This sedulous
imitation extends even to the praise of things inanimate:
"When an Eden zephyr hovers
O'er a slumb'ring cherub's lyre,
Or when sighs of seraph lovers
Breathe upon th' unfinger'd wire."
If namby-pamby still leads to distinction, Mr. S., like Ambrose
Phillips, will be "preferred for wit."
"Heav'n must hear--a bloom more tender
Seems to tint the wreath of May,
Lovelier beams the noon-day splendour,
Brighter dew-drops gem the spray!
"Is the breath of angels moving
O'er each flow'ret's heighten'd hue?
Are their smiles the day improving,
Have their tears enrich'd the dew?"
Here we have "angels' tears," and "breath," and "smiles," and "Eden
zephyrs," "sighs of seraph lovers," and "lyres of slumbering cherubs,"
dancing away to "the Pedal Harp!" How strange it is that Thomson, in his
stanzas on the AEolian lyre (see the 'Castle of Indolence'), never
dreamed of such things, but left all these prettinesses to the last of
the Cruscanti!
One of the best pieces in the volume is an "Epistle to T. Moore, Esq.,"
which though disfigured with "Fiends on sulphur nurst," and "_Hell's
chillest Winter_" ("poor Tom's a'-cold!"), and some other vagaries of
the same sort, forms a pleasant specimen of poetical friendship.--We
give the last ten lines:
"The triflers think your varied powers
Made only for life's gala bow'rs,
To smooth Reflection's mentor-frown,
Or Pillow joy on softer down.--
Fools!--yon blest orb not only glows
To chase the cloud, or paint the rose;
_These_ are the pastimes of his might,
Earth's torpid bosom drinks his light;
Find there his wondrous pow'r's true measure,
Death turn'd to life, and dross to treasure!"
We have now arrived at Mr.
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