The most popular of Mickle's original poems is his ballad of Cumnor Hall, which has attained additional celebrity by its having suggested to Sir Walter Scott the groundwork of his romance of Kenilworth.* The plot is interesting, and the versification easy and musical. Mickle assisted in Evans's Collection of Old Ballads-in which Cumnor Hall and other pieces of his first appeared; and though in this style of composition he did not copy the direct simplicity and unsophisticated ardour of the real old ballads, he had much of their tenderness and pathos. A still stronger proof of this is afforded by a Scottish song, the author of which was long unknown, but which seems clearly to have been written by Mickle. An imperfect, altered, and corrected copy was found among his manuscripts after his death; and his widow being applied to, confirmed the external evidence in his favour, by an express declaration that her husband had said the song was his own, and that he had explained to her the Scottish words. It is the fairest flower in his poetical chaplet. The delineation of humble matrimonial happiness and affection which the song presents, is almost unequalled:

Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue;

His breath's like caller air;

His very fit has music in 't

As he comes up the stair.

And will I see his face again?

And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought:
In troth, I'm like to greet.

Beattie added a stanza to this song, containing a happy Epicurean fancy, elevated by the situation and the faithful love of the speaker-which Burns says is worthy of the first poet'—

The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.

Mickle would have excelled in the Scottish dialect, and in portraying Scottish life, had he truly known his own strength, and trusted to the impulses of his heart instead of his ambition.

Cumnor Hall.

The dews of summer night did fall,
The moon-sweet regent of the sky-
Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,

And many an oak that grew thereby.

Now nought was heard beneath the skies-
The sounds of busy life were still-
Save an unhappy lady's sighs,

That issued from that lonely pile.
'Leicester,' she cried, 'is this thy love
That thou so oft hast sworn to me,
To leave me in this lonely grove,

Immured in shameful privity?

'No more thou com'st, with lover's speed, Thy once beloved bride to see;

But be she alive, or be she dead,
I fear, stern Earl's, the same to thee.

'Not so the usage I received

When happy in my father's hall; No faithless husband then me grieved, No chilling fears did me appal.

Sir Walter intended to have named his romance Cumnor Hall, but was persuaded-wisely, we think-by Mr Constable, his publisher, to adopt the title of Kenilworth.

'I rose up with the cheerful morn,
No lark so blithe, no flower more gay;
And, like the bird that haunts the thorn,
So merrily sung the live-long day.

"If that my beauty is but small,

Among court-ladies all despised, Why didst thou rend it from that hall, Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized?

'And when you first to me made suit,
How fair I was, you oft would say!
And, proud of conquest, plucked the fruit,
Then left the blossom to decay.

"Yes! now neglected and despised,

The rose is pale, the lily's dead; But he that once their charms so prized,

Is sure the cause those charms are fled.

'For know, when sickening grief doth prey, And tender love's repaid with scorn, The sweetest beauty will decay:

What floweret can endure the storm?

'At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne,
Where every lady 's passing rare,
That eastern flowers, that shame the sun,
Are not so glowing, not so fair.

'Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds
Where roses and where lilies vie,
To seek a primrose, whose pale shades
Must sicken when those gauds are by?

"Mong rural beauties I was one;

Among the fields wild-flowers are fair; Some country swain might me have won, And thought my passing beauty rare.

'But, Leicester-or I much am wrong— It is not beauty lures thy vows; Rather ambition's gilded crown

Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.

'Then, Leicester, why, again I plead--
The injured surely may repine-
Why didst thou wed a country maid,
When some fair princess might be thine?

'Why didst thou praise my humble charms, And, oh! then leave them to decay?

Why didst thou win me to thy arms,
Then leave me to mourn the live-long day?

"The village maidens of the plain Salute me lowly as they go: Envious they mark my silken train, Nor think a countess can have woe.

'The simple nymphs! they little know
How far more happy's their estate;
To smile for joy, than sigh for woe;
To be content, than to be great.

'How far less blessed am I than them, Daily to pine and waste with care! Like the poor plant, that, from its stem Divided, feels the chilling air.

'Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy

The humble charms of solitude; Your minions proud my peace destroy, By sullen frowns, or pratings rude.

The mastiff howled at village door,

The oaks were shattered on the green; Woe was the hour, for never more

That hapless Countess e'er was seen.

