Such are thy pieces, imitating life

So near, they almost conquer in the strife;
And from their animated canvas came,

Demanding souls, and loosen'd from the frame.

Shakspeare, thy gift, I place before my sight:
With awe, I ask his blessing ere I write;
With reverence look on his majestic face;
Proud to be less, but of his godlike race.
His soul inspires me, while thy praise I write,
And I, like Teucer, under Ajax fight.

Bids thee, through me, be bold; with dauntless breast
Condemn the bad, and emulate the best.

Like his, thy critics in th' attempt are lost:

When most they rail, know then, they envy most.
In vain they snarl aloof: a noisy crowd,
Like women's anger, impotent and loud.
While they their barren industry deplore,
Pass on secure, and mind the goal before.
Old as she is, my Muse shall march behind,
Bear off the blast, and intercept the wind.
Our arts are sisters, though not twins in birth:
For hymns were sung in Eden's happy earth:
But oh, the painter Muse, though last in place,
Has seiz'd the blessing first, like Jacob's race.
Apelles' art an Alexander found;

And Raphael did with Leo's gold abound;
But Homer was with barren laurel crown'd.
Thou hadst thy Charles awhile, and so had I;
But pass we that unpleasing image by.
Rich in thyself, and of thyself divine;
All pilgrims come and offer at thy shrine.
A graceful truth thy pencil can command;

The fair themselves go mended from thy hand.
Likeness appears in every lineament;
But likeness in thy work is eloquent.

Though nature there her true resemblance bears,
A nobler beauty in thy piece appears.

So warm thy work, so glows the gen'rous frame,
Flesh looks less living in the lovely dame.
Thou paint'st as we describe, improving still,
When on wild nature we ingraft our skill;
But not creating beauties at our will.

But poets are confin'd in narrower space,
To speak the language of their native place:
The painter widely stretches his command:
Thy pencil speaks the tongue of every land.
From hence, my friend, all climates are your own,
Nor can you forfeit, for you hold of none.
All nations all immunities will give

To make you theirs, where'er you please to live;
And not seven cities, but the world, would strive.
Sure, some propitious planet then did smile,
When first you were conducted to this isle:
Our genius brought you here, t' enlarge our fame;
For your good stars are every where the same;
Thy matchless hand, of every region free,
Adopts our climate, not our climate thee.

Great Rome and Venice early did impart
To thee th' examples of their wondrous art.
Those masters, then, but seen, not understood,
With generous emulation fir'd thy blood:
For what in Nature's dawn the child admir'd,
The youth endeavor'd, and the man acquir'd.

Go tell Amynta, gentle swain,

I would not die, nor dare complain;
Thy tuneful voice with numbers join,
Thy words will more prevail than mine.
To souls oppress'd, and dumb with grief,
The gods ordain this kind relief;
That music should in sounds convey,
What dying lovers dare not say.

A sigh or tear, perhaps, she'll give,

But love on pity cannot live.

Tell her that hearts for hearts were made,

And love with love is only paid.

Tell her my pains so fast increase,
That soon they will be past redress;

But ah! the wretch that speechless lies,
Attends but death to close his eyes.

He enjoyed the friendship of Dryden, and obtained the praise of Pope, who describes him as

"Not more learned than good,

Of manners generous as his noble blood;

To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known,
And every author's merit was his own."

But the praise of being a graceful and elegant writer, of refined taste and correct judgment, is all that the critic can afford to the Earl of Roscommon. Dr. Johnson has qualified the exaggerated compliments of Fenton-who speaks of the writings of Roscommon as "the image of a mind naturally serious and solid; richly furnished and adorned with all the ornaments of learning, unaffectedly disposed in the most regular and elegant order,”—and has more justly set forth the qualities of his mind and the character of his productions. "He is elegant, but not great; he never labours after exquisite beauties, and he seldom falls into gross faults. His versification is smooth, but rarely vigorous: and his rhymes are remarkably exact. He improved taste if he did not enlarge knowledge, and may be numbered among the benefactors to English literature."

EACH poet with a different talent writes;
One praises, one instructs, another bites.
Horace did ne'er aspire to Epic bays,
Nor lofty Maro stoop to Lyric lays.
Examine how your humour is inclin'd,
And which the ruling passion of your mind;
Then seek a poet who your way does bend,
And choose an author as you choose a friend.
United by this sympathetic bond,

You grow familiar, intimate, and fond:

WENTWORTH DILLON, Earl of Roscommon, was born in Ireland in 1633; he was the god-son of the Earl of Strafford, by whom he was in some measure adopted; and upon whose fall from power, he was sent to a university at Caen, where he received his early education. From thence he set out on his travels through the "fashionable" countries of the continent. At the Restoration, he returned to England, was made Captain of the Band of Pensioners, but unfortunately fell into the dissolute habits of the court, and greatly impaired his patrimony by gambling. Happily, however, the productions of his pen are free from the licentious influence of the scenes to which his youth was made familiar and it is the high attribute of his muse, that

"In all Charles's days

Roscommon only boasts unspotted lays."

A fine story is recorded of the generosity of his mind. Having been rescued by the help of a poor disbanded officer from three ruffians who sought to assassinate him in the streets of Dublin, he prevailed upon the Lord Lieutenant to permit him to resign his commission, as a captain of the Guards, in favour of his preserver. Roscommon exerted himself, though without effect-in consequence of the turbulence of the times-to form an institution for refining and fixing the standard of the English language, "in imitation of those learned and polite societies with which he had been made acquainted abroad." Having failed in this plan, and perceiving the gathering of the storm that produced the Revolution, he purposed taking up his abode at Rome, alleging that "it was best to sit near the chimney when the chamber smoked." An attack of the gout, however, retarded his departure, and he died in 1684, repeating, it is said, at the very moment of his dissolution, two lines from his own version of Dies Iræ:

"My God, my Father, and my Friend,

Do not forsake me in the end."

He was buried with great pomp in Westminster Abbey.

The poem on which the reputation of Roscommon mainly depends, is the "Essay on Translated Verse." "It was this," says Dryden, "which made me uneasy till I tried whether or no I was capable of following his rules, and of reducing the speculation into practice for many a fair precept in poetry is like a seeming demonstration in mathematics, very specious in the diagram, but failing in the mechanic operation.” The other productions of Roscommon's pen consist of a few minor pieces, and some translations from Horace:-of which "the Art of Poetry" alone is at all prominent or remarkable. It is written in blank verse; and the writer states, as its best recommendation, that he has adhered so closely to the original as to have done nothing but what he believes Horace would forgive if he were alive. He has consequently given us an English version, which is rather prose than poetry.

He enjoyed the friendship of Dryden, and obtained the praise of Pope, who describes him as

"Not more learned than good,

Of manners generous as his noble blood;

To him the wit of Greece and Rome was known,
And every author's merit was his own."

But the praise of being a graceful and elegant writer, of refined taste and correct judgment, is all that the critic can afford to the Earl of Roscommon. Dr. Johnson has qualified the exaggerated compliments of Fenton-who speaks of the writings of Roscommon as "the image of a mind naturally serious and solid; richly furnished and adorned with all the ornaments of learning, unaffectedly disposed in the most regular and elegant order,"-and has more justly set forth the qualities of his mind and the character of his productions. "He is elegant, but not great; he never labours after exquisite beauties, and he seldom falls into gross faults. His versification is smooth, but rarely vigorous: and his rhymes are remarkably exact. improved taste if he did not enlarge knowledge, and may be numbered among the benefactors to English literature."

He