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But the treasures that are mine
Lie afar beyond her line.
When I view my spacious soul,
And survey myself a whole,
And enjoy myself alone,
I'm a kingdom of my own.

I've a mighty part within
That the world hath never seen,
Rich as Eden's happy ground,
And with choicer plenty crown'd.
Here on all the shining boughs,
Knowledge fair and useful grows;
On the same young flowery tree
All the seasons you may see;
Notions in the bloom of light,
Just disclosing to the sight;
Here are thoughts of larger growth,
Ripening into solid truth;
Fruits refin'd, of noble taste;
Seraphs feed on such repast.

Here, in a green and shady grove,
Streams of pleasure mix with love:
There beneath the smiling skies
Hills of contemplation rise;
Now upon some shining top
Angels light, and call me up;
I rejoice to raise my feet,
Both rejoice when there we meet.

There are endless beauties more
Earth hath no resemblance for;
Nothing like them round the pole,
Nothing can describe the soul:
'Tis a region half unknown,
That has treasures of its own,
More remote from public view
Than the bowels of Peru;
Broader 'tis, and brighter far,
Than the golden Indies are;
Ships that trace the watery stage
Cannot coast it in an age;
Harts, or horses, strong and fleet,
Had they wings to help their feet,
Could not run it half way o'er

Yet the silly wandering mind,
Loth to be too much confin'd,
Roves and takes her daily tours,
Coasting round her narrow shores,
Narrow shores of flesh and sense,
Picking shells and pebbles thence:
Or she sits at fancy's door,
Calling shapes and shadows to her,
Foreign visits still receiving,
And t'herself a stranger living.
Never, never would she buy
Indian dust, or Tyrian dye,
Never trade abroad for more,
If she saw her native store;
If her inward worth were known,
She might ever live alone.

LOOKING UPWARD.

THE heavens invite mine eye, The stars salute me round; Father, I blush, I mourn to lie Thus grovelling on the ground.

My warmer spirits move, And make attempts to fly; I wish aloud for wings of love To raise me swift and high.

Beyond those crystal vaults,
And all their sparkling balls;
They're but the porches to thy courts,
And paintings on thy walls.

Vain world, farewell to you;
Heaven is my native air:
I bid my friends a short adieu,
Impatient to be there.

I feel my powers releas'd
From their old fleshy clod;"
Fair guardian, bear me up in haste,

28

JOHN PHILIPS, the son of Dr. Stephen Philips, Archdeacon of Salop, was born at Bampton, Oxfordshire, in 1676. He was educated at Winchester school, from whence he removed to Christ Church College, Oxford, where he obtained a very high character, and where he employed his time in studying the older poets,-directing his more especial attention to the Paradise Lost.

His intention was to adopt the profession of physic; and he had devoted much of his care to botany, and other branches of natural history; but this pursuit he abandoned, when, in 1703, he published the Splendid Shilling. It gave him at once the reputation which science so much more tardily achieves, and introduced him to Bolingbroke, at whose request, and in whose house, he wrote the poem commemorating the battle of Blenheim. It was published in 1705, and obtained considerable popularity, although Addison had already enlightened the town by verse upon the same subject. The great theme, however, inspired neither of the two Poets. Blenheim is a dull, heavy, and spiritless composition; and the reader is at times persuaded that the author was indulging his taste for the burlesque rather than the heroic. Indeed the writer appears to be aware of his unfitness for the task, and speaks of himself as having

presum'd

To sing Britannick trophies, inexpert

Of war, with mean attempt."

A subject more within the scope of his genius was soon afterwards presented to him. In 1706 he published the poem upon Cider, written on the model of the Georgics-a poem of which Dr. Johnson, usually so chary of praise, has said, "it need not shun the presence of the original." A wide popularity followed the appearance of this work; but the writer did not long live to enjoy it. He died of consumption, at Hereford, in 1708, and was buried in the cathedral of that city; a monument was erected to his memory in Westminster Abbey.

He was a man modest, blameless, and pious; who bore narrowness of fortune without discontent, and a tedious and painful illness without impatience; beloved by all who knew him, but not ambitious to be known. He died honoured and lamented, in the full zenith of his fame. Such is the character drawn of him by his friend Dr. Sewell. A poet, Edmund Smith, has preserved one equally favourable.

"Though learn'd, not vain, and humble though admir'd,

.

To all sincere; though earnest to commend,
Could praise a rival, or condemn a friend!"

We have named the three poems on which depend the fame of John Philips. He wrote but one other,-Cerealia,-an encomium upon the influence of "nappy ale." It is weak, and there is no certainty that it emanated from his pen. The Splendid Shilling, the earliest of our parodies, is still considered as one of the happiest specimens of the burlesque. On its first appearance it startled the world as something new. Its humour is quiet and droll; the treatment of so rude a subject in the lofty Miltonic style and measure, was a bold attempt; but as the writer was then totally unknown, the risk of failure which he incurred was very slight. We cannot find in it the talent that others have found; while his poem of Cider, which has been generally regarded as of far less merit, to us appears a production of the highest and rarest order. It is at once "a book of entertainment and of science." It communicates a vast quantity of knowledge in a form the most agreeable and impressive; there is, indeed, no point or circumstance connected with the subject upon which the author has not offered some comment, and given some explanation; passing from essays on the nature and culture of the soil, to rural sports, when labour is over,-from the seasons, their changes and effects, to the industry of the husbandman and the skill of the mechanic,-from the growth of the tree to the treatment of the varied fruit it bears, and always with a grace, easy, unforced, and natural. The poem is, like the subject of it, essentially English-the style is nervous, clear and comprehensive; the writer, if rarely enthusiastic, is always satisfactory; and the reader derives

[graphic]

THUS naught is useless made; nor is there land But what or of itself or else compell'd

Affords advantage. On the barren heath
The shepherd tends his flock, that daily crop
Their verdant dinner from the mossy turf
Sufficient; after them the cackling goose,
Close grazer, finds wherewith to ease her want.
What should I more? Ev'n on the cliffy height
Of Penmenmaur, and that cloud-piercing hill
Plinlimmon, from afar the traveller kens
Astonish'd how the goats their shrubby browse

[graphic]

lofty Miltonic style and measure, was a bold 'attempt; but as the writer was then totally unknown, the risk of failure which he incurred was very slight. We cannot find in it the talent that others have found; while his poem of Cider, which has been generally regarded as of far less merit, to us appears a production of the highest and rarest order. It is at once "a book of entertainment and of science." It communicates a vast quantity of knowledge in a form the most agreeable and impressive; there is, indeed, no point or circumstance connected with the subject upon which the author has not offered some comment, and given some explanation; passing from essays on the nature and culture of the soil, to rural sports, when labour is over,-from the seasons, their changes and effects, to the industry of the husbandman and the skill of the mechanic,-from the growth of the tree to the treatment of the varied fruit it bears.--and always with a grace, easy, unforced, and natural. The poem is, like the subject of it, essentially English-the style is nervous, clear and comprehensive; the writer, if rarely enthusiastic, is always satisfactory; and the reader derives

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