than my love for a mistress I fhall never be married to; for, whenever I grow ambitious, I shall wish to build higher, and owe my memory to fome occafion of more importance than my writings."
Of the poetical pieces which he at different times compofed, the prefent collection exhibits but a fmall number. The epic poem of Gideon, his greatest work, has been omitted, for a reason which he has himself given, in one of his letters to Clio, the poetical name of the celebrated Mrs. Sanfom; "It will require a good share of your patience, for it is a very long one. I will have it writ fair, book by book, for your perufal, if you have courage enough to refolve on going through with fo formidable a mortification, as to pick out the fine things of the story from the dull ones of the author." It has been praised by Savage; and must be allowed to have some fine paffages; but the measure is injudiciously chofen, and the story tedious and uninterefting. All the riches of poetic distion are required to invest epic poetry in suitable splendor'; but it rejects the variety of measure which is appropriated to lyric compofition. The Fanciad is not liable to the fame objections; but a copy of it could not be procured. An episode from Gideon, is inferted among his Original Poems, &c. but the Fanciad, and many of his earlier pieces, are omitted in the collection of his works.
The lift of his picces which have been selected for republication, might perhaps have been augmented without any injury to his reputation; but, it is hoped, the felection, imperfect as it is, when every deduction is made which criticism requires, will make good his claim to more notice than he has hitherto obtained, and justify the revival of his writings.
It confifts of pieces in various kinds of compofition, ferious, sentimental, humorous, fatirical, defcriptive, and amatory, which have all their brighter paffages; but require no diftin& confideràtion, nor particular criticism.
On the character of Hill, it is unneceffary to enlarge, as the teftimonies to his merit, by Bolingbroke, Pope, Chesterfield, Voltaire, Thomson, Mallet, Savage, Richardson, Sewell, Dyer, Fielding, Victor, and Garrick, are fufficiently known to the general readers of English poetry. The following complimentary epigram by Richardfon does not appear extravagant; and it is hoped this article will not be thought too long, when it is remembered that Hill, however neglected in later days, was celebrated by the most eloquent of his poctical contemporaries, and commended by the Excellent author of “ Clarissa,” and “Sir Charles Grandifon."
When noble thoughts with language pure unite,
To give to kindred excellence its right,
Though unencumber'd with the clogs of rhime,
Where tinkling founds, for want of meaning chime,
Which like the rocks in Shannon's midway courfe,
Divide the fenfe and interrupt its force;
Well may we judge so strong and clear a rill,
Flows higher from the Mufes' facred HILL.
SNAR'D in entangling mazes of thy charms, Teach me to shake thefe filky chains away: Slow, thy fweet force, my ftubborn mind difarms, 'Till ev'n ambition bends beneath thy fway. What shall I do to free my ftruggling foul,
Bow'd to the foft'ning bias of thy song? As circling ftraws in whirlwinds driving roll, So are my hurry'd passions swept along. Fool as I was!-I felt thy diftant fire,
E'er from those eyes it flash'd undying flame; Yet fure, faid I--for once--I may aspire, And view that heav'n whence all this brightnefs came.
So the light cork that on the Thames' fmooth Gide Embay'd, glides buoyant, and just skims the fhore,
Edges, ambitious, to the rapid tide,
And rufhing down the ftream returns no more. Late my free thoughts, unbounded as the air, [fky; Could, with an eye beam's fwiftnefs, fcale the Wander in ftarry worlds, and bufy'd there,
From human cares and human paffions fly. Down to dark earth's deep centre could I roam, And through her chafmy lab'rinths wind my way;
See gold unripen'd in its dusky home,
And mark how fprings in veiny bendings ftray. Oft as th' alarming trumpet ftruck my ear, [rofe, Or the big drum's dead beat hoarfe-thund'ring My fummon'd soul sprung out to war's wifh'd fphere,
And plung'd me in the ranks of fancy'd foes, Wide as unmeafur'd nature's trackless space, Untir'd imagination reftlefs flew; Difdain'd to fix on object, or on place,
And every moment fome frefh labour knew. Clio was then unfeen, unread, unknown ;--Now, lovely tyrant, fhe ufurps my mind; Devoted fancy vows itself her own:
And my whole thought is to one theme confin'd. Yet, pow'rful as fhe is.--the doubts her lays;
Blind, like the fun, to her own blazing flame,
Tranfports the lift'ning foul---engroffes praise;
Yet humbly wishes---an immortal nanie.
