place of the body's interment. St. Paul says, in the New Testament, and alluding to the immortality of the soul, there is a 66 a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens."-Our Saviour says, " in my father's house are many mansions,"-many places suitable to be assigned to my followers in their future state of existence. Mr. Clarke, who was a Christian, instantly thought, on seeing the tomb of the Lords of Richmond, of those other mansions of the dead; and because this noble race thus appeared to regard the grave as their last rest, he means at once to satirize and reprove their seeming unbelief, by insinuating, that, perhaps the heavenly habitation mentioned by Paul would not suit the pride of Lords, or that Lords, though they enjoy high honours on earth, might be excluded from an inheritance in heaven.

The

Besides, the kinds of poetry, that have been mentioned, there are the mock-heroic, and the pastoral. mock-heroic gives a fanciful importance to trivial things. The commencement of Cowper's Task is mock-heroic. The poet describes the progressive elegance of seats used at different times in Britain. The whole passage is sprightly and amusing.

"Time was, when clothing sumptuous or for use,
Save their own painted skins, our sires had none.
As yet black breeches were not; satin smooth,
Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile:
The hardy chief upon the rugged rock
Wash'd by the sea, or on the gravelly bank
Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud,
Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength.
Those barbarous ages past, succeeded next
The birthday of invention; weak at first,
Dull in design, and clumsy to perform.
Jointstools were then created; on three legs
Upborne they stood. Three legs upholding firm
A massy slab, in fashion square or round.
On such a stool immortal Alfred sat,

And sway'd the sceptre of his infant realms :
And such in ancient halls and mansions drear

May still be seen; but perforated sore,
And drill'd in holes, the solid oak is found,
By worms voracious eating through and through.
At length a generation more refined

Improved the simple plan; made three legs four,
Gave them a twisted form vermicular,

And o'er the seat, with plenteous wadding stuff'd,
Induced a splendid cover, green and blue,
Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought
And woven close, or needlework sublime.
There might you see the piony spread wide,
The full-blown rose, the shepherd and his lass,
Lapdog and lambkin with black staring eyes,
And parrots with twin cherries in their beak.

Now came the cane from India smooth and bright With Nature's varnish; sever'd into stripes, That interlaced each other, these supplied Of texture firm a lattice-work, that braced The new machine, and it became a chair. But restless was the chair; the back erect Distress'd the weary loins, that felt no ease; The slippery seat betray'd the sliding part That press'd it, and the feet hung dangling down, Anxious in vain to find the distant floor.

These for the rich: the rest, whom Fate had placed In modest mediocrity, content

With base materials, sat on well-tann'd hides,

Obdurate and unyielding, glassy smooth,
With here and there a tuft of crimson yarn,

Or scarlet crewel, in the cushion fix'd,

If cushion might be call'd, what harder seem'd
Than the firm oak, of which the frame was form'd.
No want of timber then was felt or fear'd

In Albion's happy isle. The lumber stood
Ponderous and fix'd by its own massy weight.
But elbows still were wanting; these, some say,
An alderman of Cripplegate contrived;
And some ascribe the invention to a priest,
Burly, and big, and studious of his ease.

But, rude at first, and not with easy slope
Receding wide, they press'd against the ribs,
And bruised the side; and, elevated high,
Taught the raised shoulders to invade the ears.
Long time elapsed or ere our rugged sires
Complain'd, though incommodiously pent in,
And ill at ease behind. The ladies first
'Gan murmur, as became the softer sex.
Ingenious Fancy, never better pleased

Than when employ'd to accommodate the fair,
Heard the sweet moan with pity, and devised
The soft settee; one elbow at each end
And in the midst an elbow it received.
United yet divided, twain at once.

So sit two kings of Brentford on one throne;
And so two citizens, who take the air,

Close packed and smiling, in a chaise and one.
But relaxation of the languid frame,

By soft recumbency of outstretch'd limbs,
Was bliss reserved for happier days. So slow
The growth of what is excellent; so hard
To attain perfection in this nether world.
Thus first Necessity invented stools,
Convenience next suggested elbow-chairs,
And Luxury the accomplishe'd sofa last."

