 | The Works of William Mason |  |
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ELEGIES.
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ELEGY I. TO A YOUNG NOBLEMAN
LEAVING THE UNIVERSITY.
Ere yet, ingenuous Youth, thy steps retireFrom Cam's smooth margin, and the peaceful vale,
Where Science call'd thee to her studious quire,
And met thee musing in her cloisters pale;
Oh! let thy friend (and may he boast the name)
Breathe from his artless reed one parting lay;
A lay like this thy early virtues claim,
And this let voluntary friendship pay.
Yet, know, the time arrives, the dangerous time,
When all those virtues, opening now so fair,
Transplanted to the world's tempestuous clime,
Must learn each passion's boist'rous breath to bear.
There, if Ambition, pestilent and pale,
Or Luxury should taint their vernal glow;
If cold Self-interest, with her chilling gale,
Should blast the unfolding blossoms ere they blow;
If mimic hues, by Art, or Fashion spread,
Their genuine, simple colouring should supply,
Oh! with them may these laureate honours fade;
And with them (if it can) my friendship die.
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Cautious I strike the panegyric string;
The Muse full oft pursues a meteor fire,
And, vainly vent'rous, soars on waxen wing.
Too actively awake at Friendship's voice,
The poet's bosom pours the fervent strain,
Till sad reflection blames the hasty choice,
And oft invokes Oblivion's aid in vain.
Call we the shade of Pope, from that blest bower
Where throned he sits, with many a tuneful sage;
Ask, if he ne'er bemoans that hapless hour
When St. John's name illumined Glory's page?
Ask, if the wretch, who dared his mem'ry stain,
Ask, if his Country's, his Religion's foe
Deserved the meed that Marlbro' fail'd to gain,
The deathless meed, he only could bestow?
The bard will tell thee, the misguided praise
Clouds the celestial sunshine of his breast;
Even now, repentant of his erring lays,
He heaves a sigh amid the realms of rest.
If Pope through friendship fail'd, indignant view,
Yet pity, Dryden; hark, whene'er he sings,
How Adulation drops her courtly dew
On titled rhymers and inglorious kings.
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His glittering stores the tuneful spendthrift throws;
Where fear, or interest bids, behold they shine;
Now grace a Cromwell's, now a Charles's brows.
Born with too generous, or too mean a heart,
Dryden! in vain to thee those stores were lent:
Thy sweetest numbers but a trifling art;
Thy strongest diction idly eloquent.
The simplest lyre, if truth directs its lays,
Warbles a melody ne'er heard from thine:
Not to disgust with false, or venal praise,
Was Parnell's modest fame, and may be mine.
Go then, my Friend, nor let thy candid breast
Condemn me, if I check the plausive string;
Go to the wayward world; complete the rest;
Be, what the purest Muse would wish to sing.
Be still thyself; that open path of truth,
Which led thee here, let manhood firm pursue;
Retain the sweet simplicity of youth,
And, all thy virtue dictates, dare to do.
Still scorn, with conscious pride, the mask of Art;
On Vice's front let fearful Caution lower,
And teach the diffident, discreeter part
Of knaves that plot, and fools that fawn for power.
So, round thy brow when Age's honours spread,
When Death's cold hand unstrings thy Mason's lyre,
When the green turf lies lightly on his head,
Thy worth shall some superior bard inspire:
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On Rapture's plume shall give thy name to fly;
For trust, with reverence trust this Sabine strain:
“The Muse forbids the virtuous man to die.”
Written in 1753.
Alluding to this couplet of Mr. Pope's,
To Cato Virgil paid one honest line,
O let my country's friends illumine mine.
O let my country's friends illumine mine.
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ELEGY II. ADDRESSED TO MISS PELHAM ON THE DEATH OF HER FATHER.
Deign, mournful Maid, while o'er yon sacred bierThy streaming eyes with duteous sorrows flow;
Deign, mournful Maid, to lend a list'ning ear
To strains, that swell with sympathetic woe.
