THOMAS TICKELL, the son of the Rev. Richard Tickell, was born in 1686, at Bridekirk, in Cumberland. He took his degree at Queen's College, Oxford, and obtained a fellowship, for which, as he declined to comply with the statutes by taking orders, he procured a dispensation from the Crown. A complimentary poem, addressed to Mr. Addison," on his Opera of Rosamond," attracted the notice of that distinguished man, and led to an intimacy very beneficial to the one and satisfactory to the other. Their friendship continued during the life of Addison, and was of value after his death. Tickell had the charge of publishing his works, and received from him a solemn recommendation to the patronage of Craggs, a recommendation which had the effect of continuing him in his office of Under Secretary of State, to which Mr. Addison had appointed him.

He afterwards became Secretary to the Lords Justices of Ireland, a lucrative situation, which he held till his death in 1740.

The gratitude of Tickell for the friendship of Addison is abundantly proved. The elegy addressed "to the Earl of Warwick, on the death of Mr. Addison," is perhaps the finest and most vigorous of his compositions. "A more sublime or more elegant funeral poem," says Dr. Johnson, "is not to be found in the whole compass of English literature." It was sufficient to negative the assertion that he was indebted to the tasteful and judicious touches of his friend for much of the merit of his earlier productions. In this tribute to his memory, at least, he could have had no such assist

ance.

He is said to have been a man of most pleasing manners, and of unquestioned honour and integrity; his conversation was gay and lively, and he was "at least a temperate lover of wine and conviviality." It is certain that he contributed to the Spectator, though to what extent is unknown; and for the Guardian he wrote the papers on Pastoral Poetry. Literature, however, was his relaxation and not his business he can scarcely be ushered to a high seat in the assembly of British Poets. Through all his "poetry," according to the quaint expression of Goldsmith, "there is a strain of BALLAD-THINKING to be found;" and probably, to this more rare, if less elevated quality, much of his popularity may be attributed; for, in his own time, it was by no means inconsiderable, although now, with the exception of his lines on the death of Addison, and his pathetic tale of Colin and Lucy, his works are altogether forgotten. The principal of them, indeed, are "party poems," and consequently have little to interest us; one of these "party poems" Dr. Johnson considers to possess high merit; "it expresses contempt without coarseness, and superiority without insolence." The longest of his productions is "Kensington Gardens," having reference to the ancient days, before its gravel walks were paced by dames of Britain, when

"its peopled ground

With fairy domes and dazzling towers was crown'd;
Where in the midst those verdant pillars spring,

Rose the proud palace of the Elfin king;"

and when Albion, the son of Neptune, wooed a fairy nymph, Kenna, reserved by her sire, Oberon, for Azuriel, whose dwelling stood

"Where now the skies high Holland House invades."

The descendant of the sea king is slain by his rival, and the spells of his fairy-lover convert the dead hero into a snow-drop. The machinery of the poem is defective. Our imaginations cannot picture the "furious Albion" flinging a dart "feathered from the bee's transparent wing, and its shaft ending in a hornet's sting;" and the confused mixture of Grecian deities and Gothic fairies destroys the illusion which the poet desires to produce. It is however a graceful and elegant composition, and the versification is smooth and correct.

Tickell undertook a translation of the Iliad, of which he published the first book about the period when that of Pope was issued. The circumstance gave rise to "a coolness" between Pope and Addison, who was suspected of having suggested the" design and, indeed, of being the actual translator-with a view to injure the pro

ME Fortune and kind Heaven's indulgent care
To famous Oxford and the Muses bear,
Where of all ranks the blooming youths combine
To pay due homage to the mighty Nine,

And snatch with smiling joy the laurel crown
Due to the learned honours of the gown:

Here I the meanest of the tuneful throng

Delude the time with an unhallow'd song,

Which thus my thanks to much lov'd Oxford pays In no ungrateful though unartful lays.

noved a rапу путра, сау , or Azuriel, whose dwelling stood

"Where now the skies high Holland House invades,"

The descendant of the sea king is slain by his rival, and the spells of his fairy-lover convert the dead hero into a snow-drop. The machinery of the poem is defective. Our imaginations cannot picture the "furious Albion" flinging a dart "feathered from the bee's transparent wing, and its shaft ending in a hornet's sting;" and the confused mixture of Grecian deities and Gothic fairies destroys the illusion which the poet desires to produce. It is however a graceful and elegant composition, and the versification is smooth and correct.

Tickell undertook a translation of the Iliad, of which he published the first book about the period when that of Pope was issued. The circumstance gave rise to "a coolness" between Pope and Addison, who was suspected of having suggested the design and, indeed, of being the actual translator-with a view to injure the pro

ME Fortune and kind Heaven's indulgent care
To famous Oxford and the Muses bear,
Where of all ranks the blooming youths combine
To pay due homage to the mighty Nine,

And snatch with smiling joy the laurel crown
Due to the learned honours of the gown:
Here I the meanest of the tuneful throng
Delude the time with an unhallow'd song,

Which thus my thanks to much lov'd Oxford pays

COLIN AND LUCY.

A BALLAD.

OF Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair
Bright Lucy was the grace;
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream
Reflect so sweet a face:

Till luckless love, and pining care,
Impair'd her rosy hue,

Her coral lips, and damask cheeks,
And eyes of glossy blue.

Oh! have you seen a lily pale,
When beating rains descend?
So droop'd the slow-consuming maid,
Her life now near its end.

By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains
Take heed, ye easy fair:

Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjur'd swains, beware.

Three times, all in the dead of night, A bell was heard to ring;

And shrieking at her window thrice,
The raven flapp'd his wing.

Too well the love-lorn maiden knew
The solemn boding sound;
And thus, in dying words, bespoke
The virgins weeping round:

"I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says, I must not stay;

I see a hand you cannot see,
Which beckons me away.

By a false heart, and broken vows,
In early youth I die:

Was I to blame, because his bride
Was thrice as rich as I?

"Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,

Vows due to me alone:

Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,