So next I dragg'd my steps to Doctor Greedy,
Who made me ten times worse, and still more needy.
Worn to a stump, I sought the rev'rend Jay,
Not in the pill, but in the spiritual way,—

He cleans'd my inward man, he heard my sigh,
Preach'd down my quacks, and taught me how to die.

TO THE MEMORY OF

THOMAS AND RICHARD FRY, STONEMASONS, Who were crushed to death, August the 25th, 1776, by the slip down of a wall they were in the act of building. Thomas was aged 19, and Richard 21 years.

"They were lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in death they were not divided.-Blessed are they who die in the Lord, for their works follow them."

A sacred truth! now learn our awful fate!
Dear friends we were, first cousins, and what not,
To toil as masons was our humble lot;
As just returning from a house of call,
The Parson bade us set about his wall;
Flush'd with good liquor, cheerfully we strove,
To place big stones below, and big above,—
We made too quick work-down the fabric came,-
It crush'd our vitals-people bawl'd out shame
But we heard nothing-mute as fish we lay,
And shall lie sprawling till the judgment day.
From our misfortune this good moral know,
Never to work too fast, or drink too slow.

NEAR this Stone are deposited the mortal remains of Mrs. Elinor Parkins, who kept the "Red Lion," in this town, with great credit, more than sixteen years.

Assign'd by Providence to rule a tap,
My days past glibly,-till an awkward rap,
Some way like bankruptcy, impell'd me down;
But up I got again, and shook my gown,

In gamesome gambols, quite as brisk as ever—
Blithe as the lark, and gay as sunny weather,—
Compos'd with creditors, at five in pound,
And frolick'd on till laid in holy ground.
The debt of nature must, you know, be paid,—
No trust from her,-God grant extent in aid.

I WENT and listed in the Tenth Hussars,
And gallopp'd with them to the bloody wars.-
"Die for your Sovereign,-for your country die!"
To earn such glory feeling rather shy,

Snug I slipp'd home; but Death soon sent me off,
After a struggle with the hooping cough.

THAT thou would'st pity take, I humbly pray,
O Lord, on this my wretched lump of clay;
A broken pitcher do not cleave in twain,
But let me rise, and be myself again.

Tread soft, good friends, lest you should spring a mine, I was a workman in the powder line.

Of true religion I possess'd no spark,

Till Christ, he pleas'd to stop my gropings dark,
The Rev'rend Vicar seconded the plan,
A temperate, holy, charitable, man,
Who left the foxes to enjoy their holes,
And never hunted aught but human souls;
To this Director's care, 'twas kindly given,
To point my spirit, bolt upright, to heaven.

In these examples, we have the real language of low life; but if Pope wrote thus, would it ever become a question, whether he should rank with the first or second poets of his country? Happily for Pope, he was not guided by the maxims of Mr. Wordsworth. If he were, his name should have never reached us. Away, then, with that cant which would oblige the poet to express his sublime and rapt emotions in the vulgar language of the rustic, in common with whom he has

not one solitary feeling, passion, emotion, or sympathy.
Both, it is true, may be under the influence of the
same passion; both may be irritated by the same
cause; but are both affected by it in the same iden-
tical manner? Far from it the anger of the peasant
and of the poet are so different from each other, that
it is only poverty of language that obliges us to call
them by the same name.
Shades of feeling, though
they differ from each other, cannot be expressed in
different words, while they retain the same character.

