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JOSEPH Warton, D. D., born in 1722, was the Pope." Scarcely any work of the kind has afforded eldest son of the Rev. Thomas Warton, poetry-pro- more entertainment, from the vivacity of its refessor at Oxford, and Vicar of Basingstoke. He marks, the taste displayed in its criticisms, and the received his early education under his father, and at various anecdotes of which it became the vehicle ; the age of fourteen was admitted on the foundation though some of the last were of a freer cast than at Winchester school. He was afterwards entered perfectly became his character. This reason, perof Oriel college, Oxford, where he assiduously cul haps, caused the second volume to be kept back till tivated his literary taste, and composed some pieces twenty-six years after. In 1766 he was advanced of poetry, which were afterwards printed. Having to the post of head-master of Winchester school, on taken the degree of B.D. he became curate to his which occasion he visited Oxford, and took the defather at Basingstoke; and in 1746 removed to a grees of bachelor and doctor of divinity. similar employment at Chelsea. In 1748 he was The remainder of his life was chiefly occupied by presented by the Duke of Bolton to the rectory i schemes of publications, and by new preferments, of Winslade, soon after which he married. He ace of the last of which he obtained a good share, though companied his patron in 1751 on a tour to the of moderate rank. In 1793 he closed his long lasouth of France; and after his return be completed bours at Winchester by a resignation of the master, an edition of Virgil, in Latin and English ; of ship, upon which he retired to his rectory of Wickwhich the Eclogues and Georgics were his own ham. Still fond of literary employment, he accomposition, the Eneid was the version of Pitt. cepted a proposal of the booksellers to superintend Warton also contributed notes on the whole, and an edition of Pope's works, which was completed, added three preliminary essays, on pastoral, didac- | in 1797, in nine vols. 8vo. Other engagements still tic, and epic poetry. When the Adventurer was pursued him, till his death, in his 78th year, Feundertaken by Dr. Hawksworth, Warton, through bruary, 1800. The Wiccamists attested their regard the medium of Dr. Johnson, was invited to become to his memory, by erecting an elegant monument a contributor, and his compliance with this request over his tomb in Winchester cathedral. produced twenty-four papers, of which the greater The poems of Dr. Warton consist of miscellapart were essays on critical topics.

neous and occasional pieces, displaying a cultivated In 1755 he was elected second master of Win- taste, and an exercised imagination, but without any chester school, with the accompanying advantage of claim to originality. His “ Ode to Fancy,” first a boarding-house. In the following year there ap- published in Dodsley's collection, is perhaps that peared, but without his naine, the first volume, 8vo., which has been the most admired. of his “ Essay on the Writings and Genius of

To Gothic churches, vaults, and tombs,

Where each sad night some virgin comes, ODE TO FANCY.

With throbbing breast, and faded cheek,

Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek; O PARENT of each lovely Muse,

Or to some abbey's mould'ring tow'rs, Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse,

Where, to avoid cold wintry show'rs, O'er all my artless songs preside,

The naked beggar shivering lies, My footsteps to thy temple guide,

While whistling tempests round her rise, To offer at thy turf-built shrine,

And trembles lest the tottering wall In golden cups no costly wine,

Should on her sleeping infants fall. No murder'd fatling of the flock,

Now let us louder strike the lyre, But flowers and honey from the rock.

For my heart glows with martial fire, O nymph with loosely-flowing hair,

I feel, I feel, with sudden heat, With buskin's leg, and bosom bare,

My big tumultuous bosom beat; Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,

The trumpet's clangours pierce my car, Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,

A thousand widows' shrieks I hear; Waving in thy snowy hand

Give me another horse, I cry, An all-commanding magic wand,

Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly; Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow,

Whence is this rage? — what spirit, say, 'Mid cheerless Lapland's barren snow,

To battle hurries me away? Whose rapid wings thy flight convey

'T is Fancy, in her fiery car, Thro' air, and over earth and sea,

Transports me to the thickest war, While the vast various landscape lies

There whirls me o'er the hills of slain, Conspicuous to thy piercing eyes.

Where Tumult and Destruction reign; O lover of the desert, hail !

