nature. But the truth is, thefe elegies have neither paffion, nature, nor manners. Where there is fiction, there is no paffion; he that describes himself as a fhepherd, and his Neæra or Delia as a fhepherdess, and talks of goats and lambs, feels no paffion. He that courts his mistress with Róman imagery deferves to lose her for the may with good reason fufpect his fincerity. Hammond has few fentiments drawn from nature, and few images from modern life. He produces nothing but frigid pedantry. It would be hard to find in all his productions three ftanzas that deferve to be remembered.

ROD

Like

Like other lovers, he threatens the lady with dying, and what then fhallfollow?

Wilt thou in tears thy lover's corfe attend;

With eyes averted light the folemn pyre, Till all around the doleful flames afcend,

Then, flowly finking, by degrees expire? To footh the hovering foul be thine the care, With plaintive cries to lead the mournful band. In fable weeds the golden vafe to bear,

And cull my afhes with thy trembling hand; Panchaia's odours be their coftly feast,

And all the pride of Afia's fragrant year, Give them the treasures of the farthest East,

And, what is still more precious, give thy tear.

Surely no blame can fall upon the nymph who rejected a swain of fo little meaning.

His verses are not rugged, but they have no sweetnefs; they never glide in a ftream of melody. Why Hammond or other writers have thought the quatrain of ten fyllables elegiac, it is difficult to tell. The character of the Elegy is gentleness and tenuity; but this stanza has been pronounced by Dryden, whofe knowledge of English metre was not inconfiderable, to be the most magnificent of all the measures which our language affords.

THE

THE following Elegy was acciden

tally omitted:

TO MISS DASHWOOD.

In the Manner of O v I D.

O fay, thou dear poffeffor of my breast, Where's now my boasted liberty and rest!

Where the gay moments which I once have known!

O, where that heart I fondly thought my own! From place to place I folitary roam,

Abroad uneafy, not content at home.

I fcorn the beauties common eyes adore;

The more I view them, feel thy worth the more;
Unmov'd I hear them speak, or see them fair,
And only think on thee, who art not there.
In vain would books their formal fuccour lend,
Nor wit nor wisdom can relieve their friend;

Wit can't deceive the pain I now endure,.

And wisdom fhews the ill without the cure.
When from thy fight I waste the tedious day,
A thousand schemes I form, and things to fay;
But when thy prefence gives the time I feek,
My heart's fo full, I wish, but cannot speak.
And could I fpeak with eloquence and ease,
Till now not ftudious of the art to please,
Could I, at woman who fo oft exclaim,

Expofe (nor blush) thy triumph and my flame,
Abjure thofe maxims I fo lately priz'd,
And court that fex I foolifhly defpis'd,

f

Own thou haft foften'd my obdurate mind,
And thus reveng'd the wrongs of womankind;
Loft were my words, and fruitless all my pain,
In vain to tell thee, all I write in vain;
My humble fighs fhall only reach thy ears,
And all my eloquence fhall be my tears.
And now (for more I never must pretend)
Hear me not as thy lover, but thy friend;

I

Thcufands