Attend that Muse, who late in happier hour
Heard thy soft voice its tuneful pow'rs employ,
Where D'Arcy call'd to Chiswick's social bower
Mild mirth, and polish'd ease, and decent joy.
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What genial Zephyrs fann'd each budding spray!
How glow'd the Sun, as if in haste to crown
The sullen brows of March with wreaths of May!
Ah! did we think, while on thy warbling strain
Our rapt attention hung with mute delight,
That fell disease, that agonizing pain,
That Death then sail'd upon the wings of night,
To strike that stroke, which not thy breast alone,
But ev'ry Briton's honest heart must rend,
At which a nation's tears must join thy own,
And, whilst you wept a father, weep a friend?
Yet such th' irrevocable doom of Jove.
Let then that Muse, who shar'd thy happier hour,
Now lead thee pensive to the cypress grove,
Where pansies spring, and each funereal flower.
There, while thy tender hand, his grave to strew,
The modest snow-drop's vernal silver bears,
The violet sad of pallid purple hue,
The crocus glist'ning with the morn's first tears;
My bolder arm shall crop the laureat shade;
By me the olive and the palm be borne,
And from the British oak's majestic head
A civic wreath for his illustrious urn.
But see! while in the solemn task we join,
Soft gleams of lustre tremble through the grove,
And sacred airs of minstrelsy divine
Are harp'd around, and flutt'ring pinions move.
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The lark's extatic harmony is rude;
Distant it swells with many a holy trill,
Now breaks wide warbling from yon orient cloud!
“Rise, Patriot Shade, on seraph wing upborn!
“Behold we waft thee to the realms of rest!
“Glory is thine, and Heav'n's eternal morn;
“Ascend and share thy blessings with the blest.
“Whoe'er on earth, with conscious honour dar'd
“Beyond the flight of these inglorious days,
“Lords of themselves, here find their bright reward;
“And these shall crown thee with congenial rays.
“Whoe'er, through private life's domestic scene,
“Taught social love to spread its cheerful reign,
“Friends of mankind, here bathe in joys serene,
“And these shall hail thee 'mid their gentle train.
“The few, who bright with public virtue shone,
“Who shot the beams of peace from land to land,
“Fathers of countries, round the sapphire throne
“Shall bow, and welcome Pelham to their band.
“Rise, Patriot Shade! on seraph wing upborn,
“Behold we waft thee to the realms of rest!
“Glory is thine, and Heav'n's eternal morn;
“Ascend and share thy blessings with the blest!”
He died March 6th, 1754. This Poem was presented to her soon after. At the very beginning of that month the Lady had been with a select party at a small villa in Chiswick, then rented by the Earl of Holdernesse. The Author was, at the time, advised by several of his friends, to publish it; but an Ode, written by Mr. Garrick on the same subject (see Dodsley's Miscellany, Vol. IV. page 198,) had got the start of him. He therefore retained it in manuscript, being by this time sufficiently apprized, that a poem, whose merit rested chiefly on picturesque imagery, and what is termed pure (or mere) poetry, was not calculated to vie, in point of popularity, with what was written in a plainer and less figurative mode, and conveyed in a more familiar style and stanza. First published 1797.
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ELEGY III. WRITTEN IN THE GARDEN OF A FRIEND.
While o'er my head this laurel-woven bowerIts arch of glittering verdure wildly flings,
Can fancy slumber? can the tuneful power,
That rules my lyre, neglect her wonted strings?
No; if the blighting east deform'd the plain,
If this gay bank no balmy sweets exhal'd,
Still should the grove re-echo to my strain,
And friendship prompt the theme, where beauty fail'd.
For he, whose careless art this foliage drest,
Who bade these twisting braids of woodbine bend,
He first, with truth and virtue, taught my breast
Where best to choose, and best to fix a friend.
