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In one short sentence to comprize the whole,
Transfuse to his the virtues of thy soul.

Preserve thy life, my too, too generous friend,
Nor seek with mine thy happier fate to blend!
Live for thy country, live to guard her laws,
Proceed, and prosper in the glorious cause;
While I, though vanquish'd, scorn the field to fly,
But boidly face my foes, and bravely die.

Let princely Monmouth courtly wiles beware,
Nor trust too far to fond paternal care ;
Too oft dark deeds deform the midnight cell,
Heaven only knows how noble Essex fell !
Sidney yet lives, whose comprehensive mind
Ranges at large through systems unconfin'd;
Wrapt in himself, he scorns the tyrant's power,
And hurls defiance even from the tower ;
With tranquil brow awaits the unjust decree,
And, arm'd with virtue, looks to follow me.

Ca'ndish, farewell! may Fame our names entwine! Through life I loved thee, dying I am thine; With pious rites let dust to dust be thrown, And thus inscribe my monumental stone. “ Here Russel lies, enfranchised by the grave, " He prized his birthright, nor would live a slave.

* Few were his words, but honest and sincere, . “ Dear were his friends, his country still more dear ; “ In parents, children, wife supremely bless'd, “ But that one passion swallow'd all the rest ; To guard her freedom was his only pride, “ Such was his love, and for that love he died." “ Yet fear not thou, when Liberty displays “ Her glorious flag, to steer his course to praise ; " For know, (whoe'er thou art that read'st his fatė, And think'st, perhaps, his sufferings were too

great,) “ Bless'd as he was, at her imperial call, Wife, children, parents-he resign'd them all; " Each fond affection then forsook his soul, " And AMOR PATRIÆ occupied the whole ; « In that great cause he joy'd to meet his doom, « Bless'd the keen axe, and triumph'd o'er the

tomb."

The hour draws near-But what are hours to me?
Hours, days, and years hence undistinguished flee!
Time, and his glass unheeded pass away,
Absorb’d, and lost in one vast flood of day!
On Freedom's wings my soul is borne on high,
And soars exulting to its native sky!

WILLIAM WILKIE.

West Lothian, 1721,-1672.

Whatever nationality could do for a Poem, has been done

for this writer's Epigoniad. Hume recommended it in the Critical Review, as one of the ornaments of our language, Smollett enumerated it among the glories of George the Second's reign, and he is called the Scottish Homer. All would not do, the fable is well invented, but it is dull, the verses respectable but dull, the author learn d but duil, and dulness is the poctical sin, for which there is

no redemption. Wilkie wrote this poem as the most probable means of in.

troducing himself to the notice of the Great. He composed an epick poem upon the speculation of getting pre

ferment. In person he was slovenly, dirty, and even nauseous, he abhorred nothing so much as clean sheets. One evening at Hatton, being asked by Lady Lauderdale to stay all night, he expressed an attachment to his own bed, but said, if her Ladyship would give him a pair of foul sheets, lıç would stay. But there are more honourable traits in Wilkie's character ;

his talents made him the best farmer in his neighbour,

hood, his honesty the worst dealer in the market, he was parsimonious, and parsimony must be ascribed to him as a virtue, for he had been obliged to borrow ten pounds for his father's burial, and had been refused the loan by his uncle: he provided for his sisters, and was known to

he charitable when he had amassed money. Wallace said, nobody could venture to cope with him in

conversation ; both his manner and thoughts were mas. culine in a degree peculiar to himself. It is extraordinary that no trace of this manliness or originality is to be found in his writings, but it is still more extraordinary that a man should have been able to write verses at all, who could not read them without violating all metre and all melody by the grossest mistakes in quantity and pro

nunciation. His Fables are even worse than his Epick; that which we

have selected is the best, as well as the shortest. His

Dream will show his own opinion of his epick merits. At the time of his death he was Professor of Natural Philo

sophy at St. Andrews, the only preferment he ever obtained, except the living of Rath's, which he resigned for it.

From The Epigoniad."

BOOK III. The Spartan bands, with thirst of vengeance fired, The fight maintain’d; nor from their toils respired,

Before the hero fallen, the warriors stand,
Firm as the chains of rock which guard the strand;
Whose rooted strength the angry ocean braves,
And bounds the fury of his bursting waves.
So Sparta stood; their serred bucklers bar
The Theban phalanx, and exclude the war.
While from the field, upon their shoulders laid,
His warriors sad, the Argive prince convey'd ;
Leophron saw, with indignation fired,
And with his shouts the lingering war inspired.
Again the rigour of the shock returns ;
The slaughter rages, and the combat burns ;
Till, push'd and yielding to superior sway,
In slow retreat the Spartan ranks give way,
As in some channel pent, entangled wood
Reluctant stirs before the angry flood ;
Which, on its loaded current, slowly heaves
The spoils of forests mix'd with harvest sheaves.

Pallas observed, and from the Olympian height
Precipitated swift her downward flight.
Like Cleon's valiant son, the goddess came ;
The same her stature, and her arms the same.
Descending from her chariot to the ground,
The son of Tydeus, 'midst his bands, he found;
His steeds unruled : for, stretch'd before the wheel,
Lay the bold driver pierced with Theban steel.

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