The youth did ride, and soon did meet Whom in a trice he tried to stop, But not performing what he meant, Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels, The postboy's horse right glad to miss The lumb'ring of the wheels. Six gentlemen upon the road, "Stop thief! stop thief!-a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute; And all and each that pass'd that way And now the turnpike gates again And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopp'd till where he had got up He did again get down. Now let us sing, Long live the King, And Gilpin long live he; And, when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see! Dreading a negative, and overaw'd 64 Lest he should trespass, begg'd to go abroad. I knew the man, and knew his nature mild, Perhaps his confidence just then betray'd, His grief might prompt him with the speech he made; AN EPISTLE TO JOSEPH HILL, ESQ. DEAR JOSEPH-five-and-twenty years ago— Whence comes it then, that in the wane of life, YARDLEY OAK. SURVIVOR sole, and hardly such, of all It seems idolatry with some excuse, When our forefather Druids in their oaks Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet Unpurified by an authentic act Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, Lov'd not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste Of fruit proscrib'd, as to a refuge, fled. Thou wast a bauble once; a cup and ball, Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, Thou fell'st mature; and in the loamy clod Delight in agitation, yet sustain Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deck Who liv'd, when thou wast such? O couldst thou The bottomless demands of contest, wag'd speak, As in Dodona once thy kindred trees The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, For senatorial honors. Thus to Time Embowel'd now, and of thy ancient self Possessing nought, but the scoop'd rind, that seems An huge throat, calling to the clouds for drink, Which it would give in rivulets to thy root, Time made thee what thou wast, king of the Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st wood; And Time hath made thee what thou art-a cave (Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing While thus through all the stages thou hast push'd Of girth enormous, with moss-cushion'd root What exhibitions various hath the world The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite. So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet Stands now, and semblance only of itself! Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them off Long since, and rovers of the forest wild, But since, although well qualified by age Knee-timber is found in the crooked arms of oak, which, by reason of their distortion, are easily adjusted to the angle formed where the deck and the ship's sides meet. On thy distorted root, with hearers none, One man alone, the father of us all, Drew not his life from woman; never gaz'd, With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, On all around him; learn'd not by degrees, Nor ow'd articulation to his ear; But, moulded by his Maker into man At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd All creatures, with precision understood Their purport, uses, properties, assign'd To each his name significant, and, fill'd With love and wisdom, render'd back to Heaven In praise harmonious the first air he drew. He was excus'd the penalties of dull Minority. No tutor charg'd his hand With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind With problems. History, not wanted yet, Lean'd on her elbow, watching Time, whose course, Eventful, should supply her with a theme. THE CAST-AWAY. OBSCUREST night involv'd the sky; No braver chief could Albion boast, He lov'd them both, but both in vain, Not long beneath the whelming brine, But wag'd with death a lasting strife, He shouted; nor his friends had fail'd They left their outcast mate behind, And scudded still before the wind. Some succor yet they could afford; The cask, the coop, the floated cord, But he, they knew, nor ship nor shore, Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he Their haste himself condemn, Aware that flight, in such a sea, Alone could rescue them; Yet bitter felt it still to die Deserted, and his friends so nigh. He long survives, who lives an hour In ocean, self-upheld: And so long he, with unspent pow'r, His destiny repell'd: And ever as the minutes flew, Entreated help, or cried-"Adieu!" At length, his transient respite past, Could catch the sound no more. For then, by toil subdued, he drank The stifling wave, and then he sank. No poet wept him; but the page That tells his name, his worth, his age. I therefore purpose not, or dream, No voice divine the storm allay'd, And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he JAMES BEATTIE. torically to be recognized, yet there is great beauty, both moral and descriptive, in the delineation, and perhaps no writer has managed the Spenserian stanza with more dexterity and harmony. The second part of this poem, which contains the maturer part of the education of the young bard, did not appear till 1774, and then left the work a fragment. But whatever may be the defects of the Minstrel, it possesses beauties which will secure it a place among the approved productions of the British muse. JAMES BEATTIE, an admired poet and a moralist, priety applied to such a person as he represents, and