Where mad with pain, the wounded stocd Say, in what deep and pathless vale,

Tramples the dying and the dead; Or on what hoary mountain's side,

Where giant Terrour stalks around, 'Mid fall of waters, you reside,

With sullen joy surveys the ground, 'Mid broken rocks, a rugged scene,

And, pointing to th' ensanguin'd field, With green and grassy dales between,

Shakes his dreadful gorgon shield ! 'Mid forests dark of aged oak,

O guide me from this horrid scene, Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke,

To high-arch'd walks and alleys green, Where never human art appear'd,

Which lovely Laura seeks, to shun Nor ev'n one straw-roof'd cot was rear'd,

The fervours of the mid-day sun; Where Nature seems to sit alone,

The pangs of absence, O remove! Majestic on a craggy throne;

For thou canst place me near my love, Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell,

Canst fold in visionary bliss, To thy unknown sequester'd cell,

And let me think I steal a kiss, Where woodbines cluster round the door,

While her ruby lips dispense Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor,

Luscious nectar's quintessence! And on whose top an hawthorn blows,

When young-eyed Spring profusely throws Amid whose thickly-woven boughs

From her green lap the pink and rose, Some nightingale still builds her nest,

When the soft turtle of the dale Each evening warbling thee to rest :

To Summer tells her tender tale, Then lay me by the haunted stream,

When Autumn cooling caverns seeks, Rapt in some wild, poetic dream,

And stains with wine bis jolly cheeks; In converse while methinks I rove

When Winter, like poor pilgrim old, With Spenser through a fairy grove;

Shakes his silver beard with cold; Till, suddenly awak’d, I hear

At every season let my ear Strange whisper'd music in my ear,

Thy solemn whispers, Fancy, bear. And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd

O warm, enthusiastic maid, By the sweetly-soothing sound !

Without thy powerful, vital aid, Me, goddess, by the right hand lead

That breathes an energy divine, Sometimes through the yellow mead,

That gives a soul to every line, Where Joy and white-rob’d Peace resort,

Ne'er may I strive with lips profane And Venus keeps her festive court,

To utter an unhallow'd strain, Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet, Nor dare to touch the sacred string, And lightly trip with nimble feet,

Save when with smiles thou bidd'st me sing. Nodding their lily-crowned heads,

O hear our prayer, O hither come Where Laughter rose-lipp'd Hebe leads,

From thy lamented Shakspeare's tomb, Where Echo walks steep hills among,

On which thou lov'st to sit at eve, List'ning to the shepherd's song :

Musing o'er thy darling's grave; Yet not these flowery fields of joy

O queen of numbers, once again Can long my pensive mind employ.

Animate some chosen swain, Haste, Fancy, from the scenes of folly,

Who, filled with unexhausted fire, To meet the matron Melancholy,

May boldly smite the sounding lyre, Goddess of the tearful eye,

Who with some new unequall'd song, That loves to fold her arms, and sigh;

May rise above the rhyming throng, Let us with silent footsteps go

O'er all our list’ning passions reign, To charnels and the house of woe,

O'erwhelin our souls with joy and pain,

With terrour shake, and pity move,

Give me, beneath a colder, changesul sky,
Rouse with revenge, or melt with love; My soul's best, only pleasure, Liberty !
O deign t'attend his evening walk,

What millions perish'd near thy mournful flood *, With him in groves and grottoes talk ; When the red papal tyrant cry'd out — “ Blood?" Teach him to scorn with frigid art

Less fierce the Saracen, and quiver'd Moor, Feebly to touch th' unraptur'd heart, That dash'd thy infants 'gainst the stones of yore. Like lightning, let his mighty verse

Be warn'd, ye nations round; and trembling see The bosom's inmost foldings pierce;

Dire superstition quench humanity! With native beauties win applause

By all the chiefs in freedom's battles lost, Beyond cold critics' studied laws;

By wise and virtuous Alfred's aweful ghost; O let each Muse's fame increase,

By old Galgacus' scythed, iron car,
O bid Britannia rival Greece!

That, swiftly whirling through the walks of war,
Dash'd Roman blood, and crush'd the foreign

throngs;

By holy Druids' courage-breathing songs;
VERSES:

By fierce Bonduca's shield and foaming steeds ; WRITTEN AT MONTAUBAN IN FRANCE, 1750.

By the bold Peers that met on Thames's meads;

By the fifth Henry's helm and lightning spear ; Tarn, how delightful wind thy willow'd waves, O Liberty, my warm petition hear; But ah! they fructify a land of slaves !

