He seized the advantage Fate allow'd ;

And straight compress'd her in his vigorous arms.

STROPHE.

The curlieu scream'd, the Tritons blew
Their shells to celebrate the ravish'd rite;
Old Time exulted as he flew ;

And Independence saw the light.

The light he saw in Albion's happy plains,
Where under cover of a flowering thorn,
While Philomel renew'd her warbled strains,
The auspicious fruit of stolen embrace was born;
The mountain Dryads seized with joy,

The smiling infant to their charge consign'd;
- The Doric Muse caress'd the favourite boy;
The hermit Wisdom stored his opening mind.
As rolling years matured his age,

He flourish'd bold and sinewy as his sire;
While the mild passions in his breast assuage
The fiercer flames of his maternal sire.

THOMAS BLACKLOCK.

BORN 1721-DIED 1791.

"THE blind poet" was a native of Annan, in Dumfriesshire. At six months old he lost his sight in the smallpox; and, when he reached the proper age, his father and friends, to lighten this calamity, read to him whatever they conceived likely to please and interest him in

P

the English classics and poets. In this manner his taste for poetry was early formed.

At the age of twenty he lost his kind father. About the same time his MS. verses attracted so much attention, that, with the assistance of some generous friends, he was sent to the University of Edinburgh. His promising abilities, and the sympathy excited by his blindness, procured him many useful friends, who promoted the sale of his works, and thus enabled him to continue his studies, till, in 1759, he was licensed as a preacher of the Scottish church. He now married the daughter of a surgeon in his native town,-a union that contributed much to the happiness of his future life.

Blacklock was presented to the church of Kirkcudbright; but the appointment of a blind pastor gave so much offence to the worthy parishioners, that, on receiving a very moderate annuity, he gave up his clerical charge, and removed to Edinburgh, where, during the remainder of his life, he received into his family, as boarders and pupils, a few young gentlemen among the students at the University.

His verse and his conversation attracted many friends around the cheerful and amiable blind poet; and he enjoyed the friendship and correspondence of many men distinguished in literature. In the composition of various works, the instruction of his pupils, and the elegant enjoyments of society, Blacklock passed a placid and not useless life. He ought ever to be gratefully remembered as the first friend of Burns. But for his fortunate, generous, and happily-timed interference, Burns, then on the very eve of sailing for the West Indies, must have been for ever lost to his country.

THE PORTRAIT.

STRAIGHT is my person, but of little size;
Lean are my cheeks, and hollow are my eyes :
My youthful down is, like my talents, rare;
Politely distant stands each single hair.
My voice too rough to charm a lady's ear;
So smooth a child may listen without fear;
Not form'd in cadence soft and warbling lays,
To sooth the fair through pleasure's wanton ways.
My form so fine, so regular, so new,

My port so manly, and so fresh my hue;
Oft, as I meet the crowd, they, laughing, say,
"See, see Memento Mori cross the way."
The ravish'd Proserpine at last, we know,
Grew fondly jealous of her sable beau ;
But, thanks to Nature! none from me need fly,
One heart the devil could wound-so cannot I.
Yet, though my person fearless may be seen,
There is some danger in my graceful mien :
For, as some vessel, toss'd by wind and tide,
Bounds o'er the waves, and rocks from side to
side,

In just vibration thus I always move:

This who can view and not be forced to love?
Hail! charming self! by whose propitious aid
My form in all its glory stands display'd:
Be present still; with inspiration kind,
Let the same faithful colours paint the mind.
Like all mankind, with vanity I'm bless'd,
Conscious of wit I never yet possess'd.
To strong desires my heart an easy prey,
Oft feels their force, but never owns their sway.

This hour, perhaps, as death I hate my foe;
The next I wonder why I should do so.
Though poor, the rich I view with careless eye;
Scorn a vain oath, and hate a serious lie.
I ne'er for satire torture common sense;
Nor show my wit at God's nor man's expense.
Harmless I live, unknowing and unknown;
Wish well to all, and yet do good to none.
Unmerited contempt I hate to bear;
Yet on my faults, like others, am severe.
Dishonest flames my bosom never fire;
The bad I pity, and the good admire :
Fond of the Muse, to her devote my days,
And scribble-not for pudding, but for praise.

CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY.

BORN 1724-DIED 1805.

THIS lively and agreeable versifier was, in common with a very great proportion of literary men, the son of a clergyman. From Eton he went to Cambridge, where, in 1742, he obtained a degree, which he resigned on coming to his patrimony and marrying.

THE NEW BATH GUIDE, Anstey's well-known poem, was

exceedingly popular at the time of publication, and has been often taken as a model in a new style of English verse, sketchy, humorous, sometimes pointed, but in its love of mischief rather sportful than malignant. Mr Anstey died at Bath at a very advanced age. He was the father of-thirteen children.

FROM THE NEW BATH GUIDE.

THE PUBLIC BREAKFAST.

Now my Lord had the honour of coming down post,

To pay his respects to so famous a toast;

In hopes he her Ladyship's favour might win,
By playing the part of a host at an inn.
I'm sure he's a person of great resolution,
Though delicate nerves, and a weak constitution;
For he carried us all to a place cross the river,
And vow'd that the rooms were too hot for his

liver :

He said it would greatly our pleasure promote, If we all for Spring-Gardens set out in a boat: I never as yet could his reason explain,

Why we all sallied forth in the wind and the

rain;

For sure such confusion was never yet known; Here a cap and a hat, there a cardinal blown : While his Lordship, embroider'd and powder'd all o'er,

Was bowing, and handing the ladies ashore : How the Misses did huddle, and scuddle, and

run:

One would think to be wet must be very good

fun;

For by waggling their tails, they all seem'd to

take pains

To moisten their pinions like ducks when it rains; And 'twas pretty to see how, like birds of a fea

ther,

The people of quality flock'd all together;