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The western pilgrim's staff; Where rain in clasping boughs enclosed, And vines with oranges disposed, Embower the social laugh.

Now labour his reward receives, For Adoration counts his sheaves

To peace, her bounteous prince; The nect'rine his strong tint imbibes, And apples of ten thousand tribes, And quick peculiar quince.

The wealthy crops of whitening rice
'Mongst thyine woods and groves of spice,
For Adoration grow;

And, marshalled in the fenced land,
The peaches and pomegranates stand,
Where wild carnations blow,

The laurels with the winter strive; The crocus burnishes alive

Upon the snow-clad earth: For Adoration myrtles stay To keep the garden from dismay,

And bless the sight from dearth.

The pheasant shows his pompous
And ermine, jealous of a speck,
With fear eludes offence:
The sable, with his glossy pride,
For Adoration is descried,

Where frosts the wave condense.
The cheerful holly, pensive yew,
And holy thorn, their trim renew;
The squirrel hoards his nuts :
All creatures batten o'er their stores,
And careful nature all her doors
For Adoration shuts.

neck ;

For Adoration, David's Psalms
Lift up the heart to deeds of alms;
And he, who kneels and chants,
Prevails his passions to control,
Finds meat and medicine to the soul,
Which for translation pants.

For Adoration, beyond match,
The scholar bulfinch aims to catch
The soft flute's ivory touch;
And, careless, on the hazel spray
The daring red breast keeps at bay
The damsel's greedy clutch.
For Adoration, in the skies,
The Lord's philosopher espies

The dog, the ram, and rose; The planet's ring, Orion's sword; Nor is his greatness less adored

In the vile worm that glows.

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RICHARD GLOVER (1712-1785), a London merchant, who sat several years in parliament as member for Weymouth, was distinguished in private life for his spirit and independence. He published two elaborate poems in blank verse, Leonidas and The Athenais, the former bearing reference to the memorable defence of Thermopyla, and the latter continuing the war between the Greeks and Persians. The length of these poems, their want of sustained interest, and lesser peculiarities not suited to the existing poetical taste, render them next to unknown in the present day. Yet there is smoothness and even vigour, a calm moral

dignity and patriotic elevation in Leonidas,' which might even yet find admirers. Thomson is said to have exclaimed, when he heard of the work of Glover, 'He write an epic poem, who never saw a mountain! Yet Thomson himself, familiar as he was in his youth with mountain scenery, was tame and commonplace when he ventured on classic or epic subjects. The following passage is lofty and energetic:

[Address of Leonidas.]

He alone

Remains unshaken. Rising, he displays
His godlike presence. Dignity and grace
Adorn his frame, and manly beauty, joined
With strength Herculean. On his aspect shines
Sublimest virtue and desire of fame,
Where justice gives the laurel; in his eye
The inextinguishable spark, which fires

The souls of patriots; while his brow supports
Undaunted valour, and contempt of death.
Serene he rose, and thus addressed the throng:
'Why this astonishment on every face,
Ye men of Sparta? Does the name of death
Create this fear and wonder? O my friends!
Why do we labour through the arduous paths
Which lead to virtue? Fruitless were the toil.
Above the reach of human feet were placed
The distant summit, if the fear of death
Could intercept our passage. But in vain
His blackest frowns and terrors he assumes
To shake the firmness of the mind which knows
That, wanting virtue, life is pain and wo;
That, wanting liberty, even virtue mourns,
And looks around for happiness in vain.
Then speak, O Sparta! and demand my life;
My heart, exulting, answers to thy call,
And smiles on glorious fate. To live with fame
The gods allow to many; but to die
With equal lustre is a blessing Heaven
Selects from all the choicest boons of fate,
And with a sparing hand on few bestows.'
Salvation thus to Sparta he proclaimed.
Joy, wrapt awhile in admiration, paused,
Suspending praise; nor praise at last resounds
In high acclaim to rend the arch of heaven;
A reverential murmur breathes applause.

The nature of the poem affords scope for interesting situations and descriptions of natural objects in a romantic country, which Glover occasionally avails himself of with good effect. There is great beauty and classic elegance in this sketch of the fountain at the dwelling of Oileus :

Beside the public way an oval fount
Of marble sparkled with a silver spray
Of falling rills, collected from above.
The army halted, and their hollow casques
Dipped in the limpid stream. Behind it rose
An edifice, composed of native roots,
And oaken trunks of knotted girth unwrought.
Within were beds of moss. Old battered arms
Hung from the roof. The curious chiefs approach.
These words, engraven on a tablet rude,
Megistias reads; the rest in silence hear:
'Yon marble fountain, by Oileus placed,
To thirsty lips in living water flows;
For weary steps he framed this cool retreat;
A grateful offering here to rural peace,
His dinted shield, his helmet he resigned.
O passenger! if born to noble deeds,
Thou would'st obtain perpetual grace from Jove,
Devote thy vigour to heroic toils,
And thy decline to hospitable cares.
Rest here;
then seek Oileus in his vale.'