How well does Mem'ry note the golden day,
What time, reclined in Marg'ret's studious glade,
My mimic reed first tuned the Dorian lay,
“Unseen, unheard, beneath an hawthorn shade?”
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The same desires, the same ingenuous arts
Inspired us both; we own'd, and blest the power
That join'd at once our studies, and our hearts.
Oh! since those days, when Science spread the feast,
When emulative youth its relish lent,
Say, has one genuine joy e'er warm'd my breast?
Enough; if joy was his, be mine content.
To thirst for praise his temperate youth forbore;
He fondly wish'd not for a poet's name;
Much did he love the Muse, but quiet more,
And, though he might command, he slighted Fame.
Hither, in manhood's prime, he wisely fled
From all that folly, all that pride approves;
To this soft scene a tender partner led;
This laurel shade was witness to their loves.
“Begone,” he cry'd, “Ambition's air-drawn plan;
“Hence with perplexing pomp, unwieldy wealth
“Let me not seem, but be the happy man,
“Possest of love, of competence, and health.”
Smiling he spake, nor did the Fates withstand;
In rural arts the peaceful moments flew:
Say, lovely lawn! that felt his forming hand,
How soon thy surface shone with verdure new;
How soon obedient Flora brought her store,
And o'er thy breast a shower of fragrance flung
Vertumnus came; his earliest blooms he bore,
And thy rich sides with waving purple hung:
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He pierced th' opposing oak's luxuriant shade;
Bade yonder crowding hawthorns low retire,
Nor veil the glories of the golden mead.
Hail, sylvan wonders, hail! and hail the hand,
Whose native taste thy native charms display'd,
And taught one little acre to command
Each envied happiness of scene, and shade.
Is there a hill, whose distant azure bounds
The ample range of Scarsdale's proud domain,
A mountain hoar, that yon wild peak surrounds,
But lends a willing beauty to thy plain?
And, lo! in yonder path I spy my friend;
He looks the guardian genius of the grove,
Mild as the fabled form that whilom deign'd,
At Milton's call, in Harefield's haunts to rove.
Blest Spirit, come! though pent in mortal mould,
I'll yet invoke thee by that purer name;
Oh come, a portion of thy bliss unfold,
From Folly's maze my wayward step reclaim.
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Misled by flattering Fortune's specious tale,
Has left the rural reign of peace and truth,
The huddling brook, cool cave, and whispering vale.
Won to the world, a candidate for praise,
Yet, let me boast, by no ignoble art,
Too oft the public ear has heard my lays,
Too much its vain applause has touch'd my heart;
But now, ere Custom binds his powerful chains,
Come, from the base enchanter set me free;
While yet my soul its first, best taste retains,
Recall that soul to reason, peace, and thee.
Teach me, like thee, to muse on Nature's page,
To mark each wonder in Creation's plan,
Each mode of being trace, and, humbly sage,
Deduce from these the genuine powers of man;
Of man, while warm'd with reason's purer ray,
No tool of policy, no dupe to pride;
Before vain Science led his taste astray;
When conscience was his law, and God his guide.
This let me learn, and learning let me live
The lesson o'er. From that great guide of truth
Oh may my suppliant soul the boon receive
To tread through age the footsteps of thy youth.
Written in 1758.
Musæus, the first poem in this collection, written while the Author was a scholar of St. John's College in Cambridge. See page 15.
See the description of the Genius of the Wood, in Milton's Arcades.
For know, by lot, from Jove, I am the power
Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower;
To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the grove
With ringlets quaint, &c.
Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower;
To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the grove
With ringlets quaint, &c.
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ELEGY IV. TO THE REV. MR. HURD.
Friend of my youth, who, when the willing MuseStream'd o'er my breast her warm poetic rays,
Saw'st the fresh seeds their vital powers diffuse,
And fed'st them with the fost'ring dew of praise!
Whate'er the produce of the unthrifty soil,
The leaves, the flowers, the fruits, to thee belong:
The labourer earns the wages of his toil;
Who form'd the Poet, well may claim the song.
