Display the radiant prize, will mount undaunted, Gain the rough heights, and grasp the dangerous

honour.

Under the warlike Corbulo, by you

steps,

Have seen your soul, and wonder'd at its daring: Hence rise my fears. Nor am I yet to learn How vast the debt of gratitude, which Nero

To such a mother owes; the world, you gave him,
Suffices not to pay the obligation.

I well remember too (for I was present)
When in a secret and dead hour of night,
Due sacrifice perform'd with barbarous rites
Of mutter'd charms, and solemn invocation,
You bad the magi call the dreadful powers,
That read futurity, to know the fate
Impending o'er your son: Their answer was,
If the son reign, the mother perishes.
Perish (you cried) the mother! reign the son!
He reigns; the rest is heaven's ; who oft has bade,
Even when its will seem'd wrote in lines of blood,
Th' unthought event disclose a whiter meaning.
Think too how oft in weak and sickly minds
The sweets of kindness lavishly indulged
Rankle to gall; and benefits too great
To be repaid, sit heavy on the soul,

As unrequited wrongs. The willing homage
Of prostrate Rome, the senate's joint applause,
The riches of the earth, the train of pleasures,
That wait on youth, and arbitrary sway;
These were your gift, and with them you bestow'd
The very power he has to be ungrateful.

Agrip. Thus ever grave, and undisturb'd reflec-
Pours its cool dictates in the madding ear [tion
Of rage, and thinks to quench the fire it feels not.
Say'st thou I must be cautious, must be silent
And tremble at the phantom I have raised?
Carry to him thy timid counsels. He
Perchance may heed 'em : Tell him too, that one,
Who had such liberal power to give, may still
With equal power resume that gift, and raise
A tempest that shall shake her own creation
To its original atoms-tell me ! say,
This mighty emperor, this dreaded hero,
Has he beheld the glittering front of war?
Knows his soft ear the trumpet's thrilling voice,
And outery of the battle? Have his limbs
Sweat under iron harness? Is he not
The silken son of dalliance, nursed in ease
And pleasure's flowery lap ?-Rubellius lives,
And Sylla has his friends, though school'd by fear,
To bow the supple knee, and court the times
With shows of fair obeisance: and a call,
Like mine, might serve belike to wake pretensions
Drowsier than theirs, who boast the genuine blood
Of our imperial house.
[passion,

Acer. Did I not wish to check this dangerous I might remind my mistress that her nod Can rouse eight hardy legions, wont to stem With stubborn nerves the tide, and face the rigour Of bleak Germania's snows. Four, not less brave, That in Armenia quell the Parthian force

Have not forgot your sire: The eye of Rome And the prætorian camp have long revered, With custom'd awe, the daughter, sister, wife, And mother of their Cæsars.

Agrip. Ha! by Juno,

It bears a noble semblance. On this base
My great revenge shall rise; or say we sound
The trump of liberty; there will not want,
Even in the servile senate, ears to own
Her spirit-stirring voice; Soranus there,
And Cassius: Vetus too, and Thrasea,
Minds of the antique cast, rough stubborn souls,
That struggle with the yoke. How shall the spark
Unquenchable, that glows within their breasts,
Blaze into freedom, when the idle herd
(Slaves from the womb, created but to stare,
And bellow in the Circus) yet will start,
And shake 'em at the name of liberty,
Stung by a senseless word, a vain tradition,
As there were magic in it? wrinkled beldams
Teach it their grandchildren, as somewhat rare
That anciently appear'd, but when, extends
Beyond their chronicle-oh! 'tis a cause
To arm the hand of childhood, and rebrace
The slacken'd sinews of time-wearied age.
Yes, we may meet, ingrateful boy, we may !
Again the buried genius of old Rome

Shall from the dust uprear his reverend head,
Roused by the shout of millions: There before
His high tribunal thou and I appear.
Let majesty sit on thy awful brow,

And lighten from thy eye: Around thee call
The gilded swarm that wantons in the sunshine
Of thy full favour: Seneca be there
In gorgeous phrase of labour'd eloquence
To dress thy plea, and Burrhus strengthen it
With his plain soldier's oath, and honest seeming.
Against thee, liberty and Agrippina :

The world, the prize; and fair befall the victors.
But soft! why do I waste the fruitless hours
In threats unexecuted? Haste thee, fly
These hated walls, that seem to mock my shame,
And cast me forth in duty to their lord.