And in that manor, now no more
Is cheerful feast or sprightly ball;
For ever since that dreary hour
Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.

The village maids with fearful glance,
Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall;
Nor ever lead the merry dance

Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.
Full many a traveller has sighed,

And pensive wept the Countess' fall, As wandering onwards they 've espied The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.

The Mariner's Wife.

But are ye sure the news is true?
And are ye sure he's weel?
Is this a time to think o' wark?
Ye jauds, fling by your wheel.
There's nae luck about the house,
There's nae luck at a',
There's nae luck about the house,
When our gudeman's awa'

Is this a time to think o' wark,
When Colin's at the door?

Rax down my cloak-I'll to the key,
And see him come ashore.

Rise up and make a clean fireside,
Put on the mickle pat;
Gie little Kate her cotton goun,*
And Jock his Sunday's coat.

And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their stockins white as snaw;
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman-
He likes to see them braw.

In the author's manuscript button gown.'

There are twa hens into the crib,

Hae fed this month and mair,
Mak haste and thraw their necks about,
That Colin weel may fare.

Bring down to me my bigonet,
My bishop's sattin gown,
For I maun tell the bailie's wife,
That Colin's come to town.

My Turkey slippers I'll put on,
My stockins pearl blue-
It's a' to pleasure our gudeman,
For he 's baith leal and true.

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his tongue;

His breath 's like caller air;
His very fit has music in 't

As he comes up the stair.

And will I see his face again?
And will I hear him speak?

I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought:
In troth, I'm like to greet.

In the author's manuscript, another verse is added:

If Colin's weel, and weel content,

I hae nae mair to crave,
And gin I live to mak him sae,

I'm blest aboon the lave.

The following is the addition made by Dr Beattie :
The cauld blasts of the winter wind
That thrilled through my heart,
They're a' blawn by; I hae him safe,
Till death we'll never part.

But what puts parting in my head?
It may be far awa';

The present moment is our ain,
The neist we never saw.

[The Spirit of the Cape.]

[From the Lusiad.]

Now prosperous gales the bending canvas swelled;
From these rude shores our fearless course we held:
Beneath the glistening wave the god of day
Had now five times withdrawn the parting ray,
When o'er the prow a sudden darkness spread,
And slowly floating o'er the mast's tall head
A black cloud hovered; nor appeared from far
The moon's pale glimpse, nor faintly twinkling star;
So deep a gloom the lowering vapour cast,
Transfixed with awe the bravest stood aghast.
Meanwhile a hollow bursting roar resounds,
As when hoarse surges lash their rocky mounds;
Nor had the blackening wave, nor frowning heaven,
The wonted signs of gathering tempest given.
Amazed we stood-0 thou, our fortune's guide,
Avert this omen, mighty God, I cried;

Or through forbidden climes adventurous strayed,
Have we the secrets of the deep surveyed,
Which these wide solitudes of seas and sky
Were doomed to hide from man's unhallowed eye?
Whate'er this prodigy, it threatens more
Than midnight tempest and the mingled roar,
When sea and sky combine to rock the marble shore.
I spoke, when rising through the darkened air,
Appalled we saw a hideous phantom glare;
High and enormous o'er the flood he towered,
And thwart our way with sullen aspect lowered.
Unearthly paleness o'er his cheeks was spread,
Erect uprose his hairs of withered red;
Writhing to speak, his sable lips disclose,

Sharp and disjoined, his gnashing teeth's blue rows;

His haggard beard flowed quivering on the wind,
Revenge and horror in his mien combined;
His clouded front, by withering lightning scared,
The inward anguish of his soul declared.
His red eyes glowing from their dusky caves
Shot livid fires: far echoing o'er the waves
His voice resounded, as the caverned shore
With hollow groan repeats the tempest's roar.
Cold gliding horrors thrilled each hero's breast;
Our bristling hair and tottering knees confessed
Wild dread; the while with visage ghastly wan,
His black lips trembling, thus the Fiend began:
'O you, the boldest of the nations, fired
By daring pride, by lust of fame inspired,
Who, scornful of the bowers of sweet repose,
Through these my waves advance your fearless
prows,

Regardless of the lengthening watery way,

And all the storms that own my sovereign sway,
Who 'mid surrounding rocks and shelves explore
Where never hero braved my rage before;
Ye sons of Lusus, who, with eyes profane,
Have viewed the secrets of my awful reign,
Have passed the bounds which jealous Nature drew,
To veil her secret shrine from mortal view
Hear from my lips what direful woes attend,
And bursting soon shall o'er your race descend.

