Johnson acknowledged that 'Frank Fawkes had done the Odes of Anacreon very finely.'

JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

JOHN CUNNINGHAM (1729-1773), the son of a wine-cooper in Dublin, was an actor, and performed several years in Digges's company, Edinburgh. In his latter years he sunk into careless, dissipated habits, and resided at Newcastle-on-Tyne, in the house of a ' generous printer,' whose hospitality for some time supported the poet. Cunningham's pieces are full of pastoral simplicity and lyrical melody. He aimed at nothing high, and seldom failed.

Song-May-eve, or Kate of Aberdeen.

The silver moon's enamoured beam
Steals softly through the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,
And kiss reflected light.

To beds of state go, balmy sleep-
"Tis where you 've seldom been-
May's vigil while the shepherds keep
With Kate of Aberdeen.

Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rosy chaplets gay,
Till morn unbars her golden gate,
And gives the promised May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare
The promised May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant, half so fair,
As Kate of Aberdeen.

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,
We'll rouse the nodding grove;
The nested birds shall raise their throats,
And hail the maid I love.

And see-the matin lark mistakes,
He quits the tufted green:

Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,
'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight fairies rove,
Like them the jocund dance we 'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love:

For see, the rosy May draws nigh;
She claims a virgin queen;
And hark! the happy shepherds cry:
''Tis Kate of Aberdeen.'

Content, a Pastoral.

O'er moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, and bare,
As wildered and wearied I roam,

A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair,

And leads me o'er lawns to her home.

Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crowned,
Green rushes were strewed on her floor,

Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round,
And decked the sod seats at her door.

We sat ourselves down to a cooling repast,
Fresh fruits, and she culled me the best;

While thrown from my guard by some glances she cast,
Love slyly stole into my breast!

I told my soft wishes; she sweetly replied

Ye virgins, her voice was divine!

'I've rich ones rejected, and great ones denied,

But take me fond shepherd--I'm thine.'

Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek,
So simple, yet sweet, were her charms!

I kissed the ripe roses that glowed on her cheek,
And locked the loved maid in my arms.
Now jocund together we tend a few sheep,
And if, by yon prattler, the stream,
Reclined on her bosom, I sink into sleep,
Her image still softens my dream.

Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills,
Delighted with pastoral views,

Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils,
And point out new themes for my muse.
To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,
The damsel's of humble descent;

The cottager Peace, is well known for her sire,
And shepherds have named her Content.

DR. JOHN LANGHORNE.

DR. JOHN LANGHORNE (1735–1779) was born at Kirkby Steven, in Westmoreland, and held the curacy and lectureship of St. John's, Clerkenwell, in London. He afterwards obtained a prebend's stall in Wells Cathedral, and was much admired as a preacher. Langhorne wrote various prose works, the most successful of which was his 'Letters of Theodosius and Constantia;' and in conjunction with his brother, he published a translation of Plutarch's Lives, which still maintains its ground. His poetical works were chiefly slight effusions, dictated by the passion or impulse of the moment; but he made an abortive attempt to repel the coarse satire of Churchill, and to walk in the magic circle of the drama. His ballad, 'Owen of Carron,' founded on the old Scottish tale of Gil Morrice, is smoothly versified, but in poetical merit is inferior to the original. The only poem of Langhorne's which has a cast of originality is his 'Country Justice.' Here he seems to have anticipated Crabbe in painting the rural life of England in true colours. His picture of the gipsies, and his sketches of venal clerks and rapacious overseers, are genuine likenesses. He has not the raciness or the distinctness of Crabbe, but is equally faithful, and as sincerely a friend to humanity. He pleads warmly for the poor vagrant tribe:

Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed;
Still mark the strong temptation and the need:
On pressing want, on famine's powerful call,
At least more lenient let thy justice fall.
For him who, lost to every hope of life,
Has long with Fortune held unequal strife,
Known to no human love, no human care,
The friendless, homeless object of despair;
For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains,
Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains.
Alike if folly or misfortune brought

Those last of woes his evil days have wrought;
Believe with social mercy and with me,
Folly's misfortune in the first degree.

