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Heroes at least of gentler kind are they,
Sad happy race! soon raised and soon depress’d,
Slaves though ye be, your wandering freedom seems, And with your varying views and restless schemes, Your griefs are transient, as your joys are dreams.
Yet keen those griefs—ah! what avail thy charms,
Nor is there lack of labour-To rehearse,
There is a veteran dame; I see her stand
Methinks 'tis pitiful to see her try
And when awhile she's tried her part to act,
And who that poor, consumptive, wither'd thing,
At length the hero of the boards drew nigh,
Sick without pity, sorrowing without hope,
Ye gentle Cynthias of the shop, take heed
From The Borough.
THE QUACK NURSE. Who would not lend a sympathizing sigh, To hear yon infant's pity-moving cry? That feeble sob, unlike the new-born note, Which came with vigour from the opening throat ; When air and light first rush'd on lungs and eyes, And there was life and spirit in the cries ; Now an abortive, faint attempt to weep Is all we hear; sensation is asleep: The boy was healthy, and at first express'd His feelings loudly, when he fail'd to rest; When cramm'd with food, and tighten'd every limb, To cry aloud was what pertain'd to him; Then the good nurse (who, had she borne a brain, Had sought the cause that made her babe complain) Has all her efforts, loving soul! applied To set the cry, and not the cause, aside; She gave her powerful sweet without remorse, The sleeping cordial-she had tried its force; Repeating oft: the infant, freed from pain, Rejected food, but took the dose again, Sinking to sleep; while she her joy express'd, That her dear charge could sweetly take his rest : Soon may she spare her cordial; not a doubt Remains but quickly he will rest without.
From The Borough.
Tuis poet, whose works have been consigned in the present day to unmerited neglect, was born in London, on the 9th of November, 1757. Ho was educated at Harrow, and at the age of seventeen he followed the steps of his father, who was a Colonel in the Guards, by purchasing a commission in the 10th Dragoons. The spare time of the young officer, while his companions were engaged in amusement or dissipation, was honourably and usefully spent in the pursuits of literature; and on quitting the army, which he did in 1780, he purchased Beirs Mount, near Southampton, once the residence of the Earl of Peterborough, and a favourite visiting place of Pope, and there continued his studies in the Classics and poetry for several years. In 1791, however, his love of literary society induced him to settle permanently in London, and seven years afterwards he published his admired translation of Wieland's Oberon. In 1816, he visited Italy, where he wrote a series of poems upon the scenery and ancient remembrances of that country, and published it under the title of Italy, which work constitutes the best of his poetical productions. Even when he had passed the age of seventy, such was still the energy and activity of his mind, that he commenced a translation of Homer, and lived to complete it. He died in London, on the 30th of December, 1833.
The writings of Sotheby were numerous, consisting, besides original poems, of translations from the Latin and Greek Classics, and from the German authors, the latter of which he was one of the first to introduce to the knowledge of English readers. During his life-time, his reputation as a poet was chiefly limited to a literary circle; and since that period, his works, notwithstanding their merits, have made no progress towards general celebrity. The cause of this it is im. possible to assign: it forms one of the thousand literary anomalies of the present age, into the discussion of which we have no desire to enter. It is enough to say, that a perusal of his neglected volumes, and especially of his Italy, will convince an unbiassed reader that he was more worthy of popularity than many whose names are more frequently before the public.
Spirit! who lov'st to live unseen,
By brook, or pathless dell,
Gush from their flinty cell!
Or where the ivy weaves her woof,
And climbs the crag alone,
Turn all beneath to stone.
From noon-tide's fiery gale,
Till twilight spreads her veil.
Then guide me where the wandering moon
Rests on Mæcenas' wall,
The peaceful waterfall.
Again they float before my sight,
The bower, the flood, the glade;
Above the dark cascade.
Down the steep cliff I wind my way
Along the dim retreat,
Where clashing cataracts meet.
And now I leave the rocks below,
And issuing forth from night,
And arch my way with light.
Fresh flowers my path perfume, Round cliff and cave wild tendrils wreathe, And from the groves that bend beneath
Low trail their purple bloom. Thou grove, thou glade of Tivoli,
Dark flood, and rivulet clear, That wind, where'er you wander by, A stream of beauty on the eye,
Of music on the ear :
And thou, that when the wandering moon
Illumed the rocky dell,
Spirit unseen! farewell!
My natal isle to greet, Where summer sunbeams mildly glow, And sea-winds health and freshness blow
O’er Freedom's hallow'd seat.