'With every bounding keel that dares my rage,
Eternal war my rocks and storms shall wage;
The next proud fleet that through my dear domain,
With daring search shall hoist the streaming vane,
That gallant navy by my whirlwinds tost,
And raging seas, shall perish on my coast.
Then He who first my secret reign descried,
A naked corse wide floating o'er the tide
Shall drive. Unless my heart's full raptures fail,
O Lusus! oft shalt thou thy children wail;
Each year thy shipwrecked sons shalt thou deplore,
Each year thy sheeted masts shall strew
shore.'
my
He spoke, and deep a lengthened sigh he drew,
A doleful sound, and vanished from the view;
The frightened billows gave a rolling swell,
And distant far prolonged the dismal yell;
Faint and more faint the howling echoes die,
And the black cloud dispersing, leaves the sky.

CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY.

**

CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY (1724-1805) was author of the New Bath Guide, a light satirical and humorous poem, which appeared in 1766, and set an example in this description of composition, that has since been followed in numerous instances, and with great success. Smollett, in his Humphry Clinker, published five years later, may be almost said to have reduced the New Bath Guide to prose. Many of the characters and situations are exactly the same as those of Anstey. This poem seldom rises above the tone of conversation, but is easy, sportive, and entertaining. The fashionable Fribbles of the day, the chat, scandal, and amusements of those attending the wells, and the canting hypocrisy of some sectarians, are depicted, sometimes with indelicacy, but always with force and liveliness. Mr Anstey was son of the Rev. Dr Anstey, rector of Brinkeley, in Cambridgeshire, a gentleman who possessed a considerable landed property, which the poet afterwards inherited. He was educated at Eton School, and elected to King's College, Cambridge, and in both places he distinguished himself as a classical scholar. In consequence of his refusal to deliver certain declamations, Anstey quarrelled with the heads of the university, and was denied the usual degree. In the epilogue to the New Bath Guide, he alludes to this circumstance

Granta, sweet Granta, where studious of ease,
Seven years did I sleep, and then lost my degrees.

He then went into the army, and married Miss
Calvert, sister to his friend John Calvert, Esq., of
Allbury Hall, in Hertfordshire, through whose
influence he was returned to parliament for the
borough of Hertford. He was a frequent resident
in the city of Bath, and a favourite in the fashion-
able and literary coteries of the place. In 1766
was published his celebrated poem, which instantly
became popular. He wrote various other pieces—
A Poem on the Death of the Marquis of Tavistock,
1767;
An Election Ball, in Poetical Letters from Mr
Inkle at Bath to his Wife at Gloucester; a Para-
phrase of the Thirteenth Chapter of the First Epistle
to the Corinthians; a satire, entitled The Priest Dis-
sected; Speculation, or a Defence of Mankind (1780);
Liberality, or Memoirs of a Decayed Macaroni
(1788); The Farmer's Daughter, a Poetical Tale
(1795); and various other copies of occasional verses.
Anstey also translated Gray's Elegy into Latin
verse, and addressed an elegant Latin Ode to Dr
Jenner. While the New Bath Guide was 'the only
thing in fashion,' and relished for its novel and
original kind of humour, the other productions of
Anstey were neglected by the public, and have
never been revived. In the enjoyment of his
paternal estate, the poet, however, was independent
of the public support, and he took part in the sports
of the field up to his eightieth year. While on a
visit to his son-in-law, Mr Bosanquet, at Harnage,
Wiltshire, he was taken ill, and died on the 3d of
August 1805.

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 vowed 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, embroidered and powdered 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 seemed to take
pains

To moisten their pinions like ducks when it rains;
And 'twas pretty to see, how, like birds of a feather,
The people of quality flocked all together;
All pressing, addressing, caressing, and fond,
Just the same as those animals are in a pond:
You've read all their names in the news, I suppose,
But, for fear you have not, take the list as it goes:
There was Lady Grease wrister,

And Madam Van-Twister,

Her ladyship's sister:

Lord Cram, and Lord Vulture,
Sir Brandish O'Culter,
With Marshal Carouzer,

And old Lady Mouzer,

And the great Hanoverian Baron Panzmowzer;
Besides many others who all in the rain went,
On purpose to honour this great entertainment :
The company made a most brilliant appearance,
And ate bread and butter with great perseverance:

All the chocolate too, that my lord set before 'em,
The ladies despatched with the utmost decorum.
Soft musical numbers were heard all around,
The horns and the clarions echoing sound.