Oh that I could but live, till that late day
When Clio's unremember'd name shall die!
Then fhould I hope full leifure to display
Thofc unborn deeds which in my bofom lie. But, as it is, our fleeting fands ío faft
Ebb to their end, and lead us to decay, That ere we learn to fee, our daylight's paft, And, like a melting mift, life fhrinks away.
THE glow-worm fcribblers, of a feeble age,
Pale twinklers of an hour, provoke my rage;
In each dark hedge we ftart an infect fire,
Which lives by night and muft at dawn expire.
Yet fuch their number, that their specks combine,
And the unthinking vulgar fwear they shine.
Poets are prodigies, fo greatly rare,
They seem the talks of heaven, and built with care,
Like funs unquench'd, unrivall'd, and sublime,
They roll immortal o'er the waftes of time:
Ages in vain clofe round, and fnatch in fame,
High over all still fhines the poet's name :
Lords of a life, that fcorns the bounds of breath,
They ftretch exiftence-and awaken death.
Pride of their envy'd climes! they plant renown, That fhades the monarch's by the mufe's crown: To fay that Virgil with Auguftus fhin'd, Does honour to the lord of half mankind.
So, when three thousand years have wan'd away, And Pope is faid to've liv'd when George bore fway,
Millions fhall lend the king the poet's fame,
And blefs, implicit, the fupported namie.
STUNG BY A NETTLE.
REVENGE, you fee, is fure, though fometimes flow: Take this 'tis all the pain I'd have you know! There's odds enough yet left betwixt our smart, Ifting your fingers, and you fting my heart.
THE SNUFFERS. DESPIS'D and worthlefs though I feem to be, Yon new-top'd flames owe their beft light to me,
Though fcorn'd-you fee I can do service still!
Some good lies hid in every feeming ill.
And hence let fortune's fav'rites learn to know,
That virtue's virtue though in rags it go.
TO A SATIRICAL YOUNG LADY.
FORBEAR, loud thing! to live in laugh and jeft,
Wit is like love-the fofteft is the best!
If thou, by this, wouldt lively thought proclaim,
If empty praise is thy wild fancy's aim;
A while this falt may feason fingle life,
But no man's tafte approves a piquant wife.
Be wife, and match, and charm by judgment's aid,
Or witty, and defpis'd, and die--a maid.
So the thin razors which young learners please,
Grow notch'd and edgeless, by unmark'd degrees,
Till worn and blunted, by too frequent use,
Th' experienc'd hand detects the steel's abuse;
Then cheaply thrown afide, they gather duft,
Like thee neglected, till confum'd by rust.
TO THE EXCELLENT DAUGHTERS
WHY fhould ye thus, to prove but vainly kind,
And a weak body to a fickly mind?
Could but your pious grief recal her breath,
Or tears of duty win her back from death,
We would not blame the paffion you exprefs,
But share it with you, if 'twould make it lefs!
But oh! when certain death's uncertain hour
Exerts his known, his unrefifted pow's;
When we are fummon'd from our cares below,
To joys which living merit must not know;
When fouls, like your dear mother's, quit their
clay,
And change earth's darkness for eternal day:
From their blifs-circled feats, perhaps, they view
These humbler regions, which themfelves once
knew.
And fwell'd with thoughts, which make the angels
Pity the pledges they have left behind.
'Tis true, the lofs you mourn is vastly great,
But in that lofs your country fhares your fate;
The public good her wishes would have done,
Made ev'ry man in ev'ry land her fon :
Thence, lovely mourners! give us leave to prove,
We ought to share your grief, who fhar'd your
mother's love.
Yet may all parties make their forrow lefs,
And you, and we, concern enough express;
You may with comfort calm your ruffled mind,
To think your mother left her cares behind;
And we, though lofers, fhould be thankful too,
Since we are fill left rich, poffeffing you.
