WILLIAM MASON was born in 1725, at Kingston-upon-Hull; his father was a clergyman of the Established Church. He received his education at St. John's College, Cambridge; and, during his residence at the University, distinguished himself by a "Monody on the Death of Pope." This was soon followed by his poem of "Isis," and his tragedy of " Elfrida," written after the model of the Greek dramathe chorus being "formed by a train of British virgins." It was performed at Covent Garden, but with little success, in 1772. In 1774 he entered into holy orders, and was appointed one of the Chaplains to the King; afterwards he was presented to the valuable living of Aston, and subsequently to the precentorship of York. His odes, his elegies that, especially, addressed to a young nobleman on leaving the University his other and more celebrated drama, Caractacus," and the "English Garden," the longest of his works, established his reputation, and his claim to rank high among the poets of the age in which he lived. He died in 1797.

His friendship with Gray commenced early, and continued without interruption until the death of the more highly-gifted bard, whose books and manuscripts he inherited, and to whom was assigned the task of committing his memoirs and letters to the press. Gray pictured Mason, when a young man, as "of much fancy, little judgment, and a good deal of modesty; in simplicity a child, a little vain, but sincere, inoffensive, and indolent." In mature age he is described as an exemplary clergyman, an accomplished scholar, and an enlightened companion; of manners somewhat formal and austere, and as exciting awe rather than affection. One of his contemporaries characterised him as " a buckram man." In politics he was a Whig of the old school, and was among the earliest of our writers who execrated the slave-trade.

The merit of Mason, as a poet, is universally acknowledged; he excelled also in the sister arts; wrote a critical essay on church music; and composed several devotional pieces for the choir of York cathedral. His remarks on painting exhibit taste and judgment, and show that he might not altogether in vain have striven

"To snatch a double wreath

From Fame's unfading laurels."

That he had indeed the "poet's feeling and the painter's eye" is evident; and it is obvious that he knew how valuable is the assistance which the one never fails to render to the other, when both look upon nature, and both possess

"The power to seize, select, and reunite

Her loveliest features."

The happy combination has produced its full effects in his poem of "The English Garden." This production was issued in four parts, at distant intervals. As a whole it is dull and tedious; but it abounds in passages so original and striking as to bear quotation as examples the most perfect in our language. Thus he speaks of Time, whose

"Gradual touch

Has mouldered into beauty many a tower
Which, when it frown'd with all its battlements,
Was only terrible."

The great defect of the poem is the want of that which the subject imperatively called for-simplicity-" divine Simplicity," whom the Poet invokes, and to whom he dedicates his "verse," but evidently without estimating her character or appreciating her qualities. The edition of 1796 contains an ample commentary on the four books, by Dr. Burgh; it is, for the most part, an assemblage of self-evident truths, and unnecessary as an appendage to the volume, inasmuch as those who read the poem will but little need the prose explanations of its meaning, and those who do not cultivate acquaintance with the Poet will not be very likely to court it with his prosaic friend. This work, however, is not considered the most beneficial to the fame of Mason; it is founded more upon his two tragedies and his odes. Of Gray he was a fervent admirer; and we do not overpraise him, if we say, that the mantle of the higher genius descended upon the compatriot he loved-at least, Mason is the last of our poets who successfully studied in the school of which Gray was the great master.

OPPRESSION dies: the Tyrant falls:
The golden City bows her walls!

JEHOVAH breaks th' Avenger's rod.
The Son of Wrath, whose ruthless hand
Hurl'd Desolation o'er the land,

Has run his raging race, has clos'd the scene of blood.
Chiefs arm'd around behold their vanquish'd Lord;
Nor spread the guardian shield, nor lift the loyal sword.

He falls; and earth again is free.
Hark! at the call of Liberty,

All Nature lifts the choral song.
The Fir-trees, on the mountain's head,
Rejoice thro' all their pomp of shade;
The lordly Cedars nod on sacred Lebanon:

B B

Tyrant they cry, since thy fell force is broke,

Our proud heads pierce the skies, nor fear the woodman's stroke.

Hell, from her gulph profound,

Rouses at thine approach; and, all around,
Her dreadful notes of preparation sound.
See, at the awful call,

Her shadowy Heroes all,

Ev'n mighty Kings, the heirs of empire wide,
Rising, with solemn state, and slow,
From their sable thrones below,
Meet, and insult thy pride.

What, dost thou join our ghostly train,
A flitting shadow light, and vain?
Where is thy pomp, thy festive throng,
Thy revel dance, and wanton song?

Proud King! Corruption fastens on thy breast;

And calls her crawling brood, and bids them share the feast.

Oh Lucifer! thou radiant star;

Son of the Morn; whose rosy car
Flam'd foremost in the van of day:
How art thou fall'n, thou King of Light!
How fall'n from thy meridian height!

Who saidst the distant poles shall hear me, and obey.
High, o'er the stars, my sapphire throne shall glow,
And, as JEHOVAH's self, my voice the heav'ns shall bow.

He spake, he died. Distain'd with gore,
Beside yon yawning cavern hoar,

See, where his livid corse is laid.
The aged Pilgrim passing by,

Surveys him long with dubious eye;

And muses on his fate, and shakes his reverend head,
Just heav'ns! is thus thy pride imperial gone?

Is this poor heap of dust the King of Babylon?

Is this the Man, whose nod

Made the Earth tremble: whose terrific rod
Levell'd her loftiest cities? Where He trod,
Famine pursu'd, and frown'd;

Till Nature groaning round,

Saw her rich realms transformed to deserts dry;
While at his crowded prison's gate,

Grasping the keys of fate,
Stood stern Captivity.

