equality. Leaving originality out of the question, I will ask, what Lyrical pieces of the age of Queen Anne, can, in mere elegance of diction, and flow of versification, be compared to the Lyrical parts of Jonson's and Beaumont's Dramas, and the sweet Songs of Carew and Herrick? The following is a once much admired Song, by Lord Landsdowne, who was Comptroller of the Household to Queen Anne:

"Thoughtful nights, and restless waking,

Oh! the pains that we endure !

Broken faith, unkind forsaking,
Ever doubting, never sure.

Hopes deceiving, vain endeavours,
What a race has Love to run!
False protesting, fleeting favours,
Every, every way undone.

Still complaining, and defending,
Both to love, yet not agree;
Fears tormenting, passion rending,
Oh! the pangs of jealousy.

From such painful ways of living,

Ah! how sweet could Love be free!

Still preserving, still receiving,

Fierce, immortal ecstasy!"

To these Verses, which, I admit, are exceed

ingly smooth and flowing, I will oppose some by the supposed rugged old bard, Ben Jonson; and I will then ask, for I do not wish to bear unreasonably hard upon the noble Poet of the Augustan age,-I say, I will then ask, not which has the most sense, the most meaning, the most Poetry, but which of the two Songs possesses the noblest music in the versification?

"Oh! do not wanton with those eyes,
Lest I be sick with seeing;

Nor cast them down, but let them rise,
Lest shame destroy their being.

Oh! be not angry with those fires,
For then their threats will kill me,
Nor look too kind on my desires,
For then my hopes will spill me.

Oh! do not steep them in thy tears,
For so will sorrow slay me,

Nor spread them as distract with fears,
Mine own enough betray me!"

When it is remembered, that these latter verses were written one hundred years before the former, I think that I shall not excite any surprise, when I say that I cannot discover in what consists the wonderful refinement, and improvement in versifica

tion, which is boasted to have taken place during that period.

Pope was the great Poet of that age, and it is to him alone that English versification is indebted for all the improvement which it then received; an improvement which is confined to the heroic measure of ten syllables. That noble measure had hitherto been written very lawlessly and carelessly. Denham and Dryden alone, had reduced it to any thing like regularity and rule, and even they too often sanctioned, by their example, the blemishes of others. Of Pope, it is scarcely too much to say, that there is not a rough or discordant line in all that he has written. His thoughts, so often brilliant and original, sparkle more brightly by reason of the elegant and flowing rhymes in which they are expressed; and even where the idea is feeble, or common place, the music of the versification almost atones for it: the ear is satisfied, although the mind is disappointed. Still, it must be confessed, that Pope carried his refinements too far; his sweetness cloys at last; his music wants the introduction of discords to give full effect to the harmony. The unpleasant effect produced upon the ear by the frequently running of the sense of one line with another, and especially of continuing the sentence from the last

line of one couplet to the first line of the next, Pope felt, and judiciously avoided. Still, for the sense always to find a pause with the couplet, and often with the rhyme, will necessarily produce something like tedium and sameness. Succeeding Authors have been conscious of this fault in Pope's versification, and have, in some measure, reverted to the practice of his predecessors. Lord Byron especially, has, by pauses in the middle of the line, and by occasionally, but with judgment and caution, running one line into another, enormities, at which the Poet of whom we are now speaking would have been stricken with horror,-has frequently produced effects of which the well tuned, but somewhat fettered, Lyre of Pope was utterly incapable. It is, however, injustice to Pope, to speak of him so long as a mere versifier; great as his merits were in that respect, his Poetry, as we shall hereafter show, more at length, possessed recommendations of a higher and nobler order; keen Satire, deep pathos, great powers of description, and wonderful richness and energy of diction.

At this period, no attempt, worthy of our notice, was made at Epic Poetry, and the leaden sceptre of French taste was stretched over the Tragic Drama, and over Lyric, Pastoral, and descriptive

Poetry. The Tragedies of Shakspeare were driven from the Stage, to make way for those of Addison and Rowe; such Songs as my Lord Lansdowne's, of which I have given a specimen, were thought wonderfully natural and touching; and Pastoral and descriptive Poetry was in the hands of such rural swains as Ambrose Phillips, and others, who were called men of wit about town; who painted their landscapes after the model of Hyde Park, and the squares; and drew their sketches of rural life and manners from what they observed at the Levees and the Drawingrooms of the great. Mere unsophisticated simple Nature was considered low and vulgar, and when Gay wrote his "Eclogues," which he intended should be burlesque, he went to the furthest possible remove from the fashionable and elegant way of writing Pastoral Poetry, and so, unconsciously produced a real and natural likeness of rustic scenery and society. There is a well known picture of day-break by Shakspeare, which, although comprised in two lines, possesses more of reality and vividness than can be found in whole volumes of diffuse description which I could name :

"Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund Day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain's top."