Et vitula tu dignus et hic.CHAPTER XXXVII.
Et vitula tu dignus et hic.
Et vitula tu dignus et hic.
Et vitula tu dignus et hic.
Et vitula tu dignus et hic.
The next personage, had he yet lived, would have been seriously offended at being classed only in the middle rank of poets; but great as his genius actually was, with a fine and cultivated taste, founded on classical knowledge, and improved by almost uninterrupted exercise, will posterity allow the best of Cumberland’s poetical productions, a loftier station? It may, nevertheless, be questioned whether he did not as much pride himself upon “Calvary,” as upon the best of his dramatic productions, or upon his excellent collection of Essays in his Observer.
He could not easily endure a rival in any branch of literature, but, without entering into his failings, it may easily be conceded that he had not in his time many equals. His talents were so various, his productions so numerous, and of many of them it may truly be asserted, that they were so valuable and so instructive, that who can call tomemory without a sigh that his latter hours were darkened by poverty.
He excited in the writer of these brief notices the sincerest esteem and regard, notwithstanding that, after having for years enjoyed his most intimate familiarity, he by an untoward accident provoked his displeasure. The accident was this.
When employed in writing the incidents of his own life, with the view of publication, Mr. C. applied to the Sexagenarian to revise the manuscript and correct the press. This appeared to be both a difficult and a perilous office; the well-known irritable temper of the author presented itself as a frightful spectre to the imagination, breathing discontent, impatience, and dispute. The same misfortune, however, ensued from declining, as perhaps would have resulted from the performance of the task. Mr. C. was much offended, and the intimacy became less and less cordial. Alas, poor ghost!
Mild, good, amiable, and ingenious, another personage presents himself; but however earnest the disposition might be to increase, rather than detract, from his honours, candour and truth compel the peremptory decision, that he can only be classed among the minor poets. He was an elegant scholar, and his versification evinced much facility ofcomposition, and no inconsiderable portion of taste; but his translation of Horace was never exceedingly popular, nor did it pass, it is believed, to a second edition. It may appear singular, but it is nevertheless true, that though sometimes heavy and prosaic, and defective in energy, the work of old Francis is still referred to, and keeps its place in our libraries.
Subsequently to the Horace, a volume of poems was published by this author, which were characterized by the same qualities of good taste, by easy and often elegant versification, but the reader would look in vain for “thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.”
Another friend and contemporary might, if he had so pleased, have asserted higher claims as a poet, but he exercised the talent for amusement only, though he sometimes made use of it as an accompaniment to labours of a more serious and exalted kind. He was a philosopher in every sense of the word; a most elegant classical scholar; and there were few branches of science in which he was not well versed. But his great distinction was an accurate and familiar knowledge of natural history in all its branches.
In this line of science he was pre-eminently accomplished, not only in the opinion of his countrymen,but of all Europe. He was of a truly manly mind and character, and but little regarded the occasional opposition to his opinions, though urged with all the force of aristocratical influence, and all the vehemence of personal dislike. He pursued the even tenor of his way unintimidated and unshaken. One inconsiderate disregard of some established regulation, by which he could have no possible object in view, but the extension and benefit of science, placed him for a time in an awkward and unpleasant predicament. When envy is armed with power, woe be to the ill-fated wight against whom its arrows are directed. Yet in this instance they were aimed in vain. The sevenfold shield of superior attainments, wielded by the strong arm of unimpeached integrity, proudly defied all the malice of his adversaries. It is, indeed, observes the writer, pleasing to remember the dignified contempt, with which he received and returned certain salutations of constrained civility from a lofty personage, to whom he was confessedly superior in every thing but rank.
Although not a few memoranda still remain on the subject of poetical contemporaries, it seems time to pause. Let it suffice to observe that the following personages are mentioned in terms of esteem and regard, and as authors of various elegant compositions in verse—Sotheby, the Translator of Persius, Bowles, Park, Farhill, JohnAnstey, Serjeant, Sir James Burges, W. Spencer, Kett, with a train of etceteras.
The following, by one of those above described, may, perhaps have been printed before. Its elegance merits perpetuity, and is here given from the Author’s own manuscript.
LIMODORUM.Sweet flow’r, whose modest beauties blowDeep in the green and silent vale,Where willows, bending o’er the stream,Wave gently to the passing gale!So, in thy native Sina’s shadesLike thee sequester’d and serene,Soft smiling sit her pensive maids,Pleas’d with the solitary scene.There, listening to some magic taleOf fabled bliss, or fancied woe,They deck with art the silken veil,Or tend the flowers that round them blow.From moss-clad rocks and tangled shadesThe murmuring waters roll around;Sweep thro’ the garden’s green arcades,And shine along the varied ground.On waving boughs the plumy raceSweet carol from the blossom’d spray;While, glittering in each pictur’d vase,The golden-scaled beauties play.Domestic cares and duteous loveIn turn their tender thoughts employ;And form within their green alcoveA happiness that cannot cloy.
LIMODORUM.Sweet flow’r, whose modest beauties blowDeep in the green and silent vale,Where willows, bending o’er the stream,Wave gently to the passing gale!So, in thy native Sina’s shadesLike thee sequester’d and serene,Soft smiling sit her pensive maids,Pleas’d with the solitary scene.There, listening to some magic taleOf fabled bliss, or fancied woe,They deck with art the silken veil,Or tend the flowers that round them blow.From moss-clad rocks and tangled shadesThe murmuring waters roll around;Sweep thro’ the garden’s green arcades,And shine along the varied ground.On waving boughs the plumy raceSweet carol from the blossom’d spray;While, glittering in each pictur’d vase,The golden-scaled beauties play.Domestic cares and duteous loveIn turn their tender thoughts employ;And form within their green alcoveA happiness that cannot cloy.
LIMODORUM.
Sweet flow’r, whose modest beauties blowDeep in the green and silent vale,Where willows, bending o’er the stream,Wave gently to the passing gale!
Sweet flow’r, whose modest beauties blow
Deep in the green and silent vale,
Where willows, bending o’er the stream,
Wave gently to the passing gale!
So, in thy native Sina’s shadesLike thee sequester’d and serene,Soft smiling sit her pensive maids,Pleas’d with the solitary scene.
So, in thy native Sina’s shades
Like thee sequester’d and serene,
Soft smiling sit her pensive maids,
Pleas’d with the solitary scene.
There, listening to some magic taleOf fabled bliss, or fancied woe,They deck with art the silken veil,Or tend the flowers that round them blow.
There, listening to some magic tale
Of fabled bliss, or fancied woe,
They deck with art the silken veil,
Or tend the flowers that round them blow.
From moss-clad rocks and tangled shadesThe murmuring waters roll around;Sweep thro’ the garden’s green arcades,And shine along the varied ground.
From moss-clad rocks and tangled shades
The murmuring waters roll around;
Sweep thro’ the garden’s green arcades,
And shine along the varied ground.
On waving boughs the plumy raceSweet carol from the blossom’d spray;While, glittering in each pictur’d vase,The golden-scaled beauties play.
On waving boughs the plumy race
Sweet carol from the blossom’d spray;
While, glittering in each pictur’d vase,
The golden-scaled beauties play.
Domestic cares and duteous loveIn turn their tender thoughts employ;And form within their green alcoveA happiness that cannot cloy.
Domestic cares and duteous love
In turn their tender thoughts employ;
And form within their green alcove
A happiness that cannot cloy.