JOHN POMFRET was born, in 1667, at Luton, in Bedfordshire, a parish of which his father was rector. He was educated at Queen's College, Cambridge, where he obtained his Bachelor's degree in 1684. On leaving the University he took orders, and was presented to the living of Malden, in his native county. He was not destined, however, to meet with church preferment; it was withheld from him in consequence of an absurd misinterpretation of a passage in one of his poems, from which it was inferred that he considered the society of a mistress preferable to that of a wife. The passage occurs in "The Choice;"

"And as I near approach the verge of life,
Some kind companion (for I'd have no wife)
Should take upon him all my worldly care,
Whilst I did for a better state prepare."

Although he was actually married, at the time he made application for a more valuable appointment, his enemies were successful in marring his hopes; disappointment preying upon a naturally sensitive mind, prepared his constitution for the attacks of disease: he continued for some time in London pressing his claims, and arguing against the suspicion, which he had refuted by his marriage, and which ought not to have existed in opposition to the many proofs he had supplied of a virtuous and wellregulated mind;-caught the small pox, and died in 1703, in the very prime of life, and when he had given little more than a promise of the great things of which he was capable.

His poems were published in 1699; they became at once popular, and that popularity they have continued to maintain. "The Choice" is, however, the only one which supports his claim to be classed among the Poets of Great Britain. 'If it does not possess merit of the highest order, it is an easy and graceful composition, "adapted to common notions and equal to common expectations," and undoubtedly calculated to "please the many." It has always been a favourite, because the desires it expresses, the hopes at which it aims, the pleasures it enumerates, and the calm quiet it describes, are such as harmonize with the feelings and sentiments of the larger proportion of human kind, whose search after happiness is neither confined within too limited a circle, nor extended over too wide a space. The enjoyments of which the poet speaks are such only as are easy of attainment.

To these advantages we may add those of smooth and agreeable versification; the ideas, though neither nervous nor original, are always pleasantly and gracefully expressed." The earliest edition was accompanied by a modest and sensible preface, and the author is almost the first of our bards who had the courage and independence to break through the slavish and humiliating custom of ushering his production into the world "under the protection of some Lord or Right Honourable." "If," he says, "a poem have no intrinsic excellencies and real beauties, the greatest name in the world will never induce a man of sense to approve of it; and if it has them, Tom Piper's is as good as my Lord Duke's."

The principal other poems of Pomfret are-"Love Triumphant over Reason;" "Cruelty and Lust," founded on the well-known story of the infamous Kirke; and "An Essay on the Divine Attributes." There is not, as we have intimated, one of them at all to be compared with "The Choice;" they barely merit the compliment they have extorted from Dr. Johnson," the pleasure of smooth metre is afforded to the ear, and the mind is not oppressed with ponderous or entangled with intricate sentiments."

Such is the sum of our knowledge of the personal and poetical career of John Pomfret. Even the few facts we have recorded are known only in consequence of "a slight and confused account prefixed to his poems by a nameless friend." We may believe, however, that his life was not such as he has pictured in his poem,— easy, tranquil, and happy; that the income he derived from the discharge of his pastoral duties was insufficient to obtain for him the objects of his desires,-friends, books, "a clear and competent estate;" and that his longing to obtain these acquirements of "a better fortune," led to his removal from life at an age when much is seldom done to obtain immortality. His poem of "Reason," written in 1700, affords us proof of this:

"What little fruit he gains

A beggar's harvest, glean'd with mighty pains."

INSCRIPTION FOR A MONUMENT.

WHO from a race of noble heroes came,
And added lustre to its ancient fame:
Round her the virtues of the Cecils shone,
But with inferior brightness to her own:
Which she refin'd to that sublime degree,
The greatest mortal could not greater be.
Each stage of life peculiar splendour had;
Her tender years with innocence were clad:
Maturer grown, whate'er was brave and good,
In the retinue of her virtues stood;

And at the final period of her breath,
She crown'd her life with a propitious death;
That no occasion might be wanting here
To make her virtues fam'd, or joys sincere.

*

*

*

*

*

She did her numerous family command
With such a tender care, so wise a hand,
She seem'd no otherwise a mistress there,
Than godlike souls in human bodies are.
But when to all she had example shew'd,
How to be great and humble, chaste and good,
Her soul, for earth too excellent, too high,
Flew to its peers, the princes of the sky.

THE CHOICE.