ON THE THIRD CHAPTER OF HADAKKUK.
GOD of my fathers! ftretch thy oft-try'd hand,
And yet, once more, redeem thy chofen land:
Once more, by wonders, make thy glories known,
And, 'midst thy anger, be thy mercy fhown!
O, I have heard thy dreadful actions told,
At Ifrael's call, th' Almighty's thunder harl'd, From Paran's fummit fhook the aftonifh'd world; The flaming heav'ns blaze dreadful through the fky,
And earth's dark regions gleam beneath his eye.
High, in his undetermin'd hands, he bore [ftore;
Judgment's heap'd horn, and mercy's fruggling
Meagre before him, death, pale horror, trod!
And, grinning fhadowy, watch'd the Almighty
Gath'ring beneath his feet flash'd light'nings broke,
And the aw'd mountain fhook, conceal'd in smoke.
He stood; and, while the measur'd earth he ey'd,
The starting nations dropp'd their confcious pride;
High-boafting Cushan struck her tents, in fhame,
And Midian groan'd beneath repented fame.
He mov'd; and, from their old foundations rent,
The everlasting hills before him bent;
He stept; and all th' uprifing mountains stray
And roll in earthquakes, to escape his way:
From their enormous chafms, with roaring tide,
Earth-cleaving rivers fpout, and deluge wide:
The fea, alarm'd, climb'd faft, its God to spy,
And in outrageous triumph swept the fky.
Confcious of wrath divine, the fun grew pale,
And o'er his radiance drew a gloomy veil.
Thus did my God (to fave th' endanger'd land)
March forth, indignant, with vindictive hand;
This, when I hear, chill blafts my foul o'erfpread,
And my lips quiver with the rifing dread:
Trembling all o'er, my limbs I faintly draw,
And my bones crumble with ideal awe.
Now, though the fig-tree ne'er fhould bloffom
Though fterile coldness curfe th' unrip'ning field;
Though vines and olives fail their loady cheer;
Nor fainting herds out-live the pining year;
Yet fhall my foul in God's fure aid rejoice,
And earth's High Sov'reign claim my heav'n-
tun'd voice.
MUSE'S EXPOSTULATION WITH A LADY,
Who denied berfelf the freedom of Friendfeip, from toe
delicate an apprehenfion of the World's miflaken Cenfure.
BORN to pity woes, yet form'd to give,
Shnt from whofe prefence 'twere a pain to live!
Who make all converfe tedious but your own;
And, that withheld, leave the forfaken none.
Urg'd by what motives would you wish to fhun
The fight and voice of him whose foul you won?
On what falfe fears does this cold flight depend?
What fancy'd foe does prudence apprehend?
When bodies only are to bodies dear,
The danger there confifts in being near;
And when the fair the foft contagion spy,
Difcretion calls 'em-and 'tis wife to fly.
But where affociate fpirits catch the flame,
Flight is a cruel, and a fruitless aim.
Parting is dying, to fet fancy free.
Souls have no fexes; and if minds agree,
Nor let mistaken virtue wrong the breaft,
Not faints in heav'n a purer warmth express,
Than reafon feels, when touch'd by tendernefs.
Relenting wifdom dignifies defire,
And rais'd ideas fan the bright'ning fire;
Till the white flame, afcending to the sky,
Spreads its low smoke in envy's darken'd eye.
Whence grew fociety, fo wifh'd an art,
If the mind's elegance betrays the heart?
Were it a crime in flashing fouls to rife,
And ftrike each other through the meeting eyes?
Thofe op'ning windows had not let in light,
Nor stream'd ideas out, to voice the fight.
Why are you form'd fo pow'rful in your charms,
If beauty ought to fly the wifh it warms?
Vainly did heav'n inspire that tuneful tongue,
With notes more sweet than ever seraph sung!
If, jufly, all that harmony you hide,
Your mufic ufelefs, and its pow'r untry'd.
Have wit and eloquence in vain confpir'd,
And giv'n you brightness, but to fhine retir'd?
Muft you be lovelieft, yet be never fhown?
Than all be wifer, yet be heard by none?