Acer. 'Tis time we go, the sun is high advanced,
And, ere mid-day, Nero will come to Baixo.
Agrip. My thought aches at him; not the basilisk
More deadly to the sight, than is to me
The cool injurious eye of frozen kindness.
I will not meet its poison. Let him feel
Before he sees me.

Acer. Why then stays my sovereign,
Where he so soon may-
Agrip.

-

Yes, I will be gone,

But not to Antium-all shall be confess'd,
Whate'er the frivolous tongue of giddy fame
Has spread among the crowd; things that but
whisper'd,

Have arch'd the hearer's brow, and riveted

His eyes in fearful ecstacy: No matter
What; so't be strange, and dreadful.-Sorceries,
Assassinations, poisonings-the deeper
My guilt, the blacker his ingratitude.
And you, ye manes of ambition's victims,
Enshrined Claudius, with the pitied ghosts
Of the Syllani, doom'd to early death,
(Ye unavailing horrors, fruitless crimes!)
If from the realms of night my voice ye hear,
In lieu of penitence, and vain remorse,
Accept my vengeance. Though by me ye bled,
He was the cause. My love, my fears for him,
Dried the soft springs of pity in my heart,
And froze them up with deadly cruelty.
Yet if your injured shades demand my fate,
If murder cries for murder, blood for blood,
Let me not fall alone; but crush his pride,
And sink the traitor in his mother's ruin.,

[Exeunt.

Of amorous thefts: And had her wanton son
Lent us his wings, we could not have beguiled
With more elusive speed the dazzled sight
Of wakeful jealousy. Be gay securely;
Dispel, my fair, with smiles, the tim❜rous cloud
That hangs on thy clear brow. So Helen look'd,
So her white neck reclined, so was she borne
By the young Trojan to his gilded bark
With fond reluctance, yielding modesty,
And oft reverted eye, as if she knew not
Whether she fear'd, or wish'd to be pursued.

CUTHBERT SHAW was the son of a shoemaker, and was born at Ravensworth, near Richmond, in Yorkshire. He was for some time usher to the grammar-school at Darlington, where he published, in 1756, his first poem, entitled “Liberty,” | He afterwards appeared in London and other places as a player; but having no recommendations for the stage, except a handsome figure, he betook himself to writing for subsistence. In 1762 he attacked Colman, Churchill, Lloyd, and Shirley, in a satire, called "The Four Farthing Candles ;" and next selected the author of the Rosciad as the exclusive subject of a mock-heroic poem, entitled, "The Race, by Mercurius Spur, with Notes by Faustinus Scriblerus." He had, for some time, the care of instructing an infant son of the Earl of Chesterfield in the first rudiments of learning. He married a woman of

*

superior connexions, who, for his sake, forfeited the countenance of her family; but who did not live long to share his affections and misfortunes. Her death, in 1768, and that of their infant, occasioned those well-known verses which give an interest to his memory. Lord Lyttelton, struck by their feeling expression of a grief similar to his own, solicited his acquaintance, and distinguished him by his praise; but rendered him no substantial assistance. The short remainder of his days was spent in literary drudgery. He wrote a satire on political corruption, with many other articles, which appeared in the Freeholder's Magazine. Disease and dissipation carried him off in the prime of life, after the former had left irretrievable marks of its ravages upon his

countenance.

WHERE'ER I turn my eyes,

Some sad memento of my loss appears; I fly the fated house-suppress my sighs, Resolved to dry my unavailing tears:

Where were the delegates of Heaven, oh where !
Appointed virtue's children safe to keep!

Had innocence or virtue been their care,
She had not died, nor had I lived to weep:

Of all that sweetness, that enchanting air,

Now lost; and nought remains but anguish and

despair.

[* A poem of which no copy is known to exist.]

To see her force the endearing smile,
My sorrows to beguile,

When torture's keenest rage she proved;
Sure they had warded that untimely dart,
Which broke her thread of life, and rent a hus-

band's heart.

