sages, as by too full an explanation might lose their dignity, be improper, or give offence.

As I look upon myself to be a kind of Sibyl, I hope these observations may not be thought · out of character, or be unacceptable to the public; especially as an author who does not shew some turn towards criticism is esteemed little better than an ignorant gamester, who knows not how to shuffle his cards.

OLD MAID, No. 8

No. XCVIII.

But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves,
Long sounding aisles, and intermingled graves,
Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws
A death-like silence, and a dread repose;
Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene,
Shades ev'ry flower, and darkens ev'ry green,
Deepens the murmur of the falling floods,
And breathes a browner horror on the woods.

POPE.

Madam,

As the incomparable authors of the Spectators did not think it beneath them to criticise Chevy Chase, and the Children in the Wood, and condescended to the labour of drawing forth the natural and beautiful thoughts in those antiquated pieces, which had long lain buried under the rubbish of rustic and unmusical language; I hope it will not be unacceptable either to you or your readers, that I offer to your observation the following song from a play of Beaumont and Fletcher, in which the images are not only fancied with the greatest beauty, strength, and propriety, but are heightened with all the colouring and ornament of the most exquisite poetry; and the versification, allowing for the distance of time, surprisingly smooth and har

monious even to modern ears, though accustomed to the studied correctness of these latter

days:

Hence all ye vain delights,

As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly;

There's nought in this life sweet,
If men were wise to see't,
But only melancholy;

O sweetest melancholy !

Welcome, folded arms and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fasten'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up, without a sound.

Fountain heads, and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves;
Moon-light walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly hous'd, save bats and owls.
A midnight bell, a parting groan,
These are the sounds we feed upon;

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,
Nothing's so dainty sweet, as lovely melancholy.

It is, I think, almost impossible for the strongest and most lively imagination, to draw a design more truly picturesque than is contained in the four last lines of the first stanza; and I could wish to see it executed by our British Rosalba, who has an uncommonly happy turn for this characteristic style of painting. As I am writing to a lady, and am a constant

advocate for, and zealous admirer of, the softer sex, I shall make no apology for stepping a little out of my path, to do honour to myself by mentioning one who is so excellent in an art which has hitherto in England, and almost every where else, been confined entirely to ourselves, or at least has been only practised by a few ladies for their private amusement.

But to return to my subject. The last stanza is also beautifully imagined: I think I can discover that Rowe, in the despairing speech of Calista, had this description in his eye, though he varied from it in many circumstances: but I shall produce an imitator, who does our author much greater honour; and who, by catching the divine fire from this truly inspired ode, has paid it the highest compliment it could have received from mere mortality: the imitator I mean is Milton, who is supposed, by the late editor of Beaumont and Fletcher, and with great appearance of reason, to have taken the first hint of his Il Pénseroso from this song: it must be allowed he has improved the plan, and carried it on to such a degree of perfection, as to make his poem one of the most finished in our language; but the first ground-work appears to be taken from this little lyric performance of our author's.

It may be no disagreeable task to compare them together; and I believe it will be found that the editor of Beaumont and Fletcher was not mistaken in his conjecture; since, if the resemblance in the sentiment appears, on examination, strongly striking, and the very expression sometimes almost the same, it is more reasonable to suppose an author of Milton's universal reading, who must have seen this beautiful song, took the first hint of his Il Penseroso from it, than that two poets should exactly, from mere accident, hit upon the same thoughts, and almost clothe them in the same language. I beg leave to give from Milton the passages most apparently similar, that the resemblance may be seen in the strongest point of view. Il Penseroso begins thus:

Hence vain deluding joys,

The brood of folly without father bred:

How little you bested,

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys!

Dwell in some idle brain,

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,

As thick and numberless,

As the gay motes that people the sun beams;

Or likest hovering dreams,

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train:
But hail thou goddess sage and holy,

Hail divinest Melancholy!