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Mr. Sh-r-d-n, from the fame.

EXT follows Sh-r-d-n.. -A doubtful name,
As yet unfettled in the rank of fame.
This, fondly lavifh in his praifes grown,
Gives him all merit; that allows him none.
Between them both, we'll fteer the middle courfe,
Nor, loving praife, rob judgment of her force.
Juft his conceptions, natural and great :

His feelings ftrong, his words enforc'd with weight.
Was fpeech-fam'd Q- n himself to hear him fpeak,
Envy would drive the colour from his cheek :
But ftep-dame Nature, niggard of her grace,
Deny'd the focial pow'rs of voice and face.
Fix'd in one frame of feature, glare of eye,
Paffions like chaos, in confufion lie:
In vain the wonders of his skill are try'd
To form diftinction nature hath deny'd.

His voice no touch of harmony admits,
Irregularly deep and fhrill by fits:"

The two extremes appear, like man and wife,
Coupled together for the fake of strife.

His action's always ftrong, but fometimes fuch
That candour must declare he acts too much.
Why muft impatience fall three paces back?
Why paces three return to the attack?
Why is the right leg too forbid to ftir,
Unless in motion femircircular?
Why muft the hero with the nailor vie,
And hurl the clofe-clench'd fift at nose or eye?
In Royal John, with Philip angry grown,

I thought he would have knock'd poor D-v-s down,
Inhuman tyrant! was it not a fhame,
To fright a king fo harmless and fo tame?"

But, fpite of all defects, his glories rise;
And art, by judgment form'd, with nature vies.
Behold him found the depth of Hubert's foul,
Whilft in his own contending paffions roll.
View the whole scene, with critic judgment fcan,
And then- deny him merit if you can.
Where he falls fhort, 'tis Nature's fault alone:
Where he fucceeds, the Merit's all his own.

Mr.

L

Mr. Garrick, from the fame.

AST Garrick came

-Behind him a throng train

Of fnarling critics, ignorant as vain. One finds out,

"He's of ftature fomewhat low,

Your heroe always fhould be tall, you know.-
True nat❜ral greatnefs all confifts in height."
Produce your voucher, critic." Serjeant Kite."
Another can't forgive the paltry arts

By which he makes his way to fhallow hearts;
Mere pieces of fineffe, traps for applause.
"Avant unnatʼral start, affected pause.

For me, by nature form'd to judge with phlegm,
I can't acquit by wholefale, nor condemn.
The best things carried to excess are wrong:
The start may be too frequent, paufe too long.
But only us'd in proper time and place,
Severeft judgment muft allow them grace.

If bunglers, form'd on imitation's plan,
Juft in the way that monkies mimic man;
Their copied fcene with mangled arts difgrace,
And pause and start with the fame vacant face;
We join the critic laugh; those tricks we scora,
Which spoil the scenes they mean them to adorn.

But when, from nature's pure and genuine fource,
Thefe ftrokes of acting flow with gen'rous force
When in the features all the foul's pourtrayed,
And paffions, fuch as Garrick's, are displayed;
To me they seem from quickest feelings caught:
Each start is nature; and each pause is thought.

When reason yields to paffion's wild alarms,
And the whole state of man is up in arms;
What, but a critic, could condemn the play'r
For paufing here, when cool fense pauses there?
Whilft, working from the heart, the fire I trace,
And mark it ftrongly flaming to the face;
Whilft, in each found, I hear the very man;
I can't catch words, and pity those who can.

Let wits, like fpiders, from the tortur'd brain
Fine-draw the critic-web with curious pain;
The gods,a kindness I with thanks must pay,
Have form'd me of a coarfer kind of clay;
Nor ftung with envy, nor with spleen difeas'd,
A poor dull creature, ftill with nature pleas'd;
Hence to thy praifes, Garrick, I agree,

And, pleas'd with nature, must be pleas'd with thee,

Now

Now might I tell how filence reign'd throughout,
And deep attention hush'd the rabble rout;
How ev'ry claimant, tortur'd with defire,
Was pale as afhes, or as red as fire :

But, loose to fame, the Mufe more fimply acts,
Rejects all flourish, and relates mere facts.
The judges, as the fev'ral parties came,

With temper heard, with judgment weigh'd each claim,
And in their fentence happily agreed,

In name of both, great Shakespear thus decreed:
"If manly fente; if nature link'd with art;
If thorough knowledge of the human heart;
If pow'rs of acting, vaft and unconfin'd
If feweft faults with greatest beauties join'd;
If ftrong expreffion, and ftrange pow'rs, which lie
Within the magic circle of the eye:

;

If feelings which few hearts, like his, can know,
And which no face fo well as his can fhew;

Deferve the pref'rence; -Garrick, take the chair;
Nor quit it-'till thou place an equal there.