Be Albion still thy joy! with her remain, In vain thy bare-foot, sun-burnt peasants hide Long as the surge shall lash her oak-crown'd plain! With luscious grapes yon hill's romantic side; No cups nectareous shall their toil repay,

* Alluding to the persecutions of the Protestants, The priest's, the soldier's, and the fermier's prey: and the wars of the Saracens, carried on in the Vain glows this Sun, in cloudless glory drest, southern provinces of France. That strikes fresh vigour through the pining breast;

THOMAS WARTON.

THOMAS Warton, younger brother of the pre- lamented the death of George II., in some lines adceding, a distinguished poet, and a historian of dressed to Mr. Pitt, he continued the courtly strain poetry, was born at Basingstoke in 1728. Ile was in poems on the marriage of George III., and on the educated under his father till 1743, when he was birth of the Prince of Wales, both printed in the uni. admitted a commoner of Trinity college, Oxford.versity collection. In 1770 he gave an edition, in two Here he exercised his poetical talent to so much ad- volumes 4to., of the Greek poet Theocritus, which vantage, that, on the appearance of Mason's Elegy gave him celebrity in other countries besides his own. of Isis, which severely reflected on the disloyalty of At what time he first employed himself with the his Oxford at that period, he was encouraged by Dr. tory of English poetry, we are not informed, but in Huddesford, president of his college, to vindicate 1774 he had so far proceeded in the work as to pub. the cause of his university. This task he performed lish the first volume in 4to. He afterwards printed with great applause, by writing, in his twenty-first a second in 1778, and a third in 1781; but his year,“ The Triumph of Isis," a piece of much labour now became tiresome to himself, and the spirit and fancy, in which he retaliated upon the great compass which he had allotted to his plan was bard of Cam, by satirising the courtly venality then so irksome, that an unfinished fourth volume was supposed to distinguish the rival university. His all that he added to it. “ Progress of Discontent,” published in 1750, ex- The place of Camden professor of history, vacant hibited to great advantage his powers in the familiar by the resignation of Sir William Scott, was the style, and his talent for humour, with a knowledge close of his professional exertions; but soon after of human life, extraordinary at his early age, espe- another engagement required his attention. By cially if composed, as it is said, for a college exer- His Majesty's express desire, the post of poet cise in 1746. In 1750 he took the degree of M. A., laureat was offered to him, and accepted, and he and in the following year became a fellow of his determined to use his best endeavours for rendering college.

it respectable. Varying the monotony of annivers His spirited satire, entitled “ Newmarket,” and sary court compliment by topics better adapted to pointed against the ruinous passion for the turf; his poetical description, he improved the style of the “ Ode for Music;" and his “ Verses on the Death | laureate odes, though his lyric strains underwent of the Prince of Wales,” were written about this some ridicule on that account time; and, in 1753, he was the editor of a small His concluding publication was an edition of the collection of poems, under the title of “ The juvenile poems of Milton, of which the first volume Union," which was printed at Edinburgh, and con- made its appearance in 1785, and the second in 1790, tained several of his own performances. In 1754 a short time before his death. His constitution now he made himself known by Observations on began to give way. In his sixty-second year an Spenser's Faery Queen, in one volume, afterwards attack of the gout shattered his frame, and was sucenlarged to two; a work well received by the public, ceeded in May, 1790, by a paralytic seizure, which and which made a considerable addition to his lite-carried him off, at his lodgings in Oxford. His rary reputation. So high was his character in the remains were interred, with every academical honour, University, that in 1757 he was elected to the office in the chapel of Trinity college. of its poetry professor, which he held for the usual | The pieces of Thomas Warton are very various in period of ten years, and rendered respectable by the subject, and none of them long, whence he must erudition and taste displayed in his lectures.

only rank among the minor pocts; but scarcely one It does not appear necessary in this place to par- of that tribe bas noted with finer observation the ticularize all the prose compositions which, whether minute circumstances in rural nature that atford grave or humorous, fell at this time from his pen; pleasure in description, or has derived from the but it may be mentioned that verse continued occa- regions of fiction more animated and picturesque sionally to occupy his thoughts, and that having scenery.

ODE TO THE FIRST OF APRIL.

W ith dalliance rude young Zephyr wooes
Coy May. Full oft with kind excuse
The boisterous boy the fair denies,
Or with a scornful smile complies.