In the Athenais' we have a continuation of the
same classic story and landscape. The following is
an exquisite description of a night scene :—
Silver Phoebe spreads
A light, reposing on the quiet lake,
Save where the snowy rival of her hue,
The gliding swan, behind him leaves a trail
In luminous vibration. Lo! an isle

Swells on the surface. Marble structures there
New gloss of beauty borrow from the moon
To deck the shore. Now silence gently yields
To measured strokes of oars. The orange groves,
In rich profusion round the fertile verge,
Impart to fanning breezes fresh perfumes
Exhaustless, visiting the scene with sweets,
Which soften even Briareus; but the son
Of Gobryas, heavy with devouring care,
Uncharmed, unheeding sits.

The scene presented by the shores of Salamis on the morning of the battle is thus strikingly depicted. The poet gives no burst of enthusiasm to kindle up his page, and his versification retains most of its usual hardness and want of flow and cadence; yet the assemblage described is so vast and magnificent, and his enumeration is so varied, that the picture carries with it a host of spirit-stirring associations:

[The Armies at Salamis.]

O sun! thou o'er Athenian towers,
The citadel and fanes in ruin huge,
Dost, rising now, illuminate a scene
More new, more wondrous to thy piercing eye
Than ever time disclosed. Phaleron's wave
Presents three thousand barks in pendants rich;
Spectators, clustering like Hymettian bees,
Hang on the burdened shrouds, the bending yards,
The reeling masts; the whole Cecropian strand,
Far as Eleusis, seat of mystic rites,

Is thronged with millions, male and female race,
Of Asia and of Libya, ranked on foot,
On horses, camels, cars. Egaleos tall,
Half down his long declivity, where spreads
A mossy level, on a throne of gold,
Displays the king, environed by his court,
In oriental pomp; the hill behind
By warriors covered, like some trophy huge,
Ascends in varied arms and banners clad;
Below the monarch's feet the immortal guard,
Line under line, erect their gaudy spears;
The arrangement, shelving downward to the beach,
Is edged by chosen horse. With blazing steel
Of Attic arms encircled, from the deep
Psyttalia lifts her surface to the sight,
Like Ariadne's heaven-bespangling crown,
A wreath of stars; beyond, in dread array,
The Grecian fleet, four hundred galleys, fill
The Salaminian Straits; barbarian prows
In two divisions point to either mouth
Six hundred brazen beaks of tower-like ships,
Unwieldy bulks; the gently-swelling soil
Of Salamis, rich island, bounds the view.
Along her silver-sanded verge arrayed,
The men-at-arms exalt their naval spears,
Of length terrific. All the tender sex,
Ranked by Timothea, from a green ascent,
Look down in beauteous order on their sires,
Their husbands, lovers, brothers, sons, prepared
To mount the rolling deck. The younger dames
In bridal robes are clad; the matrons sage,
In solemn raiment, worn on sacred days;
But white in vesture, like their maiden breasts,
Where Zephyr plays, uplifting with his breath
The loosely-waving folds, a chosen line
Of Attic graces in the front is placed;
From each fair head the tresses fall, entwined-

With newly-gathered flowerets; chaplets gay
The snowy hand sustains; the native curls,
O'ershading half, augment their powerful charms;
While Venus, tempered by Minerva, fills
Their eyes with ardour, pointing every glance
To animate, not soften. From on high
Her large controlling orbs Timothea rolls,
Surpassing all in stature, not unlike
In majesty of shape the wife of Jove,
Presiding o'er the empyreal fair.

A popular vitality has been awarded to a ballad of Glover's, while his epics have sunk into oblivion:

Admiral Hosier's Ghost.

[Written on the taking of Carthagena from the Spaniards, 1739

[The case of Hosier, which is here so pathetically represented, was briefly this :-In April 1726, that commander was sent with a strong fleet into the Spanish West Indies, to block up the galleons in the ports of that country; or, should they presume to come out, to seize and carry them into England. He accordingly arrived at the Bastimentos near Portobello; but being restricted by his orders from obeying the dictates of his courage, lay inactive on that station until he became the jest of the Spaniards. He afterwards removed to Carthagena, and continued cruising in those seas until the far greater part of his men perished deplorably by the diseases of that unhealthy climate. This brave man, seeing his best officers and men thus daily swept away, his ships exposed to inevitable destruction, and himself made the sport of the enemy, is said to have died of a broken heart.]