Perhaps on some inhospitable shore

The houseless wretch a widowed parent bore;
Who then, no more by golden prospects led,
Of the poor Indian begged a leafy bed.
Cold on Canadian hills or Minden's plain,
Perhaps that parent mourned her soldier slain;
Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew,
The big drops mingling with the milk he drew,
Gave the sad presage of his future years,
The child of misery, baptised in tears.

This allusion to the dead soldier and his widow on the field of battle was made the subject of a print by Bunbury, under which were engraved the pathetic lines of Langhorne. Sir Walter Scott has mentioned, that the only time he saw Burns, the Scottish poet, a copy of this picture was in the room. Burns shed tears over it; and Scott, then a lad of fifteen, told him where the lines were to be found. The passage is beautiful in itself, but this incident will embalm and preserve it for ever.*

Appeal to Country Justices in behalf of the Rural Poor.
Let age no longer toil with feeble strife,

Worn by long service in the war of life;

Nor leave the head, that time hath whitened, bare

To the rude insults of the searching air;

Nor bid the knee, by labour hardened, bend,

O thou, the poor man's hope, the poor man's friend
If, when from heaven severer seasons fall,
Fled from the frozen roof and mouldering wall,
Each face the picture of a winter day,

More strong than Teniers' pencil could portray;
If then to thee resort the shivering train,

Of cruel days, and cruel man complain,
Say to thy heart-remembering him who said-
These people come from far, and have no bread.'
Nor leave thy venal clerk empowered to hear;
The voice of want is sacred to thy ear.
He where no fees his sordid pen invite,
Sports with their tears, too indolent to write;
Like the fed monkey in the fable, vain
To hear more helpless animals complain.

But chief thy notice shall one monster claim;
A monster furnished with a human frame-
The parish-officer !-though verse disdain
Terms that deform the splendour of the strain,
It stoops to bid thee bend the brow severe

On the sly, pilfering, cruel overseer;

The shuffling farmer, faithful to no trust,
Ruthless as rocks, insatiate as the dust!

When the poor hind, with length of years decayed,
Leans feebly on his once-subduing spade,

Forgot the service of his abler days,

His profitable toil, and honest praise,

Shall this low wretch abridge his scanty bread,

This slave, whose board his former labours spread?
When harvest's burning suns and sickening air

From labour's unbraced hand the grasped hook tear,
Where shall the helpless family be fed,

That vainly languish for a father's bread?

See the pale mother, sunk with grief and care,
To the proud farmer fearfully repair;
Soon to be sent with insolence away,

Referred to vestries, and a distant day!

*The incident took place in the house of Dr. Adam Ferguson. The print seen by Burns is now in the Chambers Institution, Peebles, having been presented to the late Dr. Robert Chambers by Sir Adam Ferguson, son of the historian, and transferred by Dr R. Chambers to his brother Dr. W. Chambers for preservation in the Institution. The print is glazed in a black frame. The name of Langhorne, though in very small characters, is engraved on the print, and this had drawn the attention of Scott (who even at the age of fifteen was a great reader) to the poem in which the lines occur,

Referred-to perish! Is my verse severe ?
Unfriendly to the human character?
Ah! to this sigh of sad experience trust:
The truth is rigid, but the tale is just.

If in thy courts this caitiff wretch appear,
Think not that patience were a virtue here.
His low-born pride with honest rage control;
Smite his hard heart, and shake his reptile soul.
But, hapless! oft through fear of future woe,
And certain vengeance of the insulting foe;
Oft, ere to thee the poor prefer their prayer,
The last extremes of penury they bear.

Wouldst thou then raise thy patriot office higher?
To something more than magistrate aspire!
And, left each poorer, pettier chase behind,
Step nobly forth, the friend of humankind!
The game I start courageously pursue!
Adieu to fear! to insolence adieu!

And first we'll range this mountain's stormy side,
Where the rude winds the shepherd's roof deride,
As meet no more the wintry blast to bear,
And all the wild hostilities of air.

That roof have I remembered many a year;

It once gave refuge to a hunted deer

Here, in those days, we found an aged pair;
But time untenants-ha! what seest thou there?
'Horror!-by Heaven, extended on a bed
Of naked fern, two human creatures dead!
Embracing as alive!-ah, no!-no life!
Cold, breathless!'

