DR. GEORGE SEWELL. [Died, Feb. 8, 1726.] DR. GEORGE SEWELL, author of "Sir Walter Raleigh, a tragedy:" several papers in the fifth volume of the Tatler, and ninth of the Spectator; a life of John Philips; and some other things. There is something melancholy in this poor man's history. He was a physician at Hampstead, with very little practice, and chiefly subsisted on the invitations of the neighbouring gentlemen, to whom his amiable character made him acceptable; but at his death not a friend or relative came to commit his remains to the dust! He was buried in the meanest manner, under a hollow tree, that was once part of the boundary of the church-yard of Hampstead. No memorial was placed over his remains. VERSES, SAID TO BE WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR ON HIMSELF WHEN HE WAS IN A CONSUMPTION. WHY, Damon, with the forward day, What winds arise, what rains descend, What do thy noon-tide walks avail, Thou and the worm are brother-kind, Vain wretch! canst thou expect to see SIR JOHN VANBRUGH. SIR JOHN VANBRUGH*, the poet and architect, was the oldest son of Mr. Giles Vanbrugh of London, merchant; he was born in the parish of St. Stephen's, Walbrook, 1666. He received a very liberal education, and at the age of nineteen was sent by his father to France, where he continued several years. In 1703 he was appointed Clarencieux king of arms, and in 1706 was commissioned by Queen Anne to carry the habit and *The family of Sir John Vanbrugh is stated, in the Biographia Dramatica, to have come originally from France; but my friend, the Rev. George Vanbrugh, rector of Aughton, in Lancashire, the only surviving descendant of the family, informs me that his ancestors were eminent merchants of Antwerp, and fled out of Flanders when the duke of Alva tried to establish the inquisition in those provinces. They first took refuge in Holland, and from thence came over to England to enjoy the protestant protection of Queen Elizabeth. ensigns of the order of the garter to King George the First, then at Hanover. He was also made comptroller-general of the board of works, and surveyor of the gardens and waters. In 1714 he received the order of knighthood, and in 1719 married Henrietta Maria, daughter of Colonel | Yarborough. Sir John died of a quinsey at his house in Scotland-yard, and is interred in the family vault under the church of St. Stephen Walbrook. He left only one son, who fell at the battle of Fontenoyt. [ No man who has been satirized by Swift, and praised by Reynolds, could have much chance of being forgotten; but the fame of him who was at once the author of "The Relapse" and "The Provoked Wife,” and the architect of Castle Howard and Blenheim, stands independent of even such subsidiaries.-ALLAN CUNNINGHAM'S Lives of British Artists, vol. iv. p. 253.] FABLE, RELATED BY A BEAU TO ESOP. A BAND, a Bob-wig, and a Feather, Old solemn truth, The Bob, he talked of management, He said 'twas wealth gave joy and mirth, And not spend sixpence when he'd done, When these two blades had done, d'ye see, The Feather (as it might be me), It proved such sunshine weather And off they went together. WILLIAM CONGREVE. [Born, 1609. Died, 1729.] FROM "THE MOURNING BRIDE." Alm. No, all is hush'd, and still as death-'tis How reverend is the face of this tall pile, Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads, To bear aloft its arch'd and ponderous roof, By its own weight made stedfast and immoveable, Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe And terror on my aching sight; the tombs And monumental caves of death look cold, And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart. Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy voice; Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear Thy voice-my own affrights me with its echoes.* [*This is the passage that Johnson admired so much. "Congreve," he said," has one finer passage than any that can be found in Shakspeare. What I mean is, that you can show me no passage where there is simply a description of material Leon. Let us return; the horror of this place, And silence, will increase your melancholy. Alm. It may my fears, but cannot add to that. No, I will on; show me Anselmo's tomb, Lead meo'er bones and skulls, and mouldering earth, Of human bodies; for I'll mix with them, Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corpse, Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride Of Garcia's more detested bed: that thought Exerts my spirits, and my present fears Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then show me, Lead me, for I am bolder grown : lead on Where I may kneel, and pay my vows again, To him, to Heaven, and my Alphonso's soul. Leon. I go; but Heaven can tell with what regret. [Exeunt. objects without any intermixture of moral notions, which produced such an effect." Croker's Boswell, vol. ii. p. 86. "If I were required," he says, in his life of Congreve, "to select from the whole mass of English poetry the most poetical paragraph, I know not what I could prefer to this. He who reads these lines enjoys for a moment the powers of a poet; he feels what he remembers to have felt before; but he feels it with a great increase of sensibility; he recognizes a familiar image, but meets it again amplified and expanded, embellished with beauty and enlarged with majesty." Mr. Croker had much improved his edition of Boswell, if he had illustrated Johnson's conversation by his own writings.] Enter HELI. Heli. I wander through this maze of monuments, Yet cannot find him-Hark! sure 'tis the voice Of one complaining-there it sounds! I'll follow it. [Exit. SCENE II-Opening, discovers a place of Tombs: one Monument, fronting the view, greater than the rest. Enter ALMERIA and LEONORA. Leon. Behold the sacred vault, within whose The poor remains of good Anselmo rest, [womb Yet fresh and unconsumed by time or worms. What do I see? Oh, Heaven! either my eyes Are false, or still the marble door remains Unclosed; the iron gates, that lead to death Beneath, are still wide stretch'd upon their hinge, And staring on us with unfolded leaves! Alm. Sure 'tis the friendly yawn of death for me; And that dumb mouth, significant in show, Invites me to the bed, where I alone Shall rest; shows me the grave where nature, weary And long oppress'd with woes and bending cares, My soul, enlarged from its vile bonds, will mount, OSMYN ascending from the tomb. Osm. Who calls that wretched thing that was Alm. Angels, and all the host of heaven, support Osm. Whence is that voice, whose shrillness, from the grave, And growing to his father's shroud, roots up Alm. Mercy! providence! Oh, speak, Osm. Amazement and illusion ! Rivet and nail me where I stand, ye powers, [Coming forward. That, motionless, I may be still deceived! 