IF Heaven the grateful liberty would give,
That I might choose my method how to live;
And all those hours propitious Fate should lend,
In blissful ease and satisfaction spend;

Near some fair town I'd have a private seat, Built uniform, not little nor too great;

Better, if on a rising ground it stood;

On this side fields, on that a neighbouring wood.
It should within no other things contain,
But what are useful, necessary, plain :
Methinks 'tis nauseous, and I'd ne'er endure
The needless pomp of gaudy furniture.
A little garden, grateful to the eye;
And a cool rivulet run murmuring by:
On whose delicious banks a stately row
Of shady limes, or sycamores should grow.
At th' end of which a silent study plac'd,
Should be with all the noblest authors grac'd:
Horace and Virgil, in whose mighty lines
Immortal wit, and solid learning, shines;
Sharp Juvenal, and amorous Ovid too,
Who all the turns of love's soft passion knew:
He that with judgment reads his charming lines,
In which strong art with stronger nature joins,
Must grant his fancy does the best excel;
His thoughts so tender, and express'd so well:

With all those moderns, men of steady sense,
Esteem'd for learning and for eloquence.
In some of these, as fancy should advise,
I'd always take my morning exercise:
For sure no minutes bring us more content,
Than those in pleasing, useful studies spent.
I'd have a clear and competent estate,
That I might live genteelly, but not great:
As much as I could moderately spend;
A little more, sometimes t'oblige a friend.
Nor should the sons of poverty repine

Too much at fortune, they should taste of mine;
And all that objects of true pity were,

Should be reliev'd with what my wants could spare;
For that our Maker has too largely given,
Should be return'd in gratitude to Heaven.
A frugal plenty should my table spread;
With healthy, not luxurious, dishes spread;
Enough to satisfy, and something more,

To feed the stranger, and the neighbouring poor.
Strong meat indulges vice, and pampering food
Creates diseases, and inflames the blood.
But what's sufficient to make nature strong,
And the bright lamp of life continue long,
I'd freely take; and, as I did possess,
The bounteous Author of my plenty bless.

*

Would bounteous Heaven once more indulge, I'd choose (For who would so much satisfaction lose,

As witty nymphs, in conversation, give)
Near some obliging modest fair to live:
For there's that sweetness in a female mind,
Which in a man's we cannot hope to find;
That, by a secret, but a powerful art,
Winds up the spring of life, and does impart
Fresh vital heat to the transported heart.

I'd have her reason all her passion sway:
Easy in company, in private gay:
Coy to a fop, to the deserving free;
Still constant to herself, and just to me.
A soul she should have for great actions fit;
Prudence and wisdom to direct her wit:
Courage to look bold danger in the face;
No fear, but only to be proud, or base;

Quick to advise, by an emergence prest,
To give good counsel, or to take the best.
I'd have th' expression of her thoughts be such,
She might not seem reserv'd, nor talk too much :
That shews a want of judgment, and of sense;
More than enough is but impertinence.
Her conduct regular, her mirth refin'd;
Civil to strangers, to her neighbours kind;
Averse to vanity, revenge, and pride;
In all the methods of deceit untried:
So faithful to her friend, and good to all,
No censure might upon her actions fall:
Then would ev'n envy be compell'd to say,
She
goes the least of womankind astray.

To this fair creature I'd sometimes retire;
Her conversation would new joys inspire;
Give life an edge so keen, no surly care
Would venture to assault my soul, or dare,
Near my retreat, to hide one secret snare.
But so divine, so noble a repast
I'd seldom, and with moderation, taste:
For highest cordials all their virtue lose,
By a too frequent and too bold a use;
And what would cheer the spirits in distress,
Ruins our health, when taken to excess.

I'd be concern'd in no litigious jar;
Belov'd by all, not vainly popular.
Whate'er assistance I had power to bring,
T'oblige my country, or to serve my king,
Whene'er they call, I'd readily afford

My tongue, my pen, my counsel, or my sword.
Law-suits I'd shun, with as much studious care,
As I would dens where hungry lions are;
And rather put up injuries, than be

A plague to him, who'd be a plague to me.
I value quiet at a price too great,

To give for my revenge so dear a rate:
For what do we by all our bustle gain,
But counterfeit delight for real pain?

If Heaven a date of many years would give, Thus I'd in pleasure, ease, and plenty live. And as I near approach'd the verge of life, Some kind relation (for I'd have no wife)