The fongs of Selma*. From the original of Offian the Son of Fingal.

Quis talia fando

Temperet a lacrimis?

VIRGIL.

F

AIR light! that, breaking through the clouds of day,
Dartest along the weft thy filver ray;
Whose radiant locks around their glory spread,
As o'er the hills thou rear'ft thy glittering head;
Bright evening ftar! what fees thy fparking eye
What fpirits glide their mouldering bodies nigh?
The ftorm is o'er; and now the murmuring found,
Of diftant torrents creeps along the ground;

?

This poem fixes the antiquity of a cuftom, which is well known to have prevailed afterwards, in the north of Scotland, and in Ireland. The bards, at an annual feast, provided by king or chief, repeated their poems, and fuch of them as were thought, by him, worthy of being preferved, were carefully taught to their children, in order to have them tranfmitted to pofterity.It was one of thofe occafions that afforded the fubject of the prefent poem to Offian.. It is called in the original, the fong of Selma, which title it was thought proper to adopt in the tranflation.

The poem is entirely lyric, and has great variety of verfification. The addrefs to the evening ftar, with which it opens, has in the original all the harmony that numbers could give it; flowing down with all that tranquillity and foftness, which the fcene described naturally infpires.Three of the fongs, which are introduced in this piece, were pub lifhed among the fragments of, ancient poetry, printed laft year. See them in our laft Volume.

Around

Alpin

Around the rocks the lafhing billows cling;
And drowsy beetles rife on feeble wing:
Across the plain I hear their humming flight;

But what, bright beam! is feen by thine all-piercing fight ?-
Ha! thou dost haften fmiling to the weft;
In Ocean's wat❜ry bed to take thy reft.
With open arms its waves thy form embrace,
Bathe thy bright locks, and hide thy lovely face.
Farewel, thou filent harbinger of night!
Thine aid's fupplied by Offian's mental fight.

I fee, I fell, the light arife,
That opes the bard's all-feeing eyes.
And now, on Lora's rifing ground,
My friends departed gather round;
As when they met in former days,
To hear and fing the fongs of praise.
Lo! Fingal like a watery cloud,
Around him fee! his warriors croud,
And bards, to whom did once belong
The ftrength and sweetness of the fong.
There Ullin's locks of filver gray,
And Ryno, comely as the day:
Alpin*, with tuneful voice; and there
The fongstress sweet, Minona fair';
On whole fo-foftly plaintive tongue
Enraptur'd chiefs attentive hung.-

Alas! my friends! if thefe my friends I fee,
How chang'd your faded forms appear to me!
How chang'd indeed! fince when, at Fingal's call,
Our fongs were heard in Selma's echoing hall;
When o'er the festive board and jovial fhell,
Our harps were ftrung of mighty deeds to tell,
Of heroes flain, and tales of maiden's wrongs;
Our friendly conteft whofe the nobleft fongs.
"Twas there Minona †, then a beauteous maid,
Whose blushing cheeks her modest fears betray'd.

from the fame root with Albion, or rather Albin, the ancient name of Britain; Alp, high Inland, or country. The prefent name of our island has its original in the Celtic tongue; fo that those who derived it from any other, betrayed their igno rance of the ancient language of our country.- -Breac't in, variegated ifland, Lo called from the face of the country, from the natives painting themselves, or from their party-coloured cloaths.

+ Offian introduces Minona, not in the ideal scene of his own mind, which he had de scribed; but at the annual feaft of Selma, where the bards repeated their works before Fingal,

With locks expos'd to every guft of wind,
And tearful eye, that spoke her anxious mind,
Stood forth, the tale of haplefs loye to fing;
To footh the foul of Morven's mighty king.
The feaft forgot, the chiefs no more rejoice;
But mournful liften to her plaintive voice.
For well they knew where Salgar's || corfe was laid,
And Colma's § tomb, the fnow-white-hofom'd maid.
Hard was her lot, fair virgin! all alone,

On mountain wilds to vent her fruitless moan;
To chide her lover's abfence, as unkind,
And waste her voice of mufic in the wind:
With tears of death, in anguifh, to deplore
Her fallen friends, who rife, alas! no more.

Her fad complaint the fair Minona fung,
In words that drop'd from Colma's tuneful tongue.

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