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with no other book than an English Testament, such as children carry to the school when his friend took it into his hand, out of curiosity to see what companion a man of letters had chosen, "I have but one book," said Collins, "but that is the best."

'Such was the fate of Collins, with whom I once delighted to converse, and whom I yet remember with tenderness.

'He was visited at Chichester, in his last illness, by his learned friends Dr. Warton and his brother; to whom he spoke with disapprobation of his Oriental Eclogues, as not sufficiently expressive of Asiatic manners, and called them his Irish Eclogues. He shewed them, at the same time, an ode inscribed to Mr. John Hume, on the Superstitions of the Highlands; which they thought superior to his other works.

His disorder was not alienation of mind, but general laxity and feebleness, a deficiency rather of his vital than intellectual powers. What he spoke wanted neither judg ment nor spirit; but a few minutes exhausted him, so that he was forced to rest upon the couch, till a short cessation restored his powers, and he was again able to talk with his former vigour.

"The approaches of this dreadful malady he began to feel soon after his uncle's death; and, with the usual weakness of men so diseased, eagerly snatched that temporary relief with which the table and the bottle flatter and seduce. But

his health continually declined, and he grew more and more. burthensome to himself.

To what I have formerly said of his writings may be added, that his diction was often harsh, unskilfully laboured, and injudiciously selected. He affected the obsolete when it was not worthy of revival; and he puts his words out of the common order, seeming to think, with some later candidates for fame, that not to write prose is certainly to write poetry. His lines commonly are of slow motion, clogged and impeded with clusters of consonants. As men are often esteemed who cannot be loved, so the poetry of Collins may sometimes extort praise, when it gives little pleasure." Mr. Collins's first production is added here from the Poetical Calendar.'


On her weeping at her Sister's Wedding.
Cease, fair Aurelia, cease to mourn;
Lament not Hannah's happy state:
You may be happy in your turn,
And seize the treasure you regret.
With Love united Hymen stands,
And softly whispers to your charms,—
'Meet but your lover in my bands,

You'll find your sister in his arms.'

A monument has been erected by public subscription to Collins. He is represented as just recovered from a wild fit of phrensy, to which he was subject, and in a calm and reclining posture, seeking refuge from his misfortunes in the consolations of the Gospel, while his lyre and one of the first of his poems lie neglected on the ground, &c. The whole was executed by Flaxman, at that time lately returned from Rome: the following most excellent epitaph was written by Mr. Hayley.

Ye who the merits of the dead revere,

Who hold misfortune's sacred genius dear,

Regard this tomb, where Collins, hapless name,
Solicits kindness with a double claim.

Though Nature gave him, and though Science taught
The fire of Fancy, and the reach of thought,
Severely doom'd to Penury's extreme,

He pass'd in madd'ning pain life's fev'rish dream,
While rays of genius only served to shew
The thick'ning horror, and exalt his woe.
Ye walls, that echo'd to his frantic moan,
Guard the due records of this grateful stone;
Strangers to him, enamour'd of his lays,
This fond memorial to his talents raise.
For this the ashes of a bard require,

Who touch'd the tend'rest notes of Pity's lyre;
Who join'd pure faith to strong poetic powers,
Who, in reviving Reason's lucid hours,
Sought on one book his troubled mind to rest,
And rightly deem'd the book of God the best.





To view the beauties of my native land,

O'er many a pleasing, distant scene, I rove;
Now climb the rock, or wander on the strand,
Or trace the rill, or penetrate the grove.
From Baia's hills, from Portsea's spreading wave,
To fair Cicestria's lonely walls I stray;
To her famed Poet's venerated grave

Anxious my tribute of respect to pay.

O'er the dim pavement of the solemn fane,

Midst the rude stones that crowd the' adjoining space, The sacred spot I seek: but seek in vain

In vain I ask for none can point the place.

What boots the eye whose quick observant glance
Marks every nobler, every fairer form?

What, the skill'd ear that sound's sweet charms entrance,
And the fond breast with generous passion warm?

What boots the power each image to portray,
The power with force each feeling to express?
How vain the hope that through life's little day,
The soul with thought of future fame can bless.
While Folly frequent boasts th' insculptured tomb,
By Flattery's pen inscribed with purchased praise;
While rustic Labour's undistinguish'd doom

Fond Friendship's hand records in humble phrase;
Of Genius oft and Learning worse the lot,

For them no care, to them no honour shewn: Alive neglected, and when dead forgot,

E'en COLLINS slumbers in a grave unknown.




Scene-A Valley near Bagdat. Time-The Morning. 'YE Persian maids! attend your poet's lays, And hear how shepherds pass their golden days. Not all are blest, whom Fortune's hand sustains With wealth in courts; nor all that haunt the plains: Well may your hearts believe the truths I tell; 'Tis virtue makes the bliss where'er we dwell.'

Thus Selim sung, by sacred Truth inspired;
Nor praise, but such as Truth bestow'd, desired:
Wise in himself, his meaning songs convey'd
Informing morals to the shepherd maid;

Or taught the swains that surest bliss to find,
What groves nor streams bestow-a virtuous mind.

When sweet and blushing, like a virgin bride,
The radiant morn resumed her orient pride;
When wanton gales along the valleys play,
Breathe on each flower, and bear their sweets away,
By Tigris' wand'ring waves he sat, and sung
This useful lesson for the fair and young:

'Ye Persian dames, he said, to you belong-
Well may they please-the morals of my song:
No fairer maids, I trust, than you are found,
Graced with soft arts, the peopled world around!
The morn that lights you, to your love supplies
Each gentler ray delicious to your eyes:
For you those flowers her fragrant hands bestow,
And yours the love that kings delight to know.

Yet think not these, all beauteons as they are,
The best kind blessings Heaven can grant the fair!
Who trust alone in Beauty's feeble ray,

Boast but the worth Bassora's pearls display;
Drawn from the deep, we own their surface bright,
But, dark within, they drink no lustrous light:

Such are the maids, and such the charms they boast,
By sense unaided, or to virtue lost.

Self-flattering sex! your hearts believe in vain
That Love shall blind, when once he fires the swain;
Or hope a lover by your faults to win,

As spots on ermine beautify the skin:
Who seeks secure to rule, be first her care
Each softer virtue that adorns the fair;
Each tender passion man delights to find,
The loved perfections of a female mind!

'Blest were the days when Wisdom held her reign,
And shepherds sought her on the silent plain;
With Truth she wedded in the secret grove,
Immortal Truth! and daughters bless'd their love.

"O haste, fair maids! ye Virtues, come away, Sweet Peace and Plenty lead you on your way! The balmy shrub for you shall love our shore, By Ind excell'd, or Araby, no more.

'Lost to our fields, for so the Fates ordain, The dear deserters shall return again.

Come thou, whose thoughts as limpid springs are To lead the train, sweet Modesty, appear:

Here make thy court amidst our rural scene,


And shepherd-girls shall own thee for their queen:
With thee be Chastity, of all afraid,

Distrusting all, a wise, suspicious maid;

But man the most-not more the mountain doe
Holds the swift falcon for her deadly foe.

Cold is her breast, like flowers that drink the dew;
A silken veil conceals her from the view.

No wild desires amidst thy train be known,
But Faith, whose heart is fix'd on one alone:
Desponding Meekness, with her downcast eyes,
And friendly Pity, full of tender sighs:

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