From what we have said, our readers must perceive that we are decided advocates for the classical, by which we mean the natural, school of poetry. It is capable of all the charms of which all the other schools are capable, without retaining any of their errors. What, we would ask, has the romantic school of poetry produced, worth producing, of which models cannot be discovered in the classical school? Cannot a classical poet be as romantic as he pleases in his ideas? and, as to a romantic mode of expression, it is all literary fanaticism. A romantic style is a burlesque upon common sense. No style can be correct, unless it be natural, and adapted to its subject; and, if it be so, it must be classical. Whatever is natural, cannot be romantic in any sense in which that term is opposed to classical, because we never apply the term classical to any style or production which is not correct, and, consequently, natural at the same time. Classical differs from natural only in its more limited acceptation: it is nature applied to style and execution. What is a classical style, or a classical manner, but a conformity to that correct and perspicuous style and manner which has been adopted by the best writers, and which we have already justified? If classical poetry, then, be always natural, romantic poetry must be so too, if it be good for any thing; for, if it were allowed that it deviates from nature, its warmest admirers would shrink from defending it. Wherein, then, has romantic the advantage over classical poetry? Nature is the common subject of both, and neither has any value, but what it derives from its adherence to nature. Romantic po

1

etry must be classical in its expression, to be perfectly beautiful; and classical poetry may be romantic. But though romantic poetry is no poetry, if it be not classical, classical poetry must not, necessarily, be romantic. The whole mistake arises from confounding the subject or matter of poetry with the style or language of the poet. It is this mistake that has led modern critics into so many contradictions, and involved them in so much perplexity and confusion. The term classical can only apply to the treatment of the subject, but implies no particular kind of subject, because all subjects can be treated classically, while romantic can apply only to the subject alone, or the scenes, images, thoughts, and sentiments, of which it is composed. We may form a romantic idea, but to talk of romantic words, or a romantic style, is absolute nonsense, if we mean, by this style, any thing more than a simple, natural, classical style. The style should always take its colour and character from the subject, and, therefore, when the subject is romantic, the style must be suited to it, that is, such terms must be selected as will convey the romantic ideas and associations of the poet. As to classical thoughts, classical imagery, classical sentiments, classical sympathies, classical feelings, we defy all the classical and romantic readers in England, to point out one to which the term is applicable. The term romantic, on the other hand, applies only to the character of the poet's subject, the character of his imagery, sentiments, associations, and feelings. In a word, the term romantic applies only to the mind; classical, to the correctness and elegance of the style in which we express ourselves. We may have a romantic mind, but as for a classical mind, we cannot even form an idea of what it means. A romantic poem may, therefore, be written in classical language, for it must be romantic, be it written in what language it may, if it describe scenes and situations that never, or, at least, very seldom, occur in real life, something which imagination can conceive, but which seldom has "a local habitation and a name" in the realities of life. The classical writer avoids

"the ambitious obscurity of expressing more than is perfectly conceived, or perfect conception in fewer words than it requires." He who observes this rule, is a classical writer: he who does not, may call himself a romantic writer, if he please,-but we call him an obscure and incorrect writer; and if obscurity and incorrectness be the characteristics of the romantic school, it is not worthy of any serious notice.

Romantic poetry, then, when it is good for any thing, must be classical poetry; that is, when romantic scenes are described in correct language, this language must be classical, for as classical regards not the subject, but the style, it admits of all subjects alike,— the romantic, the epic, the tragic, the picturesque, the descriptive, the pathetic, the narrative, the didactic, &c. The extracts we have given from Ali, are elegantly classical and highly romantic at the same moment.

No two schools, opposed to each other, can be right; for there can be no genuine poetry that is not in accordance with nature. All the poets that follow nature belong to the same school, no matter how different their subjects may be from each other, for subjects may be infinitely diversified, and all be natural. The ignorance, however, that has led us to adopt a romantic school, has also led us to adopt a species of versification which we vainly attempt to justify, by calling it romantic; nor do we stop here: we select subjects, create images, and adopt sentiments, which are in perfect violation of nature. We satisfy ourselves, however, with the reflection, that whatever wears the appearance of romance, must be right, whether it be natural or not; that is, it must be right, even when it is wrong. Our best poets have fallen into this snare, and have given pieces to the public which we hope, for their own sakes, may never go down to posterity.

Of this, Mr. Campbell's "Last Man," and his "Spanish Patriot's Song," and, indeed, almost all the Songs he writes in the New Monthly, are remarkable instances; we say, remarkable, because he evinced so pure and classical a taste in his "Pleasures of Hope." He then wrote what his own feelings and good taste