Pastoral poetry, as the name indicates, describes the shepherd's life, and indeed many modes of rural occupation and pleasure. In America we have no persons professedly devoted to the care of flocks, but in Asia and Europe, from time immemorial, this mode of life has been followed by considerable numbers. It is necessarily lonely and quiet, and disposes the mind to reflection. When Moses was a shepherd in Midian, he saw the vision of God; when the shepherds; mentioned by St. Luke, were "keeping watch over their flock by night, the glory of the Lord shone round about them." There is something peculiarly innocent and interesting in the occupation of shepherds; and the state of their minds, detached from the common business of life, may be supposed to be highly favourable to poetic thought; but, notwithstand

ing this presumption, Pastoral poetry is out of datelittle read, and, at present, not at all written. Many English poets from Chaucer to Shenstone have written Pastorals. Ambrose Phillips, a contemporary of Pope, wrote pastorals better than he wrote any thing else. As a specimen of this species of poetry, an extract from Phillips' Pastorals is subjoined. Two shepherds meet annually to bewail the loss of one of their young compeers; one of them, Angelot, here rehearses the praises of the dead Albino :

"Thus yearly circling, by-past times return;
And yearly, thus, Albino's death we mourn.
Sent into life, alas! how short thy stay:
How sweet the rose ! how speedy to decay!
Can we forget, Albino dear, thy knell,
Sad-sounding wide from every village bell;
Can we forget how sorely Albion moan'd,
That hills, and dales, and rocks, in echo groan'd,
Presaging future woe, when for our crimes,
We lost Albino, pledge of peaceful times,
Fair boast of this fair island, darling joy
Of nobles high, and every shepherd boy?

No joyous pipe was heard, no flocks were seen,
Nor shepherd found upon the grassy green,
No cattle graz'd the field, nor drank the flood,
No birds were heard to warble through the wood.
In yonder gloomy grove outstretch'd he lay
His lovely limbs upon the dampy clay;
On his cold cheek the rosy hue decay'd,
And o'er his lips the deadly blue display'd:
Beating around him lie his plaintive sheep,

And mourning shepherds come, in crowds, to weep.
Young Buckhurst comes: and, is there no redress?
As if the grave regarded our distress!
The tender virgins come, to tears yet new,
And give, aloud, the lamentations due.
The pious mother comes, with grief opprest:
Ye trees and conscious fountains, can attest
With what sad accents and what piercing cries,

She fill'd the grove, and importun'd the skies,
And every star upbraided with his death,

When, in her widow'd arms, devoid of breath,
She clasp'd her son: nor did the nymph, for this,
Place in her darling's welfare all her bliss,
Him teaching, young, the harmless crook to wield
And rule the peaceful empire of the field.

As milk-white swans on streams of silver show,
And silvery streams to grace the meadows flow,
As corn the vales, and trees the hills adorn,
So thou, to thine, an ornament was born.
Since thou, delicious youth, didst quit the plains,
Th' ungrateful ground we till with fruitless pains,
In labour'd furrows sow the choice of wheat,
And, over empty sheaves, in harvest sweat;
A thin increase our fleecy cattle yield;
And thorns, and thistles, overspread the field.
How all our hope is fled like morning-dew!
And scarce did we thy dawn of manhood view.
Who now shall teach the pointed spear to throw,
To whirl the sling, and bend the stubborn bow,
To toss the quoit with steady aim, and far,
With sinewy force, to pitch the massy bar :
Nor dost thou live to bless thy mother's days,
To share her triumphs, and to feel her praise,
In foreign realms to purchase early fame,
And add new glories to the British name."
O, peaceful may thy gentle spirit rest;
The flowery turf lie light upon thy breast;
Nor shrieking owl, nor bat, thy tomb fly round,
Nor midnight goblins revel o'er the ground!"

Poetry is descriptive when it exhibits the appearances of nature, as in Mr. Bryant's Green River-humorous when it would excite laughter, as in Byrom's Three Black Crows-pathetic when it induces the feelings of sadness and pity.-Gray's Elegy is pathetic. When humorous poetry excites contempt for any object by assuming dignity of style in representing it, we call it burlesque.

It may be remarked that poetry does not consist merely