Brought nothing home but sweets : Johnson would dash
Thro' sophist or grammarian ankle-deep,
And rummage in their mud to trace a date,
Or hunt a dogma down, that gave offence
To his philosophy

Both had a taste
For contradiction, but in mode unlike :
Johnson at once would doggedly pronounce
Opinions false, and after prove them such :
Burke, not less critical, but more polite,
With ceaseless volubility of tongue
Play'd round and round his subject, till at length
Content to find you willing to admire,
He ceas’d to urge, or win you, to assent.

Burke of a rival's eminence would speak
With candour always, often with applause :
Johnson, tho' prone to pity, rarely prais'd.

The pun, which Burke encourag’d, Johnson spurn'd: Yet none with louder glee would cheer the laugh, That well-tim’d wit or cleanly humour rais'd; And when no cloud obscur'd his mental sphere, And all was sunshine in his friendly breast, He would hold up a mirror to our eyes, In which the human follies might be seen In characters so comic, yet so true, Description from his lips was like a charm, That fix'd the hearers motionless and mute.

Burke by his senatorial pow'rs obtain'd
Ten times as much as Johnson by his pen;
But (thanks to Thurlow) I rejoice to own,
That learning and morality at last
Could earn a pittance, humble as it was.

Splendor of style, fertility of thought,
And the bold use of metaphor in both,
Strike us with rival beauty : Burke display'd
A copious period, that, with curious skill
And ornamental epithet drawn out,
Was, like the singer's cadence, sometimes apt,
Although melodious, to fatigue the ear :
Johnson, with terms unnaturalized and rude,
And Latinisms forced into his line,
Like raw undrill'd recruits, would load his text
High-sounding and uncouth ; yet if you cull
His happier pages, you will find a style

Quintilian might have praised: still I perceive
Nearer approach to purity in Burke,
Tho' not the full accession to that grace,
That chaste simplicity, which is the last
And best attainment author can possess.



From Psyche, a Poem, by Mrs. Tighe.
THEN pleasure sparkles in the cup of youth,

And the gay hours on downy wing advance,
Oh! then 'tis sweet to hear the lip of Truth
Breathe the soft vows of love, sweet to entrance
The raptured soul by intermingling glance
Of mutual bliss ; sweet amid roseate bowers,
Led by the hand of love, to weave the dance,

Or unmolested crop life's fairy flowers,
Or bask in joy's bright sun through calm unclouded hours.

Yet they, who light of heart in May-day pride
Meet love with smiles and gaily amorous song,
(Though he their softest pleasures may provide,
Èven then when pleasures in full concert throng),
They cannot know with what enchantment strong
He steals upon the tender suffering soul,
What gently-soothing charms to him belong,

How melting sorrow owns his soft control,
Subsiding passions hushed in milder waves to roll.

When vexed by cares and harassed by distress,
The storms of fortune chill thy soul with dread,
Let Love, consoling Love! still sweetly bless,
And his assuasive balm benignly shed :
His downy plumage o'er thy pillow spread,
Shall lull thy weeping sorrows to repose;
To Love the tender heart hath ever fled,

As on its mother s breast the infant throws
Its sobbing face, and there in sleep forgets its woes.

Oh ! fondly cherish then the lovely plant,
Which lenient Heaven hath given thy pains to ease ;
Its lustre shall thy summer hours enchant,
And load with fragrance every prosperous breeze ;
And when rude Winter shall thy roses seize,
When nought through all thy bowers but thorns remain,
This still with undeciduous charms shall please,

Screen from the blast, and shelter from the rain,
And still with verdure cheer the desolated plain.

Through the hard season Love with plaintive note
Like the kind red-breast tenderly shall sing,
Which swells 'mid dreary snows its tuneful throat,
Brushing the cold dews from its shivering wing,
With cheerful promise of returning Spring
To the oute tenants of the leafless

ve. Guard thy best treasure from the venom'd sting

Of banefül peevishness; oh! never prove
How soon ill-temper's power can banish gentle Love!

Repentance may the storms of passion chase,
And Love, who shrunk affrighted from the blast,
May hush his just complaints in soft embrace,
And smiling wipe his tearful eye at last :
Yet when the wind's rude violence is past,
Look what a wreck the scattered fields display!
See on the ground the withering blossoms cast !

And hear sad Philomel with piteous lay
Deplore the tempest's rage that swept her young away.

The tears capricious Beauty loves to shed,
The pouting lip, the sullen silent tongue,
May wake the impassioned Lover's tender dread,
And touch the spring that clasps his soul so strong;
But ah, beware! the gentle power too long
Will not endure the frown of angry

strife; He shuns contention, and the gloomy throng

Who blast the joys of calm domestic life,
And fies when Discord shakes her brand with quarrels rife.

Oh ! he will tell you that these quarrels bring
The ruin, not renewal of his flame :
If oft repeated, lo! on rapid wing
He flies to hide his fair but tender frame;
From violence, reproach, or peevish blame
Irrevocably fies. Lament in vain !
Indifference comes the abandoned heart to claim,

Asserts for ever her repulsive reign,
Close followed by Disgust and all her chilling train.

Indifference, dreadful power ! what art shall save
The good so cherished from thy grasping liand?
How shall young Love escape the untimely grave
Thy treacherous arts prepare? or how withstand
The insidious foe, who with her leaden band
Enchains the thoughtless, sluinbering deity ?
Ah, never more to wake! or e’er expand

His golden pinions to the breezy sky,
Or open to the sun his dim and languid eye.

Who can describe the hopeless, silent pang
With which the gentle heart first marks her sway ?
Eyes the sure progress of her icy fang
Resistless, slowly fastening on her prey;
Sees Rapture's brilliant colours fade away,
And all the glow of beaming sympathy ;
Anxious to watch the cold averted ray

That speaks no more to the fond meeting eye
Enchanting tales of love, and tenderness, and joy.

Too faithful heart ! thou never canst retrieve
Thy withered hopes : conceal the cruel pain !
O'er thy lost treasure still in silence grieve ;
But never to the unfeeling ear complain :
From fruitless struggles dearly bought refrain !
Submit at once-the bitter task resign,
Nor watch and fan the expiring flame in vain ;

Patience, consoling maid, may yet be thine,
Go seek her quiet cell, and hear her voice divine !

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While still, in undisturbed repose,

Uninjured lies the futare birth

And Ignorance, with sceptic eye,

Hope's patient smile shall wondering view; Or mock her fond credulity,

As her soft tears the spot bedew.

Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear !

The sun the shower indeed shall come ;
The promised verdant shoot appear,

And Nature bid her blossoms bloom.

And thou, O virgin Queen of Spring!

Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed,
Bursting thy green sheath's silken string,

Unveil thy charms, and perfume shed;

Unfold thy robes of purest white,

Unsullied from their darksome grave,
And thy soft petal's silvery light

In the mild breeze unfettered wave.

So Faith shall seek the lowly dust

Where humble Sorrow loves to lie,
And bid her thus her hopes entrust,

And watch with patient, cheerful eye;.
And bear the long, cold, wintry night,

And bear her own degraded doom,
And wait till Heaven's reviving light,

Eternal spring shall burst the gloom.


From the Plants, Canto IV. By WILLIAM Tighe, Esq.


YOME, Fancy, from the Hesperian isles, or where

Elysian flowers perfume the eternal spring, Dip thy light pencil in each fairy hue And paint the living scene.-Lo! where the dates , Hang golden clusters to the cloudless sky; And careless Arabs quaff the cooling breath Of night, or slumber unconfined beneath The stars which glitter through their verdant palms ! Lo! where rich cocoas wave, in boundless


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