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and its moral grandeur is happily contrasted with that of Xerxes, the proud but mean leader of the millions who crushed the handful of patriots at Thermopylæ, The poet was especially fortunate in his management of the catastrophe; the death of the self-devoted band is never for a moment considered in any other light than that of an, entire triumph; they fall amid heaps of their slaughtered enemies; but their blood has purchased the freedom of their country, Considerations of the glory they achieve and the liberty they win, bear away the reader from thought of what the victory has cost; and the poet has produced that which is produced so rarely, a sensation of delight when they perish, for whom his sympathies have been so long excited.
We have extracted one of the miscellaneous poems of Glover; it is, we think, 'among the most beautiful and pathetic ballads in the language; the compliment which the unfortunate Hosier pays to the successful Vernon has perhaps been As near Porto-Bello lying
On the gently-swelling flood,
Our triumphant navy rode;
From the Spaniard's late defeat,
Drank success to England's fleet: On a sudden, shrilly sounding,
Hideous yells and shrieks were heard ; Then each heart with fear confounding,
All in dreary hammocks shrouded,
Which for winding sheets they wore, And with looks by sorrow clouded,
Frowning on that hostile shore.
On them gleam'd the moon's wan lustre,
When the shade of Hosier brave
Rising from their wat’ry grave :
Where the Burford rear'd her sail,
And in groans did Vernon hail.
Heed, O heed, our fatal story,
I am Hosier's injur'd ghost,
At this place where I was lost;
You now triumph free from fears, When you think on our undoing,
You will mix your joy with tears. See these mournful spectres sweeping
Ghastly o'er this hated wave, Whose wan cheeks are stain'd with weeping,
These were English captains brave: Mark those numbers, pale and horrid,
Those were once my sailors bold, Lo, each hangs his drooping forehead,
While his dismal tale is told.
I, by twenty sail attended,
Did this Spanish town affright; Nothing then its wealth defended
But my orders not to fight: 0! that in this rolling ocean
I had cast them with disdain,
To have quell'd the pride of Spain;
But with twenty ships had done What thou, brave and happy Vernon,
Then the Bastimentos never
Had our foul dishonour seen, Nor the sea the sad receiver
Of this gallant train had been.
Thus like thee, proud Spain dismaying,
And her galleons leading home,
I had met a traitor's doom.
He has play'd an English part,
Of a griev'd and broken heart.
Unrepining at thy glory,
Thy successful arms we hail ; But remember our sad story,
And let Hosier's wrongs prevail. Sent in this foul clime to languish,
Think what thousands fell in vain, Wasted with disease and anguish,
Not in glorious battle slain.
Hence with all my train attending
From their oozy tombs below, Through the hoary foam ascending,
Here I feed my constant woe: Here the Bastimentos viewing,
We recal our shameful doom, And our plaintive cries renewing,
Wander through the midnight gloom. O'er these waves for ever mourning,
Shall we roam depriv'd of rest,
You neglect my just request;
And for England sham'd in me.
The character of the man and the Poet has been drawn by two faithful friendsDodsley and Graves. His person was above the middle stature, largely and rather elegantly formed; his face seemed plain till you conversed with him, and then it grew very pleasing. In his disposition he was easy, generous and indolent; of a melancholy temperament, yet, at times, humorous and sprightly. One of the warmest eulogists of his planted Paradise has likened it to his mind-simple, elegant, and amiable.
As a Poet, his merit has been long established. His productions, if they are deficient in vigour and variety, are full of simplicity, delicacy, and pathos. “The Schoolmistress" is, perhaps, the most popular; but among his Pastorals there are many of exceeding elegance; and although they have been often "mocked at" as simple almost to absurdity, they speak to the heart and the affections, and are dear to both. We have abundant proof that the emotions of Shenstone, as we find them in his verse, were real; besides his own assertion, that he "felt very sensibly the affections he communicates," they bear the stamp of truth; and some passages of his life are the witnesses of it. He wooed and might have won; but prudence-unhappily, for it left him without an object of excitement to industry and exertion-forbade his allying to " poetry and poverty" the woman who had gained his heart. This unfortunate resolve not only left him without a comforter in his time of trouble, a counsellor in his moments of doubt and indecision, a companion in his hours of solitude and thought, a friend in his moments of higher aspirations or deeper despondencies,-it
s with repining melancholy - produced a longing after fame which he lacked the resolution to achieve ;-and the beauties he had called into existence out of a barren waste lost more than half their attractions, because he was without the ONE to talk with of their beauty, and by whom to hear their beauty praised. He created a paradise--and beheld from it the prospect of a jail. Dr. Johnson emphatically says of him—"he was a lamp that spent its oil in blazing"-and he adds a melancholy comment-" If he had lived a little longer, he would have been