks. He had recourse to an amanuensis, in whose absence, however, he continued to write himself, till within a short period of his death. His method was to tear a sheet of paper into quarters, on each of which he wrote a stanza of four or six lines, according to the nature of the poem: the paper he placed on a book held in the left hand, and in this manner not only wrote legibly, but with great ease and celerity. In 1796, his poetical effusions were collected and published in four volumes 8vo, and subsequent editions have been issued; but most of the poems have sunk into oblivion. Few satirists can reckon on permanent popularity, and the poems of Wolcot were in their nature of an ephemeral description; while the recklessness of his censure and ridicule, and the want of decency, of principle, and moral feeling, that characterises nearly the whole, precipitated their downfall. He died at his house in Somers' Town on the 14th January 1819, and was buried in a vault in the churchyard of St Paul's, Covent Garden, close to the grave of Butler. Wolcot was equal to Churchill as a satirist, as ready and versatile in his powers, and possessed of a quick sense of the ludicrous, as well as a rich vein of fancy and humour. Some of his songs and serious effusions are tender and pleasing; but he could not write long without sliding into the ludicrous and burlesque. His critical acuteness is evinced in his Odes to the Royal Academicians, and in various passages scattered throughout his works; while his ease and felicity, both of expression and illustration, are remarkable. In the following terse and lively lines, we have a good caricature sketch of Dr Johnson's style:

I own I like not Johnson's turgid style,
That gives an inch the importance of a mile,
Casts of manure a wagon-load around,
To raise a simple daisy from the ground;
Uplifts the club of Hercules-for what?
To crush a butterfly or brain a gnat?
Creates a whirlwind from the earth, to draw
A goose's feather or exalt a straw;

Sets wheels on wheels in motion-such a clatter-
To force up one poor nipperkin of water;
Bids ocean labour with tremendous roar,
To heave a cockle-shell upon the shore;
Alike in every theme his pompous art,
Heaven's awful thunder or a rumbling cart!

The Pilgrims and the Peas.

A brace of sinners, for no good,

Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt in wax, stone, wood,

And in a curled white wig looked wondrous fine.

Fifty long miles had these sad rogues to travel,
With something in their shoes much worse than gravel;
In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,

The priest had ordered peas into their shoes.

A nostrum famous in old popish times
For purifying souls that stunk with crimes,
A sort of apostolic salt,

That popish parsons for its powers exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

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'Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear :
As for Loretto, I shall not get there;
No! to the Devil my sinful soul must go,
For hang me if I ha'n't lost every toe!

'But, brother sinner, do explain
How 'tis that you are not in pain-

What power hath worked a wonder for your toesWhilst I, just like a snail, am crawling,

Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,
Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?

'How is 't that you can like a greyhound go,
Merry as if nought had happened, burn ye?'
'Why,' cried the other, grinning, 'you must know
That just before I ventured on my journey,
To walk a little more at ease,

I took the liberty to boil my peas.'

The Apple Dumplings and a King.

Once on a time, a monarch, tired with whooping, Whipping and spurring,

Happy in worrying

A poor defenceless harmless buck-
The horse and rider wet as muck-
From his high consequence and wisdom stooping,
Entered through curiosity a cot,

Where sat a poor old woman and her pot.

The wrinkled, blear-eyed good old granny, In this same cot, illumed by many a cranny, Had finished apple dumplings for her pot:

In tempting row the naked dumplings lay,
When lo! the monarch, in his usual way,
Like lightning spoke: What's this? what's this?
what, what?

Then taking up a dumpling in his hand,
His eyes with admiration did expand;

And oft did majesty the dumpling grapple: he cried :

"Tis monstrous, monstrous hard, indeed! What makes it, pray, so hard?' The dame replied, Low curtsying: 'Please your majesty, the apple.'

"Very astonishing indeed! strange thing!'Turning the dumpling round-rejoined the king.

Tis most extraordinary, then, all this is— It beats Pinette's conjuring all to pieces: Strange I should never of a dumpling dream! But, goody, tell me where, where, where's the seam ?'

'Sir, there's no seam,' quoth she; 'I never knew That folks did apple dumplings sew;' 'No!' cried the staring monarch with a grin ; 'How, how the devil got the apple in?'

On which the dame the curious scheme revealed
By which the apple lay so sly concealed,
Which made the Solomon of Britain start;
Who to the palace with full speed repaired,
And queen and princesses so beauteous scared
All with the wonders of the dumpling art.
There did he labour one whole week to shew
The wisdom of an apple-dumpling maker;
And, lo! so deep was majesty in dough,
The palace seemed the lodging of a baker!

Whitbread's Brewery visited by their Majestics. Full of the art of brewing beer,

The monarch heard of Whitbread's fame ; Quoth he unto the queen : 'My dear, my dear, Whitbread hath got a marvellous great name. Charly, we must, must, must see Whitbread brewRich as us, Charly, richer than a Jew.

Shame, shame we have not yet his brew-house seen!' Thus sweetly said the king unto the queen.

Muse, sing the stir that happy Whitbread made :
Poor gentleman! most terribly afraid

He should not charm enough his guests divine,
He gave his maids new aprons, gowns, and smocks;
And lo! two hundred pounds were spent in frocks,
To make the apprentices and draymen fine:
Busy as horses in a field of clover,

Dogs, cats, and chairs, and stools were tumbled over, Amidst the Whitbread rout of preparation,

To treat the lofty ruler of the nation.

Now moved king, queen, and princesses so grand,
To visit the first brewer in the land;

Who sometimes swills his beer and grinds his meat
In a snug corner, christened Chiswell Street;
But oftener, charmed with fashionable air,
Amidst the gaudy great of Portman Square.

Lord Aylesbury, and Denbigh's lord also,

His Grace the Duke of Montague likewise, With Lady Harcourt, joined the raree show

And fixed all Smithfield's wond'ring eyes: For lo! a greater show ne'er graced those quarters, Since Mary roasted, just like crabs, the martyrs. . . .

Thus was the brew-house filled with gabbling noise, Whilst draymen, and the brewer's boys,

Devoured the questions that the king did ask; In different parties were they staring seen, Wond'ring to think they saw a king and queen!

Behind a tub were some, and some behind a cask.

Some draymen forced themselves-a pretty luncheon—
Into the mouth of many a gaping puncheon:
And through the bung-hole winked with curious eye,
To view and be assured what sort of things
Were princesses, and queens, and kings,

For whose most lofty station thousands sigh!
And lo! of all the gaping puncheon clan,
Few were the mouths that had not got a man!

Now majesty into a pump so deep
Did with an opera-glass so curious peep:
Examining with care each wondrous matter
That brought up water!

Thus have I seen a magpie in the street,

A chattering bird we often meet,

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