'Tis the shepherd and his wife.
I knew the scene, and brought thee to behold
What speaks more strongly than the story told-
They died through want.

By every power I swear,
If the wretch treads the earth, or breathes the air,
Through whose default of duty, or design,
These victims fell, he dies.'

'Infernal! Mine !-by

They fell by thine.

Swear on no pretence:

A swearing justicé wants both grace and sense.
The Dead.

Of them who wrapt in earth are cold,
No more the smiling day shall view,
Should many a tender tale be told,

For many a tender thought is due.

Why else the o'ergrown paths of time,
Would thus the lettered sage explore,
With pain these crumbling ruins climb,
And on the doubtful sculpture pore?

A Farewell Hymn to
Farewell, the fields of Irwan's vale,
My infant years where Fancy led,
And soothed me with the western gale,
Her wild dreams waving round my
head,

While the blithe blackbird told his tale.
Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale!

Why seeks he with unwearied ton,
Through Death's dim walks to urge his
Reclaim his long-asserted spoil,

And lead Oblivion into day?

[way,

"Tis nature prompts by toil or fear,
Unmoved to range through Death's do-
The tender parent loves to hear
[main;
Her children's story told again!

the Valley of Irwan.

The primrose on the valley's side,
The green thyme on the mountain's
head,

The wanton rose, the daisy pied,
The wilding's blossom blushing red;
No longer I their sweets inhale.
Farewell the fields of Irwan's vale!

How oft, within yon vacant shade,

Has evening closed my careless eye!
How oft, along those banks I've strayed,
And watched the wave that wandered
by;

Full long their loss shall I bewail.
Farewell, the fields of Irwan's vale!

Yet still, within yon vacant grove,
To mark the close of parting day;
Along yon flowery banks to rove,

And watch the wave that winds away;
Fair Fancy sure shall never fail,
Though far from these and Irwan's vale.

JOHN SCOTT.

JOHN SCOTT (1730-1783) was our only Quaker poet till Bernard Barton graced the order with a sprig of laurel. Scott was the son of a draper in London, who retired to Amwell, in Hertfordshire, and here the poet spent his days, improving his garden and grounds, and writing moral and descriptive poems, elegies, eclogues, epistles, &c. Scott fondly hoped to immortalise his native village,' on which he wrote a poem, Amwell,' 1776; but of all his works only the subjoined lines are remembered. This little piece seems to have been dictated by real feeling, as well as Quaker principle:

་

Ode on Hearing the Drum.

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields,
And lures from cities and from fields,
To sell their liberty for charms
Of tawdry lace, and glittering arms;
And when Ambition's voice commands,
To march, and fight, and fall in foreign
lands.

I hate that drum's discordant sound,
Parading round, and round, and round:
To me it talks of ravaged plains,
And burning towns, and ruined swains,
And mangled limbs, and dying groans,
And widows' tears and orphans' moans;
And all that misery's hand bestows
To fill the catalogue of human woes.

MICHAEL BRUCE.

MICHAEL BRUCE was born at Kinnesswood, parish of Portmoak, county of Kinross, on the 27th of March, 1746. His father was a humble tradesman, a weaver. The dreariest poverty and obscurity hung over the poet's infancy, but the elder Bruce was a good and pious man, and trained his children to a knowledge of their letters, and a deep sense of religious duty. In the summer months, Michael was put out to herd cattle. His education was retarded by this employment; but his training as a poet was benefited by solitary communion with nature, amidst scenery that overlooked Lochleven, and its fine old ruined castle. When he had arrived at his fifteenth year, the poet was judged fit for college, and at this time a relation of his father died, leaving him a legacy of 200 merks Scots, or £11, 2s. 2d. sterling. This sum the old man piously devoted to the education of his favourite son, who proceeded with it to Edinburgh, and was enrolled a student of the university. Michael was soon distinguished for his proficiency, and for his taste for poetry. Having been three sessions at college, supported by his parents and some kind friends and neighbours, Bruce engaged to teach a school at Gairney Bridge, where he received for his labours about £11 per annum! He afterwards removed to Forest Hill, near Alloa, where he taught for some