From hence the cheerful flame leap'd up so high,

Close at it's heels the nimble air did fly;

Dull Earth with his own weight did downwards pierce To the fix'd navel of the Universe,

And was quite lost in waters; till God said

To the proud Sea, Shrink in your insolent head;
See how the gaping Earth has made you place !'
That durst not murmur, but shrunk in apace:
Since when, his bounds are set; at which in vain
He foams and rages, and turns back again.
With richer stuff he bade Heaven's fabric shine,
And from him a quick spring of light divine

Swell'd up the Sun, from whence his cherishing flame
Fills the whole world, like him from whom it came.
He smooth'd the rough-cast Moon's imperfect mould,
And comb'd her beamy locks with sacred gold:

6 'Be thou,' said he, Queen of the mournful Night!' And as he spake, she rose, clad o'er in light, With thousand Stars attending in her train,

With her they rise, with her they set again.
Then Herbs peep'd forth, now Trees admiring stood,
And smelling Flowers painted the infant wood;
Then flocks of birds through the glad air did flee,
Joyful, and safe before Man's luxury;

Singing their Maker in their untaught lays :

Nay the mute Fish witness no less his praise;

For those he made, and clothed with silver scales,

From Minnows to those living islands, Whales.
Beasts, too, were his command; what could he more?
Yes, Man he could, the bond of all before;
In him he all things with strange order hurl'd,
In him that full abridgment of the World!"

There are likewise many beautiful Lyrical pieces introduced. The following in which David speaks of his love for Saul's daughter is a perfect gem :

And tell thy silent master's humble tale,
In sounds that may prevail;

Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:

Though so exalted she,

And I so lowly be,

Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony!

Hark! how the strings awake!

And though the moving hand approach not near,
Themselves with awful fear

A kind of numerous trembling make :

Now all thy forces try,

Now all thy charms apply,

Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.

Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure

Is useless here, since thou art only found

To cure, but not to wound;

And she to wound but not to cure:

Too weak too wilt thou prove

My passion to remove,

Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to Love.

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre!

For thou can'st never tell my humble tale,

In sounds that will prevail;

Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;

All thy vain mirth lay by,

Bid thy strings silent lie;

Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre! and let thy master die!"

Unhappily, however,

"Men's evil manners live in brass,

Their virtues we write in water;"

The "Davideis" is now seldom quoted; and when it is noticed, it is not for the purpose of recalling to our recollection the brilliant passages which I have just cited. If the Poem live at all in the memory of the general reader, it is by reason of two ridiculous lines, descriptive of the sword of Goliath:

"A Sword so great, that it was only fit

To cut off his great head that came with it!"

In discussing the merits of our remaining Narrative Poets, I shall be necessarily brief. Davenant's "Gondibert" is very defective both in interest and passion. As a Narrative, it is not entitled to any high praise; though there are passages in it replete with beautiful imagery, and genuine and unaffected sentiment. We have not, however, space for any quotations; and Dryden's "Fables," and his "Eneid," are too generally known to need any. That Author's fame as a Narrative Poet rests upon these. The matter is all borrowed. The " Fables" are as much translations from Boccacio, and Chaucer, as his

"Eneid" is from Virgil. The matter, I have said, is not Dryden's, but the manner is all his own; and in that their great charm consists. The energy, the beauty, the power, the majesty, and the delicacy of his style, are unrivalled. His versification is even now, notwithstanding the efforts of his successors, Pope, Goldsmith, Campbell, and Byron, the noblest and most perfect in our language. As Milton in blank verse, so Dryden in the heroic rhymed measure, is without a competitor or even an approximator.

"Waller was smooth, but Dryden taught to join
The varying verse, the full resounding line,
The long majestic march, and energy divine.”

The Translations of Rowe, Pitt, Pope, and Mickle, have enriched our language with the noblest monuments of the genius of foreign nations. To Rowe and Pitt may be assigned the merit of fidelity, and of considerable powers in versification. Pope and Mickle, the former especially, are very splendid writers: though the latter must rank among the most unfaithful of translators. Of Pope I have already spoken at some length, and we shall hereafter have occasion to consider his merits as a Didactic, and Descriptive Poet. I shall therefore, not now enter into any discussion of the subject.

Glover's "Leonidas" I have also already noticed; and the Epics of Wilkie and Blackmore, are really not worth our attention. The latter has made himself immortal by two memorable lines, which will suffice as a specimen of his merits:

"A painted vest Prince Vortigern had on,
Which from a naked Pict his grandsire won!"

The authenticity of the Poems ascribed to Ossian, is a subject full of doubt and intricacy, into the mazes of which it is not my intention to enter. It is difficult to believe that Poems formed so nearly upon the Aristotlean rules, should have been produced in an age, and amongst a people, where those rules were totally unknown: it is still more difficult to believe that such Poems, never having been written, should have been preserved through so many ages, by oral tradition alone: but, perhaps, an attentive reader would declare that, all circumstances considered, it would be the greatest difficulty of all to believe, that the whole is a modern invention. The absence of all traces of Religion, however, in these Poems, is a very singular fact, and strikes me as a strong argument against their authenticity; as the Poetical compositions of all other nations are so closely connected