Vain Man! behold thy righteous doom;
Behold each neighb'ring monarch's tomb;
The trophied arch, the breathing bust,
The laurel shades their sacred dust:
While thou, vile Out-cast, on this hostile plain,
Moulder'st, a vulgar corse, among the vulgar slain.

No trophied arch, no breathing bust,
Shall dignify thy trampled dust:

No laurel flourish o'er thy grave.

For why, proud King! thy ruthless hand
Hurl'd Desolation o'er the land,

And crush'd the subject race, whom Kings are born to save: Eternal Infamy shall blast thy name,

And all thy sons shall share their impious Father's shame.

Rise, purple Slaughter! furious rise;
Unfold the terror of thine eyes;

Dart thy vindictive shafts around:
Let no strange land a shade afford,

No conquer'd nations call them Lord;

Nor let their cities rise to curse the goodly ground.
For thus JEHOVAH swears; no Name, no Son,
No remnant shall remain of haughty Babylon.

Thus saith the righteous Lord:

My Vengeance shall unsheath the flaming sword;
O'er all thy realms my fury shall be pour'd.
Where yon proud city stood,

I'll spread the stagnant flood;

And there the Bittern in the sedge shall lurk,
Moaning with sullen strain;

While, sweeping o'er the plain,
Destruction ends her work.

Yes, on mine holy mountain's brow,
I'll crush this proud Assyrian foe.
Th' irrevocable word is spoke.

From Judah's neck the galling yoke

Spontaneous falls, she shines with wonted state;

Thus by MYSELF I swear, and what I swear is Fate.

THOMAS WARTON was born at Basingstoke, Hampshire, in 1728. His father, who was vicar of that parish, was also a poet, and had been Professor of Poetry at Oxford; and his brother, Dr. Joseph Warton, was also advantageously known to the world as another "worshipper of the Muses." Warton entered at Trinity College, took his Master's degree in 1750, and was soon afterwards elected a Fellow. His first advantageous appearance before the public was in 1749, when he published "the Triumph of Isis," in answer to Mason, who had sent forth a poetical attack upon the loyalty of the university to which Warton belonged, and the principles to which he was attached. In 1747 he was appointed to the Professorship of Poetry, and, having taken holy orders, he successively held the livings of Kiddington in Oxfordshire, and Hill Farrance in Somersetshire. In 1785, upon the death of Whitehead, he received the Laureateship, and for the first time for a very long period the office was respectably filled. His successors have been as unworthy of it as his predecessors had been; until the laurel was bestowed upon the accomplished poet and excellent man who at present wears it, the name of Warton is the only one, during a century and a half, that rescues the title of Poet Laureate from contempt.

He died of paralysis in 1790, within the walls of his College, where he was interred. His character was in every way that of a good man. His person is said to have been unwieldy and ponderous, and his countenance somewhat inert; but he was full of wit and humour, was "wont to set the table in a roar," and was pleasant and kindly to an extreme. His lofty mind delighted to unbend; he could be merry with children as well as grave with the wise. "He was," says one of his biographers," a liberal scholar, an agreeable companion, a warm philanthropist, a disinterested Christian, and an amiable man." He was, however, happily circumstanced for a life of useful, profitable, and yet pleasant labour. Amid the silence of academic bowers he had leisure to think; and in the richly stored libraries of a dozen colleges he could give his thoughts weight. He was freed from all anxiety as to that care for the morrow-what they shall eat and what they shall put on-which presses so heavily upon less fortunate professors of literature. His fancy was never checked by prudence as to the everyday wants that must be supplied.

His works are numerous, extensive, and embrace a vast variety of subjects,-Biography, Topography, Antiquities, and Criticism. As an historian, his reputation is founded on his "History of English Poetry," a work which will always be conspicuous for elegance of composition, acuteness of criticism, and depth of research. It is however of too dry a character to invite the general reader; treating, for the most part, of the darker ages of our poetry, and affording but little insight into the character of that with which acquaintance is more eagerly desired. The " History" is carried down no further than the reign of Elizabeth.

We are here to consider him only as a poet, and are disposed to place him high among those who must be characterised by the equivocal distinction of MINOR. His compositions are numerous, but he undertook no subject of length. His mind was so saturated with learning, that its own wealth appears to have been lost amid the stores to which he had had access; if, however, we meet with little that is altogether ORIGINAL, we encounter nothing that is absolutely borrowed. The tone and character of our older and better poets pervade his writings; but this must be attributed to an over abundance of thought, the produce of reading and reflection, rather than to a poverty of invention. Like the great men of past ages among whom he lived, he was a most attentive and accurate observer of nature, and his descriptions of scenery have all the truth, and beauty, and vividness of the older bards. In 1777 he gathered his various poems, which had been scattered among several collections, and published them; and although he had previously established his character as a severe and searching critic, the publication did no injury to his fame. They are numerous, and embrace a vast variety of topics;-they are sentimental, humorous, descriptive, and panegyric. His Odes upon Royal Birth Days are, however, free from that over-strained praise which is usually satire in disguise. He lauds the king, as in duty bound, but he does not make him a Deity; he glorifies his country, as he ought, but he does not describe it as omnipotent and infallible. He had taste as well as genius; and in his personal character, as well as in the character of his writings, both of prose and poetry, may be compared with the poet by whom, in our day, the laurel is worn.