How shall I e'er forget that dreadful hour,
When, feeling death's resistless power,
My hand she press'd wet with her falling tears,
And thus, in faltering accents, spoke her fears!
"Ah, my loved lord, the transient scene is o'er,
And we must part (alas !) to meet no more!
But, oh! if e'er thy Emma's name was dear,
If e'er thy vows have charm'd my ravish'd ear!
If from my loved embrace my heart to gain,
Proud friends have frown'd, and fortune smiled in
If it has been my sole endeavour still
To act in all obsequious to thy will;

[vain;

To watch thy very smiles, thy wish to know,
Then only truly blest when thou wert so:
If I have doated with that fond excess,
Nor love could add, nor fortune make it less ;
If this I've done, and more-oh then be kind
To the dear lovely babe I leave behind.
When time my once-loved memory shall efface,
Some happier maid may take thy Emma's place,
With envious eyes thy partial fondness see,
And hate it for the love thou bore to me:
My dearest Shaw, forgive a woman's fears,
But one word more (I cannot bear thy tears)
Promise and I will trust thy faithful vow,
(Oft have I tried, and ever found thee true)
That to some distant spot thou wilt remove
This fatal pledge of hapless Emma's love,
Where safe thy blandishments it may partake,
And, oh! be tender for its mother's sake.
Wilt thou?-

I know thou wilt-sad silence speaks assent,
And in that pleasing hope thy Emma dies content."

I, who with more than manly strength have bore
The various ills imposed by cruel fate,
Sustain the firmness of my soul no more-
But sink beneath the weight:

Just Heaven (I cried) from memory's earliest day
No comfort has thy wretched suppliant known,
Misfortune still with unrelenting sway

Has claim'd me for her own. But Oin pity to my grief, restore This only source of bliss; I ask-I ask no moreVain hope th' irrevocable doom is past, Even now she looks-she sighs her lastVainly I strive to stay her fleeting breath, [death. And with rebellious heart, protest against her

Perhaps kind Heaven in mercy dealt the blow,
Some saving truth thy roving soul to teach;
To wean thy heart from grovelling views below,
And point out bliss beyond misfortune's reach;
To show that all the flattering schemes of joy,
Which towering hope so fondly builds in air,
One fatal moment can destroy,
And plunge th' exulting maniac in despair.
Then, O! with pious fortitude sustain
Thy present loss-haply, thy future gain;

Nor let thy Emma die in vain ;

Time shall administer its wonted balm,

And hush this storm of grief to no unpleasing calm.

Thus the poor bird, by some disastrous fate Caught and imprison'd in a lonely cage, Torn from its native fields, and dearer mate, Flutters a while and spends its little rage: But, finding all its efforts weak and vain,

No more it pants and rages for the plain; Moping a while, in sullen mood

Droops the sweet mourner-but, ere long, Prunes its light wings, and pecks its food, And meditates the song :

Serenely sorrowing, breathes its piteous case, And with its plaintive warblings saddens all the place.

Forgive me, Heaven-yet-yet the tears will flow, To think how soon my scene of bliss is past! My budding joys just promising to blow,

All nipt and wither'd by one envious blast! My hours, that laughing wont to fleet away, Move heavily along ;

Where's nowthesprightly jest, the jocund song? Time creeps unconscious of delight: How shall I cheat the tedious day?

And O--the joyless night! Where shall I rest my weary head?

How shall I find repose on a sad widow'd bed?

Sickness and sorrow hovering round my bed,

Who now with anxious haste shall bring relief, With lenient hand support my drooping head, Assuage my pains, and mitigate my grief? Should worldly business call away,

Who now shall in my absence fondly mourn,
Count every minute of the loitering day,
Impatient for my quick return?
Should aught my bosom discompose,
Who now with sweet complacent air
Shall smooth the rugged brow of care,

And soften all my woes?
Too faithful memory-Cease, O cease-
How shall I e'er regain my peace?

(0 to forget her!)-but how vain each art, Whilst every virtue lives imprinted on my heart.