Yes, 'tis my pride to own, that taught by thee
My conscious soul superior flights essay'd;
Learnt from thy lore the Poet's dignity,
And spurn'd the hirelings of the rhyming trade.
Say, scenes of Science, say, thou haunted stream!
[For oft my Muse-led steps did'st thou behold]
How on thy banks I rifled every theme,
That Fancy fabled in her age of gold.
How oft' I cried, “Oh come, thou tragic Queen!
“March from thy Greece with firm majestic tread!
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“When Sophocles thy choral Graces led:
“Saw thy proud pall its purple length devolve;
“Saw thee uplift the glitt'ring dagger high;
“Ponder with fixed brow thy deep resolve,
“Prepared to strike, to triumph, and to die.
“Bring then to Britain's plain that choral throng;
“Display thy buskin'd pomp, thy golden lyre;
“Give her historic forms the soul of song,
“And mingle Attic art with Shakspeare's fire.”
“Ah, what, fond boy, dost thou presume to claim?”
The Muse replied: “Mistaken suppliant, know,
“To light in Shakspeare's breast the dazzling flame
“Exhausted all Parnassus could bestow.
“True; Art remains; and, if from his bright page
“Thy mimic power one vivid beam can seize,
“Proceed; and in that best of tasks engage,
“Which tends at once to profit, and to please.”
She spake; and Harewood's towers spontaneous rose
Soft virgin warblings echo'd through the grove;
And fair Elfrida pour'd forth all her woes,
The hapless pattern of connubial love.
More awful scenes old Mona next display'd;
Her caverns gloom'd, her forests wav'd on high,
While flamed within their consecrated shade
The genius stern of British liberty.
And see, my Hurd! to thee those scenes consign'd;
Oh! take and stamp them with thy honour'd name.
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And, if they find the road to honest Fame,
Perchance the candour of some nobler age
May praise the Bard, who bade gay Folly bear
Her cheap applauses to the busy stage,
And leave him pensive Virtue's silent tear:
Chose too to consecrate his fav'rite strain
To him, who, grac'd by ev'ry liberal art
That best might shine among the learned train,
Yet more excell'd in morals and in heart:
Whose equal mind could see vain fortune shower
Her flimsy favours on the fawning crew,
While, in low Thurcaston's sequester'd bower,
She fix'd him distant from Promotion's view;
Yet, shelter'd there by calm Contentment's wing,
Pleased he could smile, and, with sage Hooker's eye,
“See from his mother earth God's blessings spring,
“And eat his bread in peace and privacy.”
Written in 1759.
Nil equidem feci (tu scis hoc ipse) theatris:
Musa nec in plausus ambitiosa mea est.
Musa nec in plausus ambitiosa mea est.
Ovid. Trist. Lib. V. El. vii. 23.
Verbatim from a letter of Hooker's to Archbishop Whitgift. “But, my Lord, I shall never be able to finish what I have begun,” [viz. his immortal Treatise on Ecclesiastical Polity] “unless I be removed into some quiet country parsonage, where I may see God's blessings spring out of my mother earth, and eat my own bread in peace and privacy.” See his Life in the Biographia Britannica.
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ELEGY V. ON THE DEATH OF A LADY.
The midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bellOf Death beats slow! Heard ye the note profound?
It pauses now; and now, with rising knell,
Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound.
Yes, ------ is dead. Attend the strain,
Daughters of Albion! ye that, light as air,
So oft have tript in her fantastic train,
With hearts as gay, and faces half as fair:
For she was fair beyond your brightest bloom
(This Envy owns, since now her bloom is fled)
Fair as the forms, that, wove in Fancy's loom,
Float in light vision round the Poet's head.
Whene'er with soft serenity she smil'd,
Or caught the orient blush of quick surprise,
How sweetly mutable, how brightly wild,
The liquid lustre darted from her eyes?
