his character; as the sensibility of his mind was ever too keen for the strength of his constitution." Dr. Hawkesworth has now been dead nearly half a century, and no literary monument has been raised to his memory; few men of equal eminence during the same period, have to complain of similar neglect. Something of the kind was intended to have been carried into effect by his widow, but on what account the design was dropped we have no means of judging. A letter to her Canterbury friend of the date of 1781, has the following remark:-" My intended publication is still unarranged, and Dr. Johnson, to whom I wish to submit the regulations, has been, and still is, so much employed that he has no time to spare."-Surely a memoir of the life of such a man, and a selection from his unpublished pieces, many of which doubtless exist,-together with a complete collection of his poems, would form an acceptable present to the literary public. Dr. Hawkesworth was buried at his favourite Bromley, in the church of which town an elegant monu ment has been erected with the following inscription:→→ To the memory of JOHN HAWKESWORTH, L. L. D. That he lived ornamental and useful Record and Realize. "The hour is basting in which whatever praise or censure I have “ acquired will be remembered with equal indifference.—Time, "who is impatient to date my last paper, will shortly moulder "the hand which is now writing in the dust, and still the breast "that now throbs at the reflection. But let not this be read as "something that relates only to another; for a few years only divide the eye that is now reading from the hand that "has written." [Adventurer, No. 140.] can Dr. Hawkesworth's character as a prose writer is well known, and we shall confine the few remarks we have to make to the examination of his claim to rank among the poets of his country. That he did not acquire eminence as a poet, was the effect not of his incapacity but of his choice; the same application which has elevated him to the highest place among prose writers, would have secured for him a situation not many degrees inferior on the British Parnassus. The character of his mind displays every trait peculiar to the genus irritabile vatum ; he possessed strong passions, and exquisite sensibility, -was feelingly alive to every impression of pleasure or of pain;—was an enthusiastic admirer, and delighted to contemplate, beauty, mental or corporeal;—had looked upon the passing scenes of life with a poet's eye, and had selected for the objects of his peculiar meditation, what may be considered more appropriately the poetic portion of human existence. He delighted in allegory, and the ode on "Life," that on "" Solitude," and the poem entitled "The origin of Doubt," are among the most beautiful and finished productions of their kind in the English langnage. That he had a talent for poetic narrative and possessed no mean share of humour, is also proved by the tale of " Arachne," before alluded to. His style of verse is like that of his prose, correct, fluent, harmonious, and elegant; that it is deficient in dignity, and does not attain to the character of energy, must be allowed, but cannot be advanced against it as defects. Hawkesworth made no attempts at elaborate compo.. sition in verse, and perhaps his genius was not exactly suited to such efforts; in fact the few pieces he left must be considered more as the relaxations of his leisure, than the sustained exertions of his intellectual powers: as such they should be judged, and with that allowance will safely bear a comparison with any compositions of their kind that can be brought in competition with them. To STELLA. No more, my Stella, to the sighing shades, And see with these is holy friendship found, Nor prudence slow that ever comes too late, Say Stella, what is love, whose tyrant power By lying bards in forms so various shewn, Deck'd with false charms, and arm'd with terrors vain, Who can his real attributes make known, Declare his nature, or his birth explain ? Some say of idleness and pleasure bred, A His wanton head with fading chaplets bound, To precipices deep, o'er faithless ground, Then laughing flies, nor hears their fruitless moan. Some say "from Etna's burning entrails torn, "More fierce than tigers on the Lybian plain, "Begot in tempests, and in thunder born, "Love wildly rages, like the foaming main." With darts and flames some arm his feeble hands, Each fabling poet, sure, alike mistakes The gentler power that reigns o'er tender hearts; Soft love no tempest hurls, no thunder shakes, Nor wields the flaming torch, nor poison'd darts. Heav'n-born, the brightest seraph of the sky, At love's approach all earth rejoic'd;-each hill, And richer fragrance breathes in ev'ry vale.. Well pleas'd, in paradise awhile he roves, But love, still faithful to the guilty pair, With them was driv'n amidst a world of woes; Honour in burnish'd steel completely clad, Vain hopes, and frantic fears, his peace alarm. His winning smiles that charm away thy peace, Content shall meet thee in fair friendship's bower And star-crown'd virtue lead to endless bliss. This poem is copied from the manuscript of Dr. Hawkesworth, and we have every reason to suppose has not appeared in print before. LIFE, AN ODE. LIFE! the dear precarious boon! Let the muse, in fancy's glass, |