A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems,
Who, void of envy, guile, and lust of gain,
On virtue still, and nature's pleasing themes,
Poured forth his unpremeditated strain:
The world forsaking with a calm disdain,
Here laughed he careless in his easy seat;
Here quaffed encircled with the joyous train,
Oft moralising sage: his ditty sweet

He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat.

This ditty sweet,' however, Lyte't on did not hesitate to alter and curtail at his pleasure in editions of Thomson's works published in 1750 and 1752. The unwarrantable liberties thus taken with the poet's text have been universally condemned, and were not continued in any subsequent edition. In 1845 appeared Memoir and Correspondence of George Lord Lyttelton, from 1731 to 1773,' edited by R. Phillimore.

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JOHN BYROM.

A pastoral poem, 'My Time, O ye Muses, was happily spent’— published in the Spectator,' Oct. 6, 1714-has served to perpetuate the name and history of its author. JOHN BYROM (1691–1763) was a native of Manchester. He took his degree of B. A in Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1711, and studied medicine at Montpellier in France. On his return, he applied himself to teach a system of shorthand which he had invented, and which he had secured to him by an act of parliament passed in 1712. Among his pupils were Gibbon and Horace Walpole. The latter part of Byrom's life was, however, spent in easy and opulent circumstances. He succeeded by the death of an elder brother to the family property in Manchester, and lived highly respected in that town The poetical works of Byrom consist of short occasional pieces, which enjoyed great popularity in their day, and were included by Chalmers in his edition of the poets. His Private Journal and Literary Remains' have been published (18541858) by the Chetham Society, founded in Manchester to illustrate the local antiquities of the counties of Lancaster and Chester. The Journal' is a light gossiping record, which adds little to our knowledge of the social character or public events of the period, but ex hibits its author as an amiable, cheerful, and happy man.

A Pastoral.

My time. O ve Muses, was happily spent,
When Phoebe went with me wherever I went;
Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast:
Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest!
But now she is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvellous change on a sudden I find!
When things were as fine as could possib.y be,
I thought 'twas the Spring: but alas! it was she.

With such a companion to tend a few sheep.
To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep:
I was so good-humoured, so cheerful and gay,
My heart was as light as a feather all day;

But now I so cross and so peevish am grown,

So strangely uneasy, as never was known.

My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drowned,
And my heart-I am sure it weighs more than a pound.

The fountain that wont to run sweetly along,
And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among;
Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Pucebe was there,
'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear:
But now she is absent. I walk by its side,
And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide:
Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain?

Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.'

My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, And Phoebe and I were as joyful as they;

How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time,

When Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in their prime;

But now, in their frolics when by me they pass,

I fling at their fleeces a handful of grass;

'Be still,' then I cry, for it makes me quite mad,

To see you so merry while I am so sad."

My dog was ever well pleased to see
Come wagging his tail to iny tair one and me;
And Phoebe was pleased too, and to my dog said:
'Come hither, poor fellow;' and patted his head.
But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look
Cry Sirrah;' and give him a biow with my crook:
And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray
Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away?

When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I seen,
How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green!
What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade,
The corn-fields and hedges, and everything made!
But now she has left me, though all are still there,
They none of them now so delightful appear:
"Twas nought but the magic. I find, of her eyes,
Made so many beautiful prospects arise.

Sweet music went with us both all the wood through,
The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too;
Winds over us whispered, flecks by us did bleat,
And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet.
But now she is absent, though still they sing on,
The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone:
Her voice in the concert, as now I have found,
Gave everything else its agreeable sound.

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the viol t's beautiful blue ?
Does aught of its sweetness the blossom beguile?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not smile?
Ah! r vals, I see what it was that you drest

And made yourselves fine for-a place in her breast:
You put on your colours to plea-ure her eye,
To be plucked by her hand, on her bosom to die.

How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return!
While amidst the zephyr's cool breezes I burn:
Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread,
I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down the lead.

Fly swifter, yo minutes, bring hither my dear,
And rest so much longer for 't when she is here.
Ah, Colin old Time is quite full of delay,

Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say.

Will no pitying power, that hears me complain,
Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain?

To be cured, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove;
But what swain is so silly to live without love?

No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return,
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah! what shall I do ? I shall die with despair;
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair.

Careless Content.*

One poem, entitled Careless Content, is so perfectly in the manner of Elizabeth's age, that we can hardly believe it to be an imitation, but are almost disposed to think that Byrom had transcribed it from some old author.-SOUTHEY.

Jacobite Toast.

God bless the king-I mean the Faith's Defender;
God bless (no harm in blessing) the Pretender!
But who Pretender is, or who is king,

God bless us all!-that's quite another thing.

THOMAS GRAY.