And thou, my little cherub, left behind,

To hear a father's plaints, to share his woes, When reason's dawn informs thy infant mind, And thy sweet-lisping tongue shall ask the cause, How oft with sorrow shall mine eyes run o'er,

When twining round my knees I trace Thy mother's smile upon thy face? How oft to my full heart shalt thou restore Sad memory of my joys-ah now no more! By blessings once enjoy'd now more distress'd, More beggar by the riches once possess'd. My little darling!dearer to me grown [hear!) By all the tears thou'st caused-(0 strange to Bought with a life yet dearer than thy own, Thy cradle purchased with thy mother's bier! Who now shall seek, with fond delight, Thy infant steps to guide aright?

She who with doating eyes would gaze
On all thy little artless ways,

By all thy soft endearments blest,

And clasp thee oft with transport to her breast,
Alas! is gone-yet shalt thou prove
A father's dearest tenderest love;
And O sweet senseless smiler (envied state!)
As yet unconscious of thy hapless fate,

When years thy judgment shall mature, And reason shows those ills it cannot cure,

Wilt thou, a father's grief to assuage, For virtue prove the phoenix of the earth? (Like her, thy mother died to give thee birth) And be the comfort of my age!

When sick and languishing I lie,
Wilt thou my Emma's wonted care supply!
And oft as to thy listening ear
Thy mother's virtues and her fate I tell,

Say, wilt thou drop the tender tear,
Whilst on the mournful theme I dwell?
Then, fondly stealing to thy father's side,
Whene'er thou seest the soft distress,
Which I would vainly seek to hide,

Say, wilt thou strive to make it less? To soothe my sorrows all thy cares employ, And in my cup of grief infuse one drop of joy!

TOBIAS SMOLLETT was the grandson of Sir James Smollett, of Bonhill, a member of the Scottish parliament, and one of the commissioners for the Union. The father of the novelist was a younger son of the knight, and had married without his consent. He died in the prime of life, and left his children dependent on their grandfather. Were we to trust to Roderick Random's account of his relations, for authentic portraits of the author's family, we should entertain no very prepossessing idea of the old gentleman; but it appears that Sir James Smollett supported his son, and educated his grandchildren.

Smollett was born near Renton, in the parish of Cardross, and shire of Dumbarton, and passed his earliest years among those scenes on the banks of the Leven, which he has described with some interest in the Adventures of Humphrey Clinker. He received his first instructions in classical learning at the school of Dumbarton. He was afterwards removed to the college of Glasgow, where he pursued the study of medicine; and, according to the practice then usual in medical education, was bound apprentice to a Mr. Gordon, a surgeon in that city. Gordon is generally said to have been the original of Potion in Roderick Random. This has been denied by Smollett's biographers; but their conjecture is of no more weight than the tradition which it contradicts. In the characters of a work, so compounded of truth and fiction, the author alone could have estimated the personality which he intended, and of that intention he was not probably communicative. The tradition still remaining at Glasgow is, that Smollett was a restive apprentice, and a mischievous stripling. While at the university he cultivated the study of literature, as well as of medicine, and showed a disposition for poetry, but very often in that bitter vein of satire which he carried so plentifully into

the temper of his future years. He had also, before he was eighteen, composed a tragedy, entitled "The Regicide." This tragedy was not published | till after the lapse of ten years, and then it probably retained but little of its juvenile shape. When printed, "to shame the rogues," it was ushered in by a preface, abusing the stage-managers, who had rejected it, in a strain of indignation with which the perusal of the play itself did not dispose the reader to sympathise.

The death of his grandfather left Smollett without provision, and obliged him to leave his studies at Glasgow prematurely. He came to London, and obtained the situation of a surgeon's mate on board a ship of the line, which sailed in the unfortunate expedition to Carthagena. The strong picture of the discomforts of his naval life, which he afterwards drew, is said to have attracted considerable attention to the internal economy of our ships of war, and to have occasioned the commencement of some salutary reformations. But with all the improvements which have been made, it is to be feared that the situation of an assistant surgeon in the navy is stil left less respectable and comfortable than it ought to be made. He is still without equal advantages to those of a surgeon's mate in the army, and is put too low in the rank of officers.