Each look, each motion wak'd a new-born grace,
That o'er her form its transient glory cast:
Some lovelier wonder soon usurp'd the place,
Chas'd by a charm still lovelier than the last.
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On what she was no more the strain prolong:
Luxuriant Fancy pause: an hour like this
Demands the tribute of a serious song.
Maria claims it from that sable bier,
Where cold and wan the slumberer rests her head;
In still small whispers to Reflection's ear,
She breathes the solemn dictates of the dead.
Oh catch the awful notes, and lift them loud;
Proclaim the theme, by sage, by fool rever'd;
Hear it, ye young, ye vain, ye great, ye proud!
'Tis Nature speaks, and Nature will be heard.
Yes, ye shall hear, and tremble as ye hear,
While high with health, your hearts exulting leap:
Ev'n in the midst of Pleasure's mad career,
The mental monitor shall wake and weep.
For say, than ------'s propitious star,
What brighter planet on your births arose;
Or gave of Fortune's gifts an ampler share,
In life to lavish, or in death to lose!
Early to lose; while born on busy wing,
Ye sip the nectar of each varying bloom:
Nor fear, while basking by the beams of spring,
The wint'ry storm that sweeps you to the tomb.
Think of her fate! revere the heav'nly hand
That led her hence, though soon, by steps so slow;
Long at her couch Death took his patient stand,
And menac'd oft, and oft withheld the blow:
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Each fond delusion from her soul to steal;
Teach her from Folly peaceably to part,
And wean her from a world she lov'd so well.
Say, are ye sure his mercy shall extend
To you so long a span? Alas, ye sigh:
Make then, while yet ye may, your God your friend,
And learn, with equal ease to sleep or die!
Nor think the Muse, whose sober voice ye hear,
Contracts with bigot frown her sullen brow;
Casts round Religion's orb the mists of fear,
Or shades with horrors, what with smiles should glow.
No; she would warm you with seraphic fire,
Heirs as ye are of heav'n's eternal day;
Would bid you boldly to that heav'n aspire,
Not sink and slumber in your cells of clay.
Know, ye were form'd to range yon azure field,
In yon ethereal founts of bliss to lave;
Force then, secure in Faith's protecting shield,
The sting from Death, the vict'ry from the Grave.
Is this the bigot's rant? Away ye vain,
Your hopes, your fears, in doubt, in dulness steep:
Go sooth your souls in sickness, grief, or pain,
With the sad solace of eternal sleep.
Yet will I praise you, triflers as ye are,
More than those preachers of your fav'rite creed,
Who proudly swell the brazen throat of war,
Who form the phalanx, bid the battle bleed;
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Hear, Folly, hear; and triumph in the tale:
Like you, they reason; not, like you, enjoy
The breeze of bliss, that fills your silken sail:
On Pleasure's glitt'ring stream ye gaily steer
Your little course to cold Oblivion's shore:
They dare the storm, and, through th' inclement year,
Stem the rough surge, and brave the torrent's roar.
Is it for glory? that just Fate denies.
Long must the warrior moulder in his shroud,
Ere from her trump the heav'n-breath'd accents rise,
That lift the hero from the fighting crowd.
Is it his grasp of empire to extend?
To curb the fury of insulting foes?
Ambition, cease: the idle contest end:
'Tis but a kingdom thou canst win or lose.
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(If life be all) why desolation lour,
With famish'd frown, on this affrighted ball,
That thou may'st flame the meteor of an hour?
Go wiser ye, that flutter life away,
Crown with the mantling juice the goblet high;
Weave the light dance, with festive freedom gay,
And live your moment, since the next ye die.
Yet know, vain sceptics, know, th' Almighty mind,
Who breath'd on Man a portion of his fire,
Bade his free soul, by earth nor time confin'd,
To Heav'n, to immortality aspire.