Sweet were the strains, as odorous gales that blow O'er fragrant banks, where pinks and roses grow. The peer was quite ravished, while close to his side Sat Lady Bunbutter, in beautiful pride!

Oft turning his eyes, he with rapture surveyed
All the powerful charms she so nobly displayed:
As when at the feast of the great Alexander,
Timotheus, the musical son of Thersander,
Breathed heavenly measures.

Oh! had I a voice that was stronger than steel,
With twice fifty tongues to express what I feel,
And as many good mouths, yet I never could utter
All the speeches my lord made to Lady Bunbutter!
So polite all the time, that he ne'er touched a bit,
While she ate up his rolls and applauded his wit:
For they tell me that men of true taste, when they
treat,

Should talk a great deal, but they never should eat :
And if that be the fashion, I never will give
Any grand entertainment as long as I live:
For I'm of opinion, 'tis proper to cheer
The stomach and bowels as well as the ear.
Nor me did the charming concerto of Abel
Regale like the breakfast I saw on the table:
I freely will own I the muffins preferred
To all the genteel conversation I heard.
E'en though I'd the honour of sitting between
My Lady Stuff-damask and Peggy Moreen,
Who both flew to Bath in the nightly machine.
Cries Peggy: This place is enchantingly pretty;
We never can see such a thing in the city.

You may spend all your lifetime in Cateaton Street,
And never so civil a gentleman meet;

You may talk what you please; you may search
London through;

You may go to Carlisle's, and to Almack's too;
And I'll give you my head if you find such a host,
For coffee, tea, chocolate, butter, and toast:
How he welcomes at once all the world and his wife,
And how civil to folk he ne'er saw in his life!'
'These horns,' cries my lady, 'so tickle one's ear,
Lard! what would I give that Sir Simon was here!
To the next public breakfast Sir Simon shall go,
For I find here are folks one may venture to know:
Sir Simon would gladly his lordship attend,

And my lord would be pleased with so cheerful a friend.'

So when we had wasted more bread at a breakfast Than the poor of our parish have ate for this week past,

I saw, all at once, a prodigious great throng
Come bustling, and rustling, and jostling along;
For his lordship was pleased that the company now
To my Lady Bunbutter should curtsy and bow;
And my lady was pleased too, and seemed vastly proud
At once to receive all the thanks of a crowd.
And when, like Chaldeans, we all had adored
This beautiful image set up by my lord,
Some few insignificant folk went away,

Just to follow the employments and calls of the day;
But those who knew better their time how to spend,
The fiddling and dancing all chose to attend.
Miss Clunch and Sir Toby performed a cotillon,
Just the same as our Susan and Bob the postilion;
All the while her mamma was expressing her joy,
That her daughter the morning so well could employ.
Now, why should the Muse, my dear mother, relate
The misfortunes that fall to the lot of the great?
As homeward we came-'tis with sorrow you'll hear
What a dreadful disaster attended the peer;

For whether some envious god had decreed
That a Naiad should long to ennoble her breed;
Or whether his lordship was charmed to behold
His face in the stream, like Narcissus of old;
In handing old Lady Comefidget and daughter,
This obsequious lord tumbled into the water;
But a nymph of the flood brought him safe to the
boat,

And I left all the ladies a-cleaning his coat.

MRS THRALE.

MRS THRALE-afterwards Mrs Piozzi-who lived for many years in terms of intimate friendship with Dr Johnson, is authoress of an interesting little moral poem, The Three Warnings, which is so superior to her other compositions, that it has been supposed to have been partly written, or at least corrected, by Johnson. This lady was a native of Wales, being born at Bodville, in Caernarvonshire, in 1740. In 1764 she was married to Mr Henry Thrale, an eminent brewer, who had taste enough to appreciate the rich and varied conversation of Johnson, and whose hospitality and wealth afforded the great moralist an asylum in his house. After the death of this excellent man, his widow married Signior Piozzi, an Italian music-master, a step which Johnson never could forgive. The lively lady proceeded with her husband on a continental tour, and they took up their abode for some time on the banks of the Arno. She afterwards published a volume of miscellaneous pieces, entitled The Florence Miscellany, and afforded a subject for the satire of Gifford, whose Baviad and Maviad was written to lash the Della Cruscan songsters with whom Mrs Piozzi was associated. The Anecdotes and Letters of Dr Johnson, by Mrs Piozzi, are the only valuable works which proceeded from her pen.