Smollett quitted the naval service in the West Indies, and resided for some time in Jamaica. He returned to London in 1746, and in the following year married a Miss Lascelles, whom he had courted in Jamaica, and with whom he had the promise of 30001. Of this sum, however, he obtained but a small part, and that after an expensive lawsuit. Being obliged therefore to have recourse to his pen for his support, he, in 1748, published his Roderick Random, the most popular of all the novels on which his high reputation rests. Three years elapsed before the appearance of Peregrine Pickle. In the interval be

had visited Paris, where his biographer, Dr. Moore, who knew him there, says that he indulged in the common prejudices of the English against the French nation, and never attained the language so perfectly as to be able to mix familiarly with the inhabitants. When we look to the rich traits of comic effect, which his English characters derive from transferring the scene to France, we can neither regard his journey as of slight utility to his powers of amusement, nor regret that he attended more to the follies of his countrymen than to French manners and phraseology. After the publication of Peregrine Pickle he attempted to establish himself at Bath as a physician, but was not successful. His failure has been attributed to the haughtiness of his manners. It is not very apparent, however, what claims to medical estimation he could advance; and the celebrity for aggravating and exposing personal follies, which he had acquired by his novels, was rather too formidable to recommend him as a confidential visitant to the sick chambers of fashion. To a sensitive valetudinarian many diseases would be less alarming than a doctor, who might slay the character by his ridicule, and might not save the body by his prescriptions.

Returning disappointed from Bath, he fixed his residence at Chelsea, and supported himself during the rest of his life by his literary employments. The manner in which he lived at Chelsea, and the hospitality which he afforded to many of his poorer brethren of the tribe of literature, have been somewhat ostentatiously described by his own pen; but Dr. Moore assures us, that the account of his liberality is not overcharged. In 1753 he produced his novel of " Count Fathom ;" and three years afterwards, whilst confined in prison, for a libel on Admiral Knowles, amused himself with writing the "Adventures of Sir Launcelot Greaves." In the following year he attempted the stage in a farce, entitled the

Critical Review, in particular, embroiled him in rancorous personalities, and brought forward the least agreeable parts of his character. He supported the ministry of Lord Bute with his pen, but missed the reward which he expected. Though he had realised large sums by several of his works, he saw the evening of his life approach, with no provision in prospect, but what he could receive from severe and continued labours; and with him, that evening might be said to approach prematurely, for his constitution seems to have begun to break down when he was not much turned of forty. The death of his only daughter obliged him to seek relief from sickness and melancholy by travelling abroad for two years; and the Account of his Travels in France and Italy, which he published on his return, afforded a dreary picture of the state of his mind. Soon after his return from the Continent, his health still decaying, he made a journey to Scotland, and renewed his attachment to his friends and relations. His constitution again requiring a more genial climate, and as he could ill support the expense of travelling, his friends tried, in vain, to obtain for him from ministers, the situation of consul at Nice, Naples, or Leghorn. Smollett had written both for and against ministers, perhaps not always from independent motives; but to find the man, whose genius has given exhilaration to millions, thus reduced to beg, and to be refused the means that might have smoothed the pillow of his death-bed in a foreign country, is a circumstance which fills the mind rather too strongly with the recollection of Cervantes. He set out, however, for Italy in 1770, and, though debilitated in body, was able to compose his novel of "Humphrey Clinker." After a few months' residence in the neighbourhood of Leghorn, he expired there, in his fifty-first year t.

The few poems which he has left have a portion of delicacy which is not to be found in his novels; but they have not, like those prose fictions, the strength of a master's hand. Were he to live over again, we might wish him to write more poetry, in the belief that his poetical talent would improve by exercise; but we should be glad to have more of his novels just as they are.

MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground;
[* In Humphrey Clinker.]

[t Fielding and Smollett went abroad for health-but abroad to die-the one at Lisbon, the other at Leghorn. Sir Walter Scott, who wrote their lives, was impressed with their fates; sought in vain for health where they had sought it, but lived to return, to relapse, and to die.

Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door ;
In smoky ruins sunk they lie,

The monuments of cruelty.

There is something melancholy in the similarity of their stories towards the close.]

[This passage is quoted by Sir Walter Scott in his Memoir of Smollett. "The truth is," he adds, "that in these very novels are expended many of the ingredients both of grave and humorous poetry.” Misc. Works, vol. iii. p. 176.]

LL