THOMAS GRAY was born at Cornhill, London, December 26, 1716. His father, Philip Gray, was a money-scrivener-the same occupation carried on by Milton's father; but though a 'respectable citizen,' the parent of Gray was a man of harsh and violent disposition. His wife was forced to separate from him; and it was to the exertions of this excellent woman, as partner with her sister in a millinery business, that the poet owed the advantages of a learned education, first at Eton, and afterwards at Cambridge. The painful domestic circumstances of his youth gave a tinge of melancholy and pensive reflection to Gray, which is visible in his poetry. At Eton, the young student had made the friendship of Horace Walpole, son of the prime-minister; and when his college education was completed, Walpole induced him to accompany him in a tour through France and Italy. They had been about a twelvemonth together, exploring the natural beauties, antiquities, and picture galleries of Rome, Florence, Naples, &c. when a quarrel took place between them at Reggio, and the travellers separated, Gray returning to England. Walpole took the blame of this difference on himself, as he was vain and volatile, and not disposed to trust in the better knowledge and somewhat fastidious tastes and habits of his associate. Gray went to Cambridge, to take his degree in civil law, but without intending to follow up the profession. His father had died, his mother's fortune was small, and poet was more intent on learning than on riches. He fixed his residence at Cambridge; and amidst its noble libraries and learned society, passed the greater part of his remaining life. He hated mathematical and metaphysical pursuits, but was ardently devoted to classical learning, to which he added the study of architecture, antiquities, natural history, and other branches of knowledge. His retired life was varied by occasional residence in London, where he revelled among the treasures of the British Museum; and by frequent excursions to the country on visits to a few learned and attached friends.

At Cambridge, Gray was considered as an unduly fastidious man, and this gave occasion to practical jokes being played off upon him by his fellow inmates of St. Peter's College, one of which-a false alarm of fire, by which he was induced to descend from his window to the ground by a rope-was the cause of his removing (1756) to Pembroke Hail. In 1765 he took a journey into Scotland, and met his brother-poet, Dr. Beattie, at Glammis Castle. He also penetrated into Wales, and made a journey to Cumberland and Westmoreland, to see the scenery of the lakes. His letters describing these excursions are remarkable for elegance and precision, for correct and exten

sive observation, and for a dry scholastic humour peculiar to the poet. On returning from these agreeable holidays, Gray set himself calmly down in his college retreat-pored over his favourite authors, compiled tables of chronology or botany, moralised on all he felt and ail he saw' in correspondence with his friends, and occasionally ventured into the realms of poetry and imagination. He had studied the Greek poets with such intense devotion and critical care, that their spirit and essence seem to have sunk into his mind, and coloured all his efforts at original composition. At the same time, his knowledge of human nature, and his sympathy with the world, were varied and profound. Tears fell unbidden among the classic flowers of fancy, and in his almost monastic cell his heart vibrated to the finest tones of humanity. Gray's first public appearance as a poet was made in 1747, when his 'Ode to Eton College' was published by Dodsley. It was, however, written in 1742, as also the Ode to Spring.' In 1751, his Elegy written in a Country Churchyard' was printed, and immediately became popular. His Pindarie Odes' appeared in 1757, but met with little success. His name, however, was now so well known, that he was offered the situation of poet-laureate, vacant by the death of Colley Cibber. Gray declined the appointment; but shortly afterwards he obtained the more reputable and lucrative situation of Professor of Modern History, which brought him in about £100 per annum. For some years he had been subject to hereditary gout, and as his circumstances improved, his health declined. While at dinner one day in the college-hall, he was seized with an attack in the stomach, which was so violent as to resist all the efforts of medicine, and after six days of suffering, he expired on the 30th of July 1771, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. He was buried, according to his desire, by the side of his mother, at Stoke Pogeis, near Windsor-adding one more poetical association to that beautiful and classic district of England.*

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The poetry of Gray is all comprised in a few pages, yet he appears worthy to rank in quality with the first order of poets. His two great odes, the Progress of Poesy' and the Bard,' are the most splendid compositions we possess in the Pindaric style and measure. They surpass the odes of Collins in fire and energy, in boldness of imagination, and in condensed and brilliant expression. Collins is as purely and entirely poetical, but he is less commanding and sublime. Gray's stanzas, notwiths anding their varied and complicated versification, flow with lyrical ease and perfect harmony. Each presents rich personification, striking thoughts, or happy imagery

Sublime their starry fronts they rear.

The 'Bard' is more dramatic and picturesque than the Progress of

Gray's epitaph on his mother has an interesting touch of his peculiar melancholy: Dorothy Gray, widow, the careful, tender mother of many children, one of whom nio se had the misfortune to survive her.' The churchyard at Stoke Pogeis is supposed to be the scene of the Elegy,