Nor shall the pile of Hope, his Mercy rear'd,
By vain Philosophy be e'er destroy'd:
Eternity, by all or wish'd or fear'd,
Shall be by all or suffer'd or enjoy'd.
Written in 1760.
In a book of French verses, entitled Oeuvres du Philosophe de sans Souci, and lately reprinted at Berlin, by authority, under the title of Poesies Diverses, may be found an epistle to Marshal Keith, written professedly against the immortality of the soul. By way of specimen of the whole, take the following lines:
De l'avenir, cher Keith, jugeons par la passé;
Comme avant que je fusse il n'avoit point pensé,
De même, après ma mort, quand toutes mes partes
Par la corruption seront aneanties,
Par un même destin il ne pensera plus;
Non, rien n'est plus certain, soyons-en convaincu, &c.
Comme avant que je fusse il n'avoit point pensé,
De même, après ma mort, quand toutes mes partes
Par la corruption seront aneanties,
Par un même destin il ne pensera plus;
Non, rien n'est plus certain, soyons-en convaincu, &c.
It is to this epistle, that the rest of the Elegy alludes.
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ELEGY VI. WRITTEN IN A CHURCH-YARD IN SOUTH WALES, 1787.
From southern Cambria's richly-varied clime,Where grace and grandeur share an equal reign;
Where cliffs o'erhung with shade, and hills sublime
Of mountain lineage sweep into the main;
From bays, where Commerce furls her wearied sails,
Proud to have dar'd the dangers of the deep,
And floats at anchor'd ease inclos'd by vales,
To Ocean's verge where stray the vent'rous sheep:
From brilliant scenes like these I turn my eye;
And, lo! a solemn circle meets its view,
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And shaded close with poplar and with yew.
Deep in that dell the humble fane appears,
Whence prayers if humble best to Heaven aspire;
No tower embattled, no proud spire it rears,
A moss-grown croslet decks its lowly choir.
And round that fane the sons of toil repose,
Who drove the plough-share, or the sail who spread;
With wives, with children, all in measur'd rows,
Two whiten'd flint stones mark the feet and head.
While these between full many a simple flow'r,
Pansy, and pink, with languid beauty smile;
The primrose opening at the twilight hour,
And velvet tufts of fragrant chamomile.
For, more intent the smell than sight to please,
Surviving love selects its vernal race;
Plants that with early perfume feed the breeze
May best each dank and noxious vapour chase.
The flaunting tulip, the carnation gay,
Turnsole, and piony, and all the train
That love to glitter in the noontide ray,
Ill suit the copse where Death and Silence reign.
Not but perchance to deck some virgin's tomb,
Where violets sweet their twofold purple spread,
Some rose of maiden blush may faintly bloom,
Or with'ring hang its emblematic head.
These to renew, with more than annual care
That wakeful love with pensive step will go;
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Lest haply it disturb the friend below.
Vain fear! for never shall disturber come
Potent enough to wake such sleep profound,
Till the dread herald to the day of doom
Pours from his trump the world-dissolving sound.
Vain fear! yet who that boasts a heart to feel,
An eye to pity, would that fear reprove?
They only who are curst with breasts of steel
Can mock the foibles of surviving love.
Those foibles far beyond cold Reason's claim
Have power the social charities to spread;
They feed, sweet Tenderness! thy lambent flame,
Which, while it warms the heart, improves the head.
Its chemic aid a gradual heat applies
That from the dross of self each wish refines,
Extracts the liberal spirit, bids it rise
Till with primeval purity it shines.
Take then, poor peasants, from the friend of Gray
His humbler praise; for Gray or fail'd to see,
Or saw unnotic'd, what had wak'd a lay
Rich in the pathos of true poesy.
Yes, had he pac'd this church-way path along,
Or lean'd like me against this ivied wall,
How sadly sweet had flow'd his Dorian song,
Then sweetest when it flow'd at Nature's call.
Like Tadmor's king, his comprehensive mind
Each plant's peculiar character could seize;
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To all these flow'rs, a thousand similies.