was born about 1735, in the county of Kincardine, the "Gothic days" in which he is placed are not hisin Scotland. His father was a small farmer, who, though living in indigence, had imbibed so much of the spirit of his country, that he procured for his son a literary education, first at a parochial school, and then at the college of New Aberdeen, in which he entered as a bursar or exhibitioner. In the intervals of the sessions, James is supposed to have added to his scanty pittance by teaching at a country-school. Returning to Aberdeen, he obtained the situation of assistant to the master of the principal grammarschool, whose daughter he married. From youth he had cultivated a talent for poetry; and in 1760 he ventured to submit the fruit of his studies in this walk to the public, by a volume of "Original Poems and Translations." They were followed, in 1765, by "The Judgment of Paris;" and these performances, which displayed a familiarity with poetic diction, and harmony of versification, seem to have made him favorably known in his neighborhood. The interest of the Earl of Errol acquired for him the post of professor of moral philosophy and logic in the Marischal College of Aberdeen; in which capacity he published a work, entitled "An Essay on the Nature and Immutability of Truth, in opposition to Sophistry and Scepticism," 1770. Being written in a popular manner, it was much read, and gained the author many admirers, especially among the most distinguished members of the Church of England; and, at the suggestion of Lord Mansfield, he was rewarded with a pension of 2002. from the King's privy-purse. In 1771 his fame was largely extended by the first part of his "Minstrel," a piece the subject of which is the imagined birth and education of a poet. Although the word Minstrel is not with much pro Beattie visited London for the first time in 1771, where he was received with much cordiality by the admirers of his writings, who found equal cause to love and esteem the author. Not long afterwards, the degree of LL. D. was conferred on him by his college at Aberdeen. In 1777 a new edition, by subscription, was published of his "Essay on Truth," to which were added three Essays on subjects of polite literature. In 1783 he published "Dissertations Moral and Critical," consisting of detached essays, which had formed part of a course of lectures delivered by the author as professor. His last work was "Evidences of the Christian Religion, briefly and plainly stated," 2 vols. 1786. His time was now much occupied with the duties of his station, and particularly with the education of his eldest son, a youth of uncommon promise. His death, of a decline, was a very severe trial of the father's fortitude and resignation; and it was followed some years after by that of his younger son. These afflictions, with other domestic misfortunes, entirely broke his spirits, and brought him to his grave at Aberdeen, in August, 1803, in the 68th year of his age. THE MINSTREL; OR, THE PROGRESS OF GENIUS. PREFACE. The design was, to trace the progress of a poetical genius, born in a rude age, from the first dawning of fancy and reason, till that period at which he may be supposed capable of appearing in the world as a Minstrel, that is, as an itinerant poet and musician;-a character which, according to the notions of our forefathers, was not only respectable but sacred. I have endeavored to imitate Spenser in the measure of his verse, and in the harmony, simplicity, and variety of his composition. Antique expressions 1 have avoided; admitting, however, some old words. where they seemed to suit the subject: but I hope none will be found that are now obsolete, or in any degree not intelligible to a reader of English poetry. While from his bending shoulder, decent hung Fret not thyself, thou glittering child of pride, To those who may be disposed to ask, what could Liberal, not lavish, is kind Nature's hand; induce me to write in so difficult a measure, I can Nor was perfection made for man below. only answer, that it pleases my ear, and seems. Yet all her schemes with nicest art are plann'd, from its Gothic structure and original, to bear Good counteracting ill, and gladness woe. some relation to the subject and spirit of the poem. With gold and gems if Chilian mountains glow; It admits both simplicity and magnificence of sound If bleak and barren Scotia's hills arise; and of language, beyond any other stanza that I There plague and poison, lust and rapine grow; am acquainted with. It allows the sententiousness Here peaceful are the vales, and pure the skies, of the couplet, as well as the more complex modu- And freedom fires the soul, and sparkles in the eyes lation of blank verse. What some critics have remarked, of its uniformity growing at last tiresome to the ear, will be found to hold true, only when the poetry is faulty in other respects. Воок І. AH! who can tell how hard it is to climb In life's low vale remote has pined alone, And yet the languor of inglorious days, Then grieve not, thou, to whom th' indulgent Muse Canst thou forego the pure ethereal soul O how canst thou renounce the boundless store Would shrink to hear th' obstreperous trump of The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, Fame; Supremely blest, if to their portion fall The rolls of fame I will not now explore; The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, |