to combine, to arrange his discoveries, and to amplify the sphere of his contemplation.

The great defect of the Seafons is want of method; but for this I know not that there was any remedy. Of many appearances fubfifting all at once, no rule can be given why one fhould be mentioned before another; yet the memory wants the help of order, and the curiofity is not excited by fufpenfe or expectation.

His diction is in the highest degree florid and luxuriant, fuch as may be faid to be to his images and thoughts both their luftre and their fhade; fuch as invefts them with fplendour, through

which perhaps they are not always eafily difcerned. It is too exuberant, and fometimes may be charged with filling the ear more than the mind.

These Poems, with which I was acquainted at their first appearance, I have fince found altered and enlarged by fubfequent revifals, as the author fuppofed his judgement to grow more exact, and as books or conversation extended his knowledge and opened his profpects. They are, I think, improved in general; yet I know not whether they have not loft part of what Temple calls their race; a word which, applied to wines, in its primitive sense, means the flavour of the foil.

Liberty, when it first appeared, I tried to read, and foon defifted. I have never tried again, and therefore will not hazard either praise or cenfure.

PRO

PROLOGUE TO SOPHONIS BA,

BY POPE AND MALLET.

WHEN Learning, after the long Gothic night, Fair, o'er the Western world, renew❜d its light, With arts arifing, Sophonisba rose :

The Tragic Mufe, returning, wept her woes. With her th' Italian fcene first learn'd to glow; And the first tears for her were taught to flow. Her charms the Gallic Mufes next inspir'd: Corneille himself faw, wonder'd, and was fir'd.

What foreign theatres with pride have shewn, Britain, by jufter title, makes her own.. When Freedom is the caufe, 'tis hers to fight; And hers, when Freedom is the theme, to write. For this a British Author bids again

The heroine rife, to grace the British scene.

Here

Here, as in life, fhe breathes her genuine flame: She asks, what bofom has not felt the fame ? Afks of the British Youth—Is filence there? She dares to ask it of the British Fair.

To-night, our home-fpun author would be true, At once, to nature, history, and

you.

Well-pleas'd to give our neighbours due applause,
He owns their learning, but difdains their laws.
Not to his patient touch, or happy flame,
'Tis to his British heart he trufts for fame.
If France excel him in one free-born thought,
The man, as well as poet, is in fault.

Nature! informer of the poet's art,

Whofe force alone can raise or melt the heart, Thou art his guide; each paffion, every line, Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine. Be thou his judge: in every candid breaft, Thy filent whisper is the facred teft.