Of the other poems, the Epistle to a Friend will perhaps be read with the most pleasure. It is short, familiar, and graceful. The subject is entirely within his powers, though wholly remote from his experience. 'Every reader,' he says in the preface, 'turns with pleasure to those passages of Horace, Pope, and Boileau, which describe how they lived and where they dwelt; and which, being interspersed among their satirical writings, derive a secret and irresistible grace from the contrast, and are admirable examples of what in painting is termed repose ;' and he proceeds to describe a sort of Sabine Farm in which he supposes himself to pass his days in studious seclusion and absolute repose. His real life was the reverse of all this. His house in St. James's Place did indeed exemplify the classic ideal described in his poem ; it was adorned with exquisite works of art, and with these only; rejecting as inconsistent with purity of taste all ornaments which are ornaments and nothing more; and in its interior it might be said to be a work of art in itself. But his life was a life of society; and in the circles which he frequented, including all who were eminent in literature as well as celebrities in every other walk of life, he was more conspicuous by his conversation and by his wit, than admired as a poet. He had kindness of heart, benevolence, and tender emotions: but his wit was a bitter wit; and it found its way into verse only in the shape of epigrams, too personal and pungent for publication. It may be matter of regret that he did not adopt the converse of the examples he quotes, of Horace, Pope, and Boileau, and intersperse some satirical writings amongst his other works. His poetic gifts were surpassed by half a dozen or more of his contemporaries; his gift of wit equalled by only one or two. His deliberate and quiet manner of speaking made it the more effective. I remember one occasion on which he threw a satire into a sentence :—' They tell me I say ill-natured things. I have a very weak voice: if I did not say ill-natured things, no one would hear what I said.' If it is true that he said ill-natured things, it is equally so that he did kind and charitable and generous things, and that he did them in large measure, though, to his credit, with less notoriety. HENRY TAYLOR. FROM THE PLEASURES OF MEMORY.' Oft may the spirits of the dead descend There may these gentle guests delight to dwell, Oh thou! with whom my heart was wont to share If thy blest nature now unites above Grant me, like thee, whose heart knew no disguise, Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone; FROM 'HUMAN LIFE.' When by a good man's grave I muse alone, Like those of old, on that thrice-hallowed night, Says, pointing upward, 'Know, He is not here; But the day is almost spent; And stars are kindling in the firmament, To us how silent-though like ours perchance Where some the paths of Wealth and Power pursue, And, as the sun goes round-a sun not ours— FROM 'ITALY.' But who comes, Brushing the floor with what was once, methinks, Slip-shod, ungartered; his long suit of black At length arrived, and with a shrug that pleads "Tis my necessity!' he stops and speaks, Screwing a smile into his dinnerless face. 'Blame not a Poet, Signor, for his zeal— When all are on the wing, who would be last? The splendour of thy name has gone before thee; And Italy from sea to sea exults, As well indeed she may! But I transgress. He, who has known the weight of praise himself, His sonnet, an impromptu, at my feet, (If his, then Petrarch must have stolen it from him) My omelet, and a flagon of hill-wine, Am I in Italy? Is this the Mincius ? Are those the distant turrets of Verona ? O Italy, how beautiful thou art ! Yet I could weep-for thou art lying, alas, As we admire the beautiful in death. Thine was a dangerous gift, when thou wast born, That now beset thee, making thee their slave! Would they had loved thee less, or feared thee more! -But why despair? Twice hast thou lived already; Twice shone among the nations of the world, As the sun shines among the lesser lights Of heaven; and shalt again. The hour shall come, Their wisdom folly. Even now the flame Blesses the earth-the light of genius, virtue, They of that sacred shore, have heard the call, GINEVRA. [From the same.] If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance To Modena, where still religiously Among her ancient trophies is preserved |