As near Portobello lying

On the gentle-swelling flood, At midnight, with streamers flying, Our triumphant navy rode;

There while Vernon sat all glorious From the Spaniards' late defeat, And his crews, with shouts victorious, Drank success to England's fleet :

On a sudden, shrilly sounding,

Hideous yells and shrieks were heard ; Then, each heart with fear confounding,

A sad troop of ghosts appeared;

All in dreary hammocks shrouded,

Which for winding-sheets they wore, And, with looks by sorrow clouded, Frowning on that hostile shore.

On them gleamed the moon's wan lustre,
When the shade of Hosier brave,
His pale bands were seen to muster,
Rising from their watery grave:

O'er the glimmering wave he hied him, Where the Burford reared her sail, With three thousand ghosts beside him, And in groans did Vernon hail.

Heed, ob, heed our fatal story!

I am Hosier's injured ghost; You who now have purchased glory At this place where I was lost: Though in Portobello's ruin,

You now triumph free from fears, When you think on my undoing,

You will mix your joys with tears.

See these mournful spectres sweeping
Ghastly o'er this hated wave,
Whose wan cheeks are stained with weeping;
These were English captains brave.

Mark those numbers, pale and horrid,
Who were once my sailors bold;
Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead,
While his dismal tale is told.

I, by twenty sail attended,

Did this Spanish town affright; Nothing then its wealth defended But my orders-not to fight!

Oh! that in this rolling ocean

I had cast them with disdain, And obeyed my heart's warm motion, To have quelled the pride of Spain !

For resistance I could fear none;

But with twenty ships had done What thou, brave and happy Vernon, Hast achieved with six alone.

Then the Bastimentos never

Had our foul dishonour seen, Nor the seas the sad receiver

Of this gallant train had been.

Thus, like thee, proud Spain dismaying,
And her galleons leading home,
Though condemned for disobeying,
I had met a traitor's doom:

To have fallen, my country crying, 'He has played an English part,' Had been better far than dying

Of a grieved and broken heart.

Unrepining at thy glory,

Thy successful arms we hail; But remember our sad story,

And let Hosier's wrongs prevail. Sent in this foul clime to languish,

Think what thousands fell in vain, Wasted with disease and anguish,

Not in glorious battle slain.

Hence with all my train attending,
From their oozy tombs below,
Through the hoary foam ascending,
Here I feed my constant wo.
Here the Bastimentos viewing,

We recall our shameful doom,
And, our plaintive cries renewing,
Wander through the midnight gloom.

O'er these waves forever mourning
Shall we roam, deprived of rest,
If, to Britain's shores returning,
You neglect my just request;
After this proud foe subduing,

When your patriot friends you see, Think on vengeance for my ruin,

And for England-shamed in me.

The poets who follow are a secondary class, few of whom are now noted for more than one or two favourite pieces.


ROBERT DODSLEY (1703–1764) was an able and spirited publisher of his day, the friend of literature and of literary men. He projected the Annual Register, in which Burke was engaged, and he was the first to collect and republish the Old English Plays,' which form the foundation of our national drama. Dodsley wrote an excellent little moral treatise, The

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[Song-The Parting Kiss.]

One kind wish before we part,
Drop a tear, and bid adieu:
Though we sever, my fond heart,

Till we meet, shall pant for you.
Yet, yet weep not so, my love,

Let me kiss that falling tear; Though my body must remove,

All my soul will still be here. All my soul, and all my heart,

And every wish shall pant for you; One kind kiss, then, ere we part, Drop a tear, and bid adieu.


SAMUEL BISHOP (1731-1795) was an English clergyman, Master of Merchant Tailors' School, London, and author of some miscellaneous essays and poems. The best of his poetry was devoted to the praise of his wife; and few can read such lines as the following without believing that Bishop was an amiable and happy man:

To Mrs Bishop, on the Anniversary of her WeddingDay, which was also her Birth-Day, with a Ring.

'Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed'So, fourteen years ago, I said. Behold another ring!- For what?" 'To wed thee o'er again? Why not?

With that first ring I married youth,
Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth;
Taste long admired, sense long revered,
And all my Molly then appeared.

If she, by merit since disclosed,
Prove twice the woman I supposed,
I plead that double merit now,
To justify a double vow.

Here, then, to-day (with faith as sure,
With ardour as intense, as pure,
As when, amidst the rites divine,
I took thy troth, and plighted mine),
To thee, sweet girl, my second ring
A token and a pledge I bring:
With this I wed, till death us part,
Thy riper virtues to my heart;
Those virtues which, before untried,
The wife has added to the bride;
Those virtues, whose progressive claim,
Endearing wedlock's very name,
My soul enjoys, my song approves,
For conscience' sake as well as love's.


And why?-They show me every hour Honour's high thought, Affection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence, And teach me all things-but repentance.

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