knows how to write good verses, does he pretend to know every thing else; and because he is a great poet, does he think himself capable of being a great minister?"-On being told of this, Racine exclaimed, "I am a dead man!” ran into his bed-chamber and took to his bed, forgetting what he had advanced in the tragedy of Esther.

"What business has that man at Court
Who cannot many a slight support;
Nor knows each feeling to beguile,
And hide those griefs in many a smile,
Which his sad aching heart oppress

With ev'ry pang of wretchedness ?"

He went, afterwards, to Court, at the request of Madame de Maintenon, but appeared very melancholy and unhappy there, in spite of the notice the King affected to take of him. He died a short time after the disastrous circumstance, and told his friend Boileau, "I love you so much, my dear friend, that I really am glad to die before you. I do not know how I could have lived without you;" and in the same strain of ardent friendship, when, on his death-bed, he applied for the arrears of his own pension, for the sake of his family, he desired his son to ask for those that had been due to Boileau for some time.

"We must never be separated," said he; "and I am anxious to let him know, that I continued his friend to the last moment of my life."

GAY, AND THE SOUTH-SEA BUBBLE.

GAY, in that disastrous year, had a present of some South Sea Stock from young Craggs, and once supposed himself to be master of 20,000l. His friends advised him to sell his share; but he dreamed of dignity and splendour, and could not bear to obstruct his own fortune. He was then importuned to sell as much as would purchase him a hundred a-year for life," which," said Fenton, "will make you sure of a clean shirt and a shoulder of mutton every day." This counsel was rejected. The profit and principal were lost, and Gay sunk under the calamity so low that his life became in danger. He was a negligent and a bad manager. The Duke of Queensberry, latterly, took the trouble of taking care of his money for him, and would only let him have what was necessary out of it. He lived principally in that family, and, consequently, did not spend much: when he died, he left upwards of three thousand pounds. He holds not, we conceive, that high station

among the

poets which his merits entitle him to; his songs in "The Beggars' Opera," (especially "When the heart of a man, &c.") being some of the finest lyric productions in our language.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

As a poet, Sir Walter Raleigh appears not to be appreciated as he deserves to be. His Poems, which consist, mostly, of short pieces, have not yet been admitted into any of our classical collections; a beautiful and correct, but limited edition, has, however, been published by Sir Egerton Brydges, together with a Memoir of his life. Had Raleigh cultivated his talent for Poetry, there can be no doubt that he would have attained a high rank among the bards of that poetical age; but his genius was too universal to admit of being confined to any one particular pursuit. As his productions are difficult of access, the following specimens of his style will, probably, prove acceptable to the reader. The first is said, (like several other pieces, and, in particular, “The Soul's Farewell," the authenticity of which admirable little Poem is, however, by no means

universally admitted) to have been composed on the eve of his judicial murder.

"Even such is time, that takes no trust;
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with age and dust;
Who, in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days!

But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust!"

"The Shepherd's description of Love," originally published in " England's Helicon," is of a very different character.

MELIBEUS.

"Shepherd, what's love, I pray thee tell?

FAUSTUS.

It is that fountain, and that well,

Where pleasure and repentance dwell :

It is, perhaps, that sauncing bell,

That tolls all into heaven or hell :
And this is Love, as I heard tell.

MELIBEUS.

Yet what is Love, I prithee say?

FAUSTUS.

It is a work on holy-day,

It is December match'd with May,

When lusty bloods in fresh array
Hear ten months after of the play :
And this is Love, as I hear say.

MELIBEUS.

Yet, what is Love, good Shepherd, sain ?

FAUSTUS.

It is a sunshine mix'd with rain;
It is a tooth-ach; or like pain:

It is a game, where none doth gain.

The lass saith no, and would full fain :
And this is Love, as I hear sain.

MELIBEUS.

Yet, Shepherd, what is Love, I pray?

FAUSTUS.

It is a yea, it is a nay,

A pretty kind of sporting fray,

It is a thing will soon away;

Then, Nymphs, take 'vantage while ye may : And this is Love, as I hear say.

MELIBEUS.

Yet what is Love, good Shepherd, show?

FAUSTUS.

A thing that creeps, it cannot go;

A prize that passeth to and fro,

A thing for one, a thing for mo,
And he that proves shall find it so,
And, Shepherd, this is Love I trow."