Mindful of disaster past,
And shrinking at the northern blast,
The sleety storm returning still,
The morning hoar, and evening chill ;
Reluctant comes the timid Spring.
Scarce a bee, with airy ring,
Murmurs the blossom'd boughs around,
That clothe the garden's southern bound :
Scarce a sickly straggling flower,
Decks the rough castle's rifted tower :
Scarce the hardy primrose peeps
From the dark dell's entangled steeps;
O'er the fields of waving broom
Slowly shoots the golden bloom :
And, but by fits, the furze-clad dale
Tinctures the transitory gale.
While from the shrubbery's naked maze,
Where the vegetable blaze
Of Flora's brightest 'broidery shone,
Every chequer'd charm is flown;
Save that the lilac hangs to view
Its bursting gems in clusters blue.

Scant along the ridgy land
The beans their new-born ranks expand :
The fresh-turn'd soil with tender blades
Thinly the sprouting barley shades:
Fringing the forest's devious edge,
Half rob'd appears the hawthorn hedge;
Or to the distant eye displays
Weakly green its budding sprays.

The swallow, for a moment seen,
Skims in haste the village green;
From the gray moor, or
The screaming plovers idly spring :
The butterfly, gay-painted soon,
Explores awhile the tepid noon :
And fondly trusts its tender dyes
To fickle suns, and flattering skies,

Fraught with a transient, frozen shower,
If a cloud should haply lower,
Sailing o'er the landscape dark,
Mute on a sudden is the lark ;
But when gleams the Sun again
O’er the pearl-besprinkled plain,
And from behind his watery vail
Looks through the thin descending hail ;
She mounts, and, lessening to the sight,
Salutes the blithe return of light,
And high her tuneful track pursues
Mid the dim rainbow's scatter'd hues.

Where in venerable rows
Widely waving oaks enclose
The mote of yonder antique ball,
Swarm the rooks with clamorous call;
And to the toils of nature true,
Wreath their capacious nests anew.

Musing through the lawny park,
The lonely poet loves to mark
How various greens in faint degrees

Tinge the tall groupes of various trees;
While, careless of the changing year,
The pine cerulean, never sere,

Towers distinguish'd from the rest,
And proudly vaunts her winter vest.

Within some whispering osier isle,
Where Glym's * low banks neglected smile ;
And each trim meadow still retains
The wintry torrent's oozy stains :
Beneath a willow, long forsook,
The fisher seeks his custom'd nook ;
And bursting through the crackling sedge,
That crowns the current's cavern's edge,
He startles from the bordering wood
The bashful wild-duck's early brood.

O'er the broad downs, a novel race,
Frisk the lambs with faultering pace,
And with eager bleatings fill
The foss that skirts the beacon's hill.

His free-born vigour yet unbroke
To lordly man's usurping yoke,
The bounding colt forgets to play,
Basking beneath the noon-tide ray,
And stretch'd among the daisies pied
Of a green dingle's sloping side :
While far beneath, where Nature spreads
Her boundless length of level meads,
In loose luxuriance taught to stray
A thousand tumbling rills inlay
With silver veins the vale, or pass
Redundant through the sparkling grass.

Yet, in these presages rude,
Midst her pensive solitude,
Fancy, with prophetic glance,
Sees the teeming months advance;
The field, the forest, green and gay,
The dappled slope, the tedded hay;
Sees the reddening orchard blow,
The harvest wave, the vintage flow;
Sees June unfold his glossy robe
Of thousand hues o'er all the globe ;
Sees Ceres grasp her crown of corn,
And plenty load her ample horn.

ODE.

THE CRUSADE.

Bound for holy Palestine,
Nimbly we brush'd the level brine,
All in azure steel array'd;
O’er the wave our weapons play'd,
And made the dancing billows glow;
High upon the trophied prow,
Many a warrior-minstrel swung
His sounding harp, and boldly sung :

“ Syrian virgins, wail and weep,
English Richard plows the deep!
Tremble, watchmen, as ye spy
From distant towers, with anxious eye,

• The Glym is a small river in Oxfordshire, flowing through Warton's parish of Kiddington, or Cuddington, and dividing it into upper and lower town. It is described by himself in his account of Cuddington, as a deep but narrow stream, winding through willowed ineadows, and abounding in trouts, pikes, and wild-fowl. It gives name to the village of Glymton, which adjoins to Kiddington.

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