Oh, 'tis too delicate !-'tis falfely nice,
To bar the heart against the mind's advice.
But you will fay that honour's call you hear;
That fame is tender-reputation dear:
That from the world's malignant blast you fly,
Fear the fool's tongue, and the difcerner's eye.
The spleen of disappointed wifhes dread,
Or envy's whispers, by detraction fpread?
Alas what bounds can limit your retreat?
Where will fought fafety reft your flying feet?
Is there a corner in the globe so new,
That malice will not find as fure as you?
The very flight that fhuns, attracts the wrong?
And every cenfure fear'd, you force along.
"There's caufe, no doubt, for her retreat, they'll
"A fearless innocence had dar'd to stay!"
Scandal has, either way, an edge to strike,
And wounds diftinétion every where alike:
Superior excellence is doom'd to bear
The ftings of fland'rous hate, and rash despair : 'Tis the due tax your rated merit pays,
And ev'ry judging ear will call it praise.
You need not then the gentle found reject,
Should love's fear'd name be given to foft refpect:
When ill-distinguish'd meanings are the fame,
How poor the diff'rence which they draw from
name!
There are, in love, th' extremes of touch'd defire,
The nobleft brightnefs, or the coarsest fire!
In vulgar bofoms vulgar wishes move;
Nature guides choice, and, as men think, they love.
But when a pow'r like yours impels the wound,
Like the clear cause, the bright effect is found.
In the loofe paffion, men profane the name,
Miftake the purpofe, and pollute the flame :
In nobler bofoms, friendship's form it takes,
And fex alone, the lovely diff'rence makes.
Love's generous warmth does reason's pow'r dif
play,
And fills defire, as light embodies day.
Love is to life what colour is to form:
Plain drawings oft are juft, but never warm.
Love, in a blaze of tints, his light'ning throws;
Then the form quickens, and the figure glows.
Occafioned by fome Verfes on a Monument in Weft-
minster Abbey.
How loft this pomp of verfe! how vain the hope,
That thought can dwell on Craggs, in view of
Pope!
When upon Rubicon's fam'd bank is shown
Cæfar's prefs'd foot, on the remember'd stone;
No traveller once asks the quarry's name,
Whence the coarse grit, by chance distinguish'
But thinks, with reverence, here great Julius trod,
And hails the footstep of a Roman god!
TO MRS. LR,
PLAYING ON A BASS VIOL.
WHILE o'er the dancing chords your fingers fly,
And bid them live, till they have made us die;
Trembling, in transport, at your touch they spring,
Think-and be kind-convert this fruitlefs pain As if there dwelt a heart in every ftring.
To a fix'd firmness, and a calm disdain.
Since cautious absence can no more be free
From false reproach, than present smiles will be,
Diffuse those gifts which heav'n design'd should
Nor let their greatness make their pity less.
Indulging freedom ev'ry fear difarm,
And, with a conscious fcorn of flander, charm.
Bold in your guarded ftrength your heart unbind,
And to be fafe---suppose yourself all mind.
Yet needlefs that! fince such respect you draw,
That ev'n your tenderness is arm'd with awe :
Permitted love would filently admire,
And a foft rev'rence tremble through defire;
The warmest wishes, when infpir'd by you,
Strike---but as heav'nly infpirations do.
The op'ning heart makes room for joys refin'd,
And ev'ry grofa idea shrinks behind.
Your voice, foft rifing, through the lengthen'd
The marry'd harmony, united, floats;
Two charms, fo join'd, that they compose but one;
Like heat and brightness from the self-fame fun.
The wishful viol would its wealth retain,
And, fweetly confèious, hugs the pleasing pain,
Envious, forbids the warbiing joys to rell,
And, murm'ring inward, fwells its founding foul.
Proud of its charming pow'r, your tuneful bow
Floats o'er the chords majestically flow;
Careless and foft, calls out a tide of art,
And, in a ftorm of mufic, drowns the heart.
So when that god, who gave you all your skill,
To angel forms (like yours) intrufts his will,
Calm they defcend, fome new-meant world te
found,
And, fmiling, fes creation rifing round:
TO THE LOVELY CAUSE OF IT.
