Happy the soul that feels her ray divine,

(A ray which sainted Porteus beam'd in thine,) With conscious pleasure she reviews the past, And confident in faith, awaits her last.

F. Why, this is praise!

P.

Not greater than is due:

I can withhold applause, and give it too;
Above deceit, I scorn all venal ways;
I freely censure, and I freely praise.

If Dudley* call me ranc'rous, decent knight!
When he grows wiser, I'll grow more polite;
Till then I laugh at ceremony's rules,
And still include him in my list of fools.

age, beloved by all who knew him; and died in the humble hope of being received into his Father's kingdom with the spirits of just men made perfect. The following passage (extracted from his works,) is inscribed on the tomb erected to his memory in Paddington Church-yard, by his friend, Lord Petre: "Christian is my name, and Catholic my surname. I grant that you are a Christian as well as I, and I embrace you as my fellow disciple in Jesus; and if you were not a disciple of Jesus, still I embrace you as my fellow-man."

* Sir Dudley is editor and proprietor of "The Morning Herald ;" he is likewise the author of a farce, called " At Home," in which Mr. Coates is personally ridiculed upon the stage, under the title of "Romeo Rantall." Which is the most contemptible, a Clerical Flatterer, or a Theatrical Buffoon?

F. Why name you him?

P.

To bring before the town

A courtly coxcomb, though he wears a gown;
A journalist-and such a one, heav'n knows!
I will not, reader, to offend thy nose,
Rake up the dunghill of his filthy prose.
Yet he can flatter with an awkward grace;
Like some old dowager who chalks her face,
He daubs so coarsely to display the saint,
That the grey sinner stares beneath the paint.
Let Manners, just escap'd from durance vile,
Abuse, defame me, in his Grub-Street style;
In some catch-penny pamphlet, penn'd complete,
Conceiv'd, begotten, born within the Fleet:
Let Scott*, the Champion, rail—with scorn I view
The worst that Dulness and her sons can do ;
So, Fortune, save my character and lays
From Dudley's hireling, prostituted praise.

When Pasquin,+ arm'd with libels, stalks by night, Lest prowling bailiffs intercept his flight;

66

* One John Scott, a small critic, and editor of the Champion" Sunday newspaper. Mr. Scott has lately published "A Visit to Paris," an amusing compilation, but not very authentic: I suspect that Mr. Scott, like Sir John Carr, travels by proxy.

+ Anthony Pasquin, alias Dr. John Williams. In "The Baviad," his character, moral and literary, is very amply delineated.

Pasquin, dull rogue! who twenty years has made
His pamphlets turn a profitable trade;

How *** dreads the vengeance of his muse,
And ***, who has no character to lose,
Quakes in his dark retreat; while you and I,
With upright confidence, his rage defy.
Unhappy Pasquin! in thy latter days

Few fear thy wrath, none barter for thy praise;
But all thy pointless darts, at random thrown,
Hurt no one's name, but only d―n thine own.

Stands Scotland where it did? alas! no moreSince truant Jeffrey flies his native shore: For who among her sons, to speed their gains, (Her sons more fam'd for brimstone, than for

brains,)

Like him, retrac'd the path which Kenrick trod,
Traduc'd his country, and blasphem'd his God?
Mourn, Caledonia! let thy rocks reply;
Not leaden Sydney can his loss supply :-
Too dull, alas! to satisfy a picque ;

His heart is willing, but his brain is weak:
Nor Holland's spouse, nor Holland's mantling bowl,
Can rouse from torpor his benighted soul.
Illustrious Holland! doom'd by angry fate
To rack the Muses, and reform the State;
Consistent Peer! unstain'd with courtly crimes,
Save some few venial spots, and doggerel rhymes;

His Jeffrey lost,-shall haply mount the throne, And execrate all dulness-but his own.

What, though the grave may end the poet's care, The spleen of Chalmers* still pursues him there; Scarce would th' ungrateful world allow him room, Yet Chalmers tears the laurel from his tomb; And where some frailty asks a pitying tear, He frowns, and plays the moralist severe. Welcome each dunce of Cibber's lively school! But save me from the solemn, canting fool; The heavy pedant, the laborious drone, Full of old saws and dogmas of his own.

Be not severe, though error hath beguil'd A son of light, the Muses' wondrous child, Unhappy Chatterton! whom none would save, An outcast, from the cradle to the grave.

* Mr. Chalmers is well qualified to abridge dictionaries, and put together encyclopedias; but an edition of the English Poets, with biographical and critical notices, was an undertaking far beyond the slender powers of a mere compiler. Want of ability, therefore, would hardly have provoked my censure; it is want of candour and good feeling. I more particularly refer to the Life of Chatterton, where the melancholy story of that hapless youth is related, and commented upon with true heartless indifference.

+ The most wonderful genius since the time of Shakespeare; more wonderful even than he, considering his

Bright be thy place of everlasting rest!-
The all-sufficient Power who knew thee best,
Shall judge thee-to th' eternal fiat trust—
Vain is the wrath of man, since God is just!
He saw thy youth by great ambition led,
Beheld thy haggard form, unhous'd, unfed ;

age.

What poet at sixteen ever wrote such lines as the following?

"See! the whyte moon sheenes onne hie;
Whyterre ys mie true love's shroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge skie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude!
Mie Love ys dedde,

Gon to hys dethe-bedde

Al under the wyllowe-tree."

"Hadst thou been known to the munificent patrons of genius"-exclaims Dr. Knox: Where are they? Echo answers, "Where?" Chatterton was amusing himself one day, with a friend, reading epitaphs in St. Pancras Churchyard: he was so deep in thought as he walked on, that not perceiving a grave that had been partly dug, he fell into it. His friend observing his situation, ran to his assistance, and as he helped him out, told him, jocularly, he was happy to assist in the resurrection of genius. Chatterton smiled, and taking his companion by the arm, replied, "My dear friend, I feel the sting of a speedy dissolution; I have been at war with the grave for some time, and I find it is not so easy to vanquish it as I imagined. We can find an asylum to hide from every creditor, but that-" His friend endeavoured to divert his thoughts from this gloomy reflection, but in three days he was-no more!

E