But he, alas! in distant village-grave
Has mix'd with dear maternal dust his own;
Ev'n now the pang, which parting Friendship gave,
Thrills at my heart, and tells me he is gone.
Take then from me the pensive strain that flows
Congenial to this consecrated gloom;
Where all that meets my eye some symbol shows
Of grief, like mine, that lives beyond the tomb.
Shows me that you, though doom'd the livelong year
For scanty food the toiling arm to ply,
Can smite your breasts, and find an inmate there
To heave, when Mem'ry bids, the ready sigh.
Still nurse that best of inmates, gentle swains!
Still act as heartfelt sympathy inspires;
The taste, which birth from Education gains,
Serves but to chill Affection's native fires.
To you more knowledge than what shields from vice
Were but a gift would multiply your cares;
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Dispute; be Patience, yours, Presumption theirs.
You know (what more can earthly Science know?)
That all must die; by Revelation's ray
Illum'd, you trust the ashes placed below
These flow'ry tufts, shall rise again to day.
What if you deem, by hoar tradition led,
To you perchance devolv'd from Druids old,
That parted souls at solemn seasons tread
The circles that their shrines of clay enfold?
What if you deem they some sad pleasure take
These poor memorials of your love to view,
And scent the perfume for the planter's sake,
That breathes from vulgar rosemary and rue?
Unfeeling Wit may scorn, and Pride may frown;
Yet Fancy, empress of the realms of song,
Shall bless the decent mode, and Reason own
It may be right—for who can prove it wrong?
A custom is prevalent with the peasants in that part of the country, of planting field flowers and sweet herbs on the graves of their relations and friends; a pleasing specimen of this which the Author saw when he was paying a visit to Lord Vernon at Breton Ferry, Glamorganshire, in the summer of the year 1787, occasioned him to write this Elegy, first published 1797.
This epithet is used to call to the reader's recollection a passage in Shakspeare, descriptive of a character to which in its best parts Mr. Gray's was not dissimilar.
Duke Sen.But what said Jaques?
Did he not moralize this spectacle?
Did he not moralize this spectacle?
First Lord.
O yes, into a thousand similies.
As you like it. Act II. Scene I.
As you like it. Act II. Scene I.
Although I run the risk of some imputed vanity, I am induced to add here, the opinion of a too partial friend concerning the foregoing Poem; but shall only extract from the written paper which he gave me, the part that points out the specific differences which occurred to him, when he compared it with another of a very similar title. And this I do merely to obviate a prejudice which some readers might take to it, as supposing from the title and subject that I wrote it to emulate what, I am as ready to own as they are, is inimitable. “Your Elegy, (says this Gentleman) as it relates to a particular and local custom in South Wales, must of course little resemble Mr. Gray's, which is purely of a general kind. He laments the departed peasants; you compassionate those that lament them: he places their former occupations in an honourable light; you view, in an amiable one, the weakness of their surviving friends: in the former Elegy, we find the dead considered with respect to what their possible situation while living might have been, with all the advantages of knowledge; in the latter the living are endeavoured to be consoled for the want of it. In the general church-yard of the one, contemplation is more widely-extended; in the other particular one, concern is more nearly impressed. His verses inspire a solemnity which awes and arrests the mind; your's breathe a tenderness which softens and attracts the heart: there are stanzas in Gray's Elegy of what, I venture to call, sublime melancholy; in your's of extreme sensibility.—It is a curious circumstance that the writer of the former should be introduced into both these Elegies, but certainly, as reality is superior to fiction, in a more pathetic manner in the latter. The locality of your scene enabled you to open with a picturesque description, which, besides contrasting strongly with the place of interment, is copied from nature, and animated with expression.”—I will add, that it was not so much for the sake of this kind of contrast that I gave the Elegy such an exordium, as to make it appear a day scene, and as such to contrast it with the twilight scene of my excellent Friend's Elegy.
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