'Tis life! 'tis warm! 'tis she, 'tis she herself! Nor dead, nor shade, but breathing and alive! It is Almeria, it is my wife! Enter HELI. Leon. Alas! she stirs not yet, nor lifts her eyes; He, too, is fainting-Help me, help me, stranger, Whoe'er thou art, and lend thy hand to raise These bodies. Hel. Ah! 'tis he! and with--Almeria ! Osm. Where is she? Let me behold, and touch her, and be sure Look on thy love, thy lover, and thy husband! Alm. I have sworn I'll not wed Garcia: why do ye force me? Is this a father? Osm. Look on thy Alphonso. Thy father is not here, my love, nor Garcia: Alm. It is, it is Alphonso! 'tis his face, The wildness of the waves and rocks to this; That, thus, relenting, they have given thee back To earth, to light and life, to love and me? Osm. Oh, I'll not ask, nor answer, how or why We both have backward trod the paths of fate, To meet again in life; to know I have thee, Is knowing more than any circumstance, Or means, by which I have thee— To fold thee thus, to press thy balmy lips, And gaze upon thy eyes, is so much joy, I have not leisure to reflect or know, Or trifle time in thinking. Alm. Where hast thou been? and how art thou alive? How is all this? All-powerful Heaven, what are we? Oh, my strain'd heart-let me again behold thee, For I weep to see thee-Art thou not paler? Much, much; how thou art changed! Osm. Not in my love. Alm. No, no! thy griefs, I know, have done this to thee. Thou hast wept much, Alphonso; and, I fear, Osm. Wrong not my love, to say too tenderly. Osm. Grant me but life, good Heaven, but length of days, To pay some part, some little of this debt, Of yet unmeasured time; when I have made Alm. 'Tis more than recompense to see thy face. Alm. True; but how camest thou there? Wert thou alone? Osm. I was, and lying on my father's lead, When broken echoes of a distant voice Disturb'd the sacred silence of the vault, In murmurs round my head. I rose and listen'd, And thought I heard thy spirit call Alphonso; I thought I saw thee too; but, Oh, I thought not That I indeed should be so blest to see theeAlm. But still, how camest thou thither? How thus ?- -Ha! What's he, who, like thyself, is started here Osm. Where? Ha! What do I see, Antonio? Osm. I saw her too, and therefore saw not thee. Alm. Nor I; nor could I, for my eyes were yours. Osm. What means the bounty of all-gracious That persevering still, with open hand, [Heaven, It scatters good, as in a waste of mercy! Where will this end? But Heaven is infinite In all, and can continue to bestow, When scanty number shall be spent in telling. Leon. Or I am deceived, or I beheld the glimpse Of two in shining habits cross the aisle ; Who, by their pointing, seem to mark this place. Alm. Sure I have dreamt, if we must part so soon. Osm. I wish at least our parting were a dream, Or we could sleep till we again were met. Heli. Zara and Selim, sir; I saw and know them: You must be quick, for love will lend her wings. Alm. What love? Who is she? Why are you alarm'd? Osm. She's the reverse of thee; she's my unhappiness. Harbour no thought that may disturb thy peace; Retire, my love, I'll think how we may meet Alm. Sure we shall meet again Osm. We shall; we part not but to meet again. Yet I behold her-yet-and now no more. thoughts, So shall you still behold her-'twill not be. ELIJAH FENTON was obliged to leave the university on account of his non-juring principles. He was for some time secretary to Charles, Earl of Orrery he afterwards taught the grammarschool of Sevenoaks, in Kent; but was induced, by Bolingbroke, to forsake that drudgery for the more unprofitable state of dependence upon a political patron, who, after all, left him disappointed and in debt. Pope recommended him to Craggs as a literary instructor, but the death of that statesman again subverted his hopes of preferment; and he became an auxiliary to Pope in translating the Odyssey, of which his share was the first, fourth, nineteenth, and twentieth books. The successful appearance of his tragedy of Mariamne on the stage, in 1723, relieved him from his difficulties, and the rest of his life was comfortably spent in the employment of Lady Trumbull, first as tutor to her son, and afterwards as auditor of her accounts. His character was that of an amiable but indolent man, who drank, in his great chair, two bottles of port wine a day. He published an edition of the poetical works of Milton and of Waller t. AN ODE TO THE RIGHT HON. JOHN LORD GOWER. WRITTEN IN THE SPRING OF 1716. OE'R winter's long inclement sway, Is wafted by the western gales. To hail the coming god prepares ; Soft warbling to the vernal airs. Unblamed t' approach your blest retreat : Whose notes th' Aonian hills repeat. [* Borrowed from Milton's minor poems, whence, in 1716, one might steal with safety.] Or if invoked, where Thames's fruitful tides, Beneath the Pole on hills of snow, Like Thracian Mars, th' undaunted Swede‡ To dint of sword defies the foe; In fight unknowing to recede: [ Fenton wrote nothing equal to his Ode to the Lord Gower, which is, says Joseph Warton, written in the true spirit of lyric poetry. It has received too the praises of Pope and of Akenside, but is better in parts than as a whole.] [ Charles XII.] |