SWEET enflaver! can you tell,
Ere I learnt to love so well,
How my hours had wings to move,
All unbufied by my love!
'Tis amazement now to me,
What could then a pleasure be!
But you, like God, new fenfe can give,
And now, indeed, I feel I live.
Oh! what pangs his breaft alarm,
Whom foul and body join to charm!
Endlefs tranfports dance along,
Sweetly foft! or nobly strong!
Flaming fancy! cool reflection!
Fierce defire! and aw'd fubjection!
Aching hope and fear encreasing!
Struggling paffions, never ceasing!
Wishing! trembling! foul adoring!
Ever bleft, and still imploring.
Let the dull, the cold, and tame,
All thofe dear diforders blame;
'Tell 'em that in honour's race,
Charm'd by fome fuch heav'nly face,
Lóvers always foremost ran;
Love's a fecond foul to man.
Eafe is languid, low, and bafe;
Love excites a generous chafe :
Glory! wealth ambition! wit!
Thoughts for boundless empire fit!
All at love's approach are fir'd,
Bent more ftrong, and never tir'd,
He who feels not love's fweet pain
Lives at eafe-but lives in vain!
Little dream you what is due,
Angel form! to love and you:
'Tis from you I joy poffefs;
'Tis by you my grief grows lefs:
Sadly penfive, when alone,
I the fhades of life bemoan;
If fome voice your name impart,
Care lies lighten'd at my heart;
Ev'ry woe difarms its fting,
And I look down on Britain's king.
When my fancy brings to view
Works which wealth and pow'r can do;
All my fparr'd excitements wake,
And fortune charms me for your fake.
Oh! I cry-'twere heaven poffeft,
To make her great who made me bleft.
In the morning when I rife,
If the fun-fhine ftrikes my eyes,
All that pleafes in his view,
Is my hope to look on you.
When the fable fweep of night
Drowns diftin&ion from my fight,
I no inward darkness find;
You are day-light to my mind.
All my dreams are lives of joy,
Which, in waking, I destroy:
You, a flave to custom made,
Are of forms and rules afraid :
But your happier image, free
Independent, kind, and wife,
Scorns restraint, and knows no ties.
Oh! the dear, the racking pain;
Who that sleeps thus would wake again.
On! forbear to bid me flight her,
Soul and fenfes take her part;
Could my death itself delight her,
Life should leap to leave my heart.
Strong, though foft, a lover's chain,
Charm'd with woe, and pleas'd with pain.
Though the tender flame were dying,
Love would light it at her eyes;
Or, her tuneful voice applying,
Through my ear my foul surprise.
Deaf, I fee the fate 1 fhun;
Blind, I hear I am undone.
Now ponder well, ye husbands dear,
The fate of wives, too bright;
A woeful caufe you have to fear,
Their day will turn to night.
At first all gay, and rais'd with joy,
They charm the poor man's heart;
With fmiling eyes they sport and toy,
And gild the nuptial dart.
But ah! too foon they quench their fire;
(Alas! good hearer, weep)
Then gape, and ftretch, and yawn, and tire, And hum their fouls to fleep.
HINT FROM SOME OLD VERSES, On a Stone in Stepney Churchwall. Two thousand years, ere Stepney had a name, In Carthage walls I fhar'd the punic fame; There to the ftrongeft, added ftrength I lent, And proudly propp'd the world's best ornament. Now to cold Britain a tern tranfport thrown, I piece a church-yard pile unmark'd, unknown: Stain'd, and half funk in dirt, my fculpture lies, And moulders, like the graves which round me rife. [claim, Oh think, blind mortals! what frail duft you And laugh at wealth, wit, beauty, pow'r, and
Short praise, can fleeting hopes like yours fupply, Since times, and tongues, and tow'rs, and empires die.
ON CLIO'S BIRTH-DAY.
O'ER the blue violet, while the amorous wind
Bends and perfumes his wings, to fan this day;
Why has pale fickness winter'd o'er my mind,
And, with chill agues, check'd the warmth of
May?
Is it not Clio's birth-day?—Toil of thought!
Height beyond all that e'er ambition trod.
Sum of refin'd defire! by angels taught,
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