His family were
But it appears

MATTHEW GREEN, "who wrote the Spleen," was born in 1696. Quakers, and he was brought up and educated among that sect. their formality and precision were unpalatable to him, and he quitted the society "with disgust;" but without entering into communion with any other religious body, in consequence of which he incurred the reproach of "free thinking" upon sacred subjects. His probity, however, has not been questioned, and there is ample testimony of the gentleness of his temper and the suavity of his manners. He had a post at the Custom-House, and discharged his duty with diligence and ability. He died, in 1737, at his lodgings in Nag's-head-court, Gracechurch-street. Such is almost the whole of our knowledge of Matthew Green; but this paucity of information regarding him is to be accounted for by the fact, that he published nothing during his life-time, and that he wrote probably without the remotest idea of "finding fame." We are, however, told that he was liable to fits of hypochondriacism, and that out of this affliction grew the poem on the Spleen. In completing it he is said to have laboured during several years; adding to when the "fit was on him." Besides this poem, he wrote "The Grotto," and two or three other pieces of no great merit. "The Spleen" has, however, always been considered one of the most striking compositions in the language. It is written in an easy, but energetic styleat once simple and nervous; it is the obvious production of a mind ill at ease with itself, yet conscious that a remedy for the disease may be easily obtained. There are no common thoughts in the poem, yet they are all natural, recorded with strength and originality, just such as would occur upon such a subject, and they are happily compressed.

The design of the writer, as he expressed to his friend, Cuthbert Jackson, to whom the poem is addressed, is not,

"To write a treatise on the Spleen;

Nor to prescribe when nerves convulse;
Nor mend th' alarum watch, your pulse.

If I am right, your question lay,

What course I take to drive away

The day-mare, Spleen, by whose false pleas,

Men prove mere suicides in ease;

And how I do myself demean,

In stormy world to live serene."

He then describes his peculiar habits, opinions, employments, and amusements— and he evidently describes them with truth.

"Nothing is stol'n; my muse though mean,

Draws from the spring she finds within."

The remedies he prescribes are those which produce or nourish cheerfulness :— Exercise "fling but a stone the giant dies;" things that excite laughter-poor authors worshipping a calf, deep tragedies, fine epitaphs on knaves deceased;-music and the dance, the gay impertinence of gossiping: each and all he touches with the pen of a gentle satirist; and proceeds to state how by a perpetual struggle against its influence he has contrived to master, or at least control, the "day-mare;" swimming along the troubled stream of life,

"Till fortune threw a rope

Buoyant on bladders fill'd with hope."

It would be difficult to point out, in the whole range of English poetry, so many striking and original thoughts in the same number of lines. They were penned down as they occurred to him. If the descriptions appear unconnected, we are amply compensated by finding no weak link to bind them together. His object was to write less for the world than himself-and if years were employed in producing this one, and comparatively short, addition to our national store of verse; they were not spent in vain. The selection we have made from it will, we think, bear out our opinion of its high and enduring merit, and justify even higher praise than we have bestowed upon its author.

CONTENTMENT, parent of delight, So much a stranger to our sight, Say, goddess, in what happy place Mortals behold thy blooming face; Thy gracious auspices impart, And for thy temple choose my heart. They, whom thou deignest to inspire, Thy science learn, to bound desire; By happy alchymy of mind

They turn to pleasure all they find; They both disdain in outward mien The grave and solemn garb of Spleen,

And meretricious arts of dress,
To feign a joy, and hide distress;
Unmov'd when the rude tempest blows,
Without an opiate they repose;
And, cover'd by your shield, defy
The whizzing shafts, that round them fly :
Nor meddling with the god's affairs,
Concern themselves with distant cares;
But place their bliss in mental rest,
And feast upon the good possess'd.
Forc'd by soft violence of pray'r,
The blithsome goddess soothes my care;
I feel the deity inspire,

And thus she models my desire.
Two hundred pounds half-yearly paid,
Annuity securely made,

A farm some twenty miles from town,
Small, tight, salubrious, and my own;
Two maids, that never saw the town,
A serving-man, not quite a clown;
A boy to help to tread the mow,

And drive, while t' other holds the plough;
A chief, of temper form'd to please,
Fit to converse, and keep the keys;
And better to preserve the peace,
Commission'd by the name of niece;
With understandings of a size
To think their master very wise.
May Heav'n (it's all I wish for) send.
One genial room to treat a friend,
Where decent cupboard, little plate,
Display benevolence, not state.
And may my humble dwelling stand
Upon some chosen spot of land:

A pond before full to the brim,

Where cows may cool, and geese may swim;
Behind, a green like velvet neat,
Soft to the eye, and to the feet;
Where od'rous plants in evening fair
Breathe all around ambrosial air;
From Eurus, foe to kitchen ground,
Fenc'd by a slope with bushes crown'd,
Fit dwelling for the feather'd throng,
Who pay their quit-rents with a song;

With op'ning views of hill and dale,
Which sense and fancy too regale,

Where the half-cirque, which vision bounds,
Like amphitheatre surrounds;

And woods impervious to the breeze,
Thick phalanx of embodied trees,
From hills through plains in dusk array
Extended far, repel the day.

Here stillness, height, and solemn shade
Invite, and contemplation aid:

Here nymphs from hollow oaks relate
The dark decrees and will of Fate,
And dreams beneath the spreading beech
Inspire, and docile fancy teach;
While soft as breezy breath of wind,
Impulses rustle through the mind.
Here Dryads, scorning Phoebus' ray,
While Pan melodious pipes away,
In measur'd motions frisk about,
Till old Silenus puts them out.
There see the clover, pea, and bean,
Vie in variety of green;

Fresh pastures speckled o'er with sheep,

Brown fields their fallow sabbaths keep,

Plump Ceres golden tresses wear,

And poppy top-knots deck her hair,

And silver streams through meadows stray, And Naïads on the margin play,

And lesser nymphs on side of hills

From play-thing urns pour down the rills.

Thus shelter'd, free from care and strife,

May I enjoy a calm through life;
See faction, safe in low degree,

As men at land see storms at sea,
And laugh at miserable elves

Not kind, so much as to themselves,
Curs'd with such souls of base alloy,
As can possess, but not enjoy;
Debarr'd the pleasure to impart
By av'rice, sphincter of the heart,
Who wealth, hard-earn'd by guilty cares,
Bequeath untouch'd to thankless heirs.
May I, with look ungloom'd by guile,
And wearing Virtue's liv'ry-smile,

Prone the distressed to relieve,
And little trespasses forgive,
With income not in fortune's pow'r
And skill to make a busy hour,
With trips to town life to amuse,
To purchase books, and hear the news,
To see old friends, brush off the clown,
And quicken taste at coming down;
Unhurt by sickness' blasting rage,
And slowly mellowing in age,

When Fate extends its gathering gripe,
Fall off like fruit grown fully ripe,
Quit a worn being without pain,
Perhaps to blossom soon again.

I LATELY saw, what now I sing,
Fair Lucia's hand display'd;
This finger grac'd a diamond ring,
On that a sparrow play'd.

The feather'd play-thing she caress'd,
She stroak'd its head and wings;
And while it nestled in her breast,
She lisp'd the dearest things.

With chisel'd bill a spark ill-set
He loosen'd from the rest,

And swallow'd down to grind his meat,
The easier to digest.

She seiz'd his bill with wild affright,
Her diamond to descry:

'Twas gone, she sicken'd at the sight,
Moaning her bird would die.

The tongue-ty'd knocker none might use,
The curtains none. undraw,

The footmen went without their shoes,
The street was laid with straw.