She was a minute and clever observer of men and manners, but deficient in judgment, and not particular as to the accuracy of her relations. Mrs Piozzi died at Clifton in 1822.

The Three Warnings.

The tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground; 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages,

That love of life increased with years So much, that in our latter stages, When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, The greatest love of life appears. This great affection to believe, Which all confess, but few perceive, If old assertions can't prevail, Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay, On neighbour Dodson's wedding-day, Death called aside the jocund groom With him into another room, And looking grave-You must,' says he, 'Quit your sweet bride, and come with me."' 'With you! and quit my Susan's side? With you!' the hapless husband cried; 'Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard! Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared: My thoughts on other matters go; This is my wedding-day, you know.'

What more he urged I have not heard,
His reasons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.

Yet calling up a serious look,

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke-
'Neighbour,' he said, 'farewell! no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour:
And further, to avoid all blame
Of cruelty upon my name,

To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you're summoned to the grave;
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

And grant a kind reprieve;
In hopes you'll have no more to say;
But, when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave.'
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell:

He chaffered, then he bought and sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of Death as near:
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He passed his hours in peace.
But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road,
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.
And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,
The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.

Half-killed with anger and surprise,
'So soon returned!' old Dodson cries.
'So soon, d'ye call it?' Death replies :
'Surely, my friend, you're but in jest!
Since I was here before

'Tis six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore.'

'So much the worse,' the clown rejoined; To spare the aged would be kind: However, see your search be legal; And your authority-is't regal?

Else you are come on a fool's errand,

With but a secretary's warrant.*

Beside, you promised me Three Warnings,

Which I have looked for nights and mornings; But for that loss of time and ease,

I can recover damages.'

'I know,' cries Death, 'that at the best, I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend, at least; I little thought you'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable : Your years have run to a great length; I wish you joy, though, of your strength!'

'Hold!' says the farmer; 'not so fast! I have been lame these four years past.' 'And no great wonder,' Death replies : 'However, you still keep your eyes; And sure to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends.'

An allusion to the illegal warrant used against Wilkes, which was the cause of so much contention in its day.

6

'Perhaps,' says Dodson, so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight.'

'This is a shocking tale, 'tis true; But still there 's comfort left for you: Each strives your sadness to amuse;

I warrant you hear all the news.'
There's none,' cries he; and if there were,
I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.'
'Nay, then,' the spectre stern rejoined,
'These are unjustifiable yearnings;
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You've had your Three sufficient Warnings;

So come along; no more we'll part;'
He said, and touched him with his dart.
And now old Dodson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate-so ends my tale.

THOMAS MOSS.

The REV. THOMAS MOSs, who died in 1808, minister of Brierly Hill, and of Trentham, in Staffordshire, published anonymously, in 1769, a collection of miscellaneous poems, forming a thin quarto, which he had printed at Wolverhampton. One piece was copied by Dodsley into his Annual Register, and from thence has been transferred -different persons being assigned as the authorinto almost every periodical and collection of fugitive verses. This poem is entitled The Beggarsometimes called The Beggar's Petition-and contains much pathetic and natural sentiment finely expressed.

The Beggar.

Pity the sorrows of a poor old man !

Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,

Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span ;

Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.

These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,

These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years;

And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek,
Has been the channel to a stream of tears.

Yon house, erected on the rising ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road,
For plenty there a residence has found,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!)
Here craving for a morsel of their bread,
A pampered menial forced me from the door,
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.

Oh! take me to your hospitable dome,

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, For I am poor, and miserably old.

Should I reveal the source of every grief,

If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity could not be repressed.

Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine?
'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see:
And your condition may be soon like mine,
The child of sorrow, and of misery.

A little farm was my paternal lot,

Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn; But ah! oppression forced me from my cot; My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.