JOHN LANGHORNE was born in 1735, at Kirkby-Stephen, in Westmoreland. His father was a clergyman, who died when the Poet was young, and left him and his brother to the care of their mother. He was educated at Appleby, and entered his name at Clare-Hall, Cambridge; but his circumstances probably precluded a residence at the University, and he never obtained any degree. His earlier years were occupied in discharging the duties of a private tutor, and as assistant at the free-school of Wakefield; but he succeeded in entering holy orders, obtained a curacy; and subsequently, in 1767, the Rectory of Blagdon, in Somersetshire, and a Prebend's stall of Wells. After the year 1764, he resided permanently in London, having been appointed to the curacy and lectureship of St. John's, Clerkenwell, and the preachership of Lincoln's Inn; here he had the reputation of a popular preacher and of a most industrious writer-publishing sermons, translations, letters, memoirs, and poems, and contributing to some of the leading periodical works of the day. His translation of Plutarch's Lives is the best known of his prose works; in this he had the assistance of his brother. In the year 1767 he became a country magistrate; and the opportunities afforded by his office he turned to account in his "Country Justice," the characters in which we may easily imagine to have been sketched from the life. The poem was published in three parts, at three different periods. He died at Blagdon in 1779, having been twice married, and having lost both his wives in child-birth. There are many evidences of the upright, liberal, and amiable character of Langhorne. As a magistrate he was active and useful. His mind, if not of the highest order, was richly and happily endowed. He was an accomplished scholar, an eloquent preacher, a sensible and agreeable writer of prose, and an elegant and graceful-if not a refined or vigorous-poet. There are few subjects capable of poetry which he has left untouched. Hymns, sonnets, odes, addresses to royalty, elegies, fables, pastorals, ballads, songs and translations:-to this long list of his productions we may add tragedy. He even dared to draw pen in defence of the Scotch when attacked by the keen weapon of Churchill. The "Country Justice" is, perhaps, the most perfect and valuable of his poetical works. It records the simple annals of the poor-is full of humour and abounds in pathos-and there runs through it a rich vein of kindliness that speaks strongly for the goodness of the Poet's heart. He commences by a retrospect of the lamentable state of freedom in England, dwells upon the value of the appointment of justices; then draws the character which a justice ought to bear, enumerates the reasons why he should lean to the side of mercy and make allowances for the errors of poor human His apology for the vagrant is a delicious bit nature. "The child of misery, baptiz'd in tears ;" and his appeals for protection of the poor are admirable. His tale, "Owen of Carron," was the last of his works. It is founded upon the ancient and more pathetic ballad of "Gil Morrice," and records the story of a Highland maid, who gives her heart to one who is not chosen for her, and whose rival procures his assassination. But, as we have intimated, it is rather sound practical sense, gentle and amiable thoughts, or the results of experience learnt with a kindly reading in the great school of the world-the actual and every day world-in the form of easy and agreeable verse, than the exercise of the high and enduring attributes of the poet, which have given fame to the name of Langhorne. He rarely warms into enthusiasm. "Tenderness," says one of his biographers, "seems to have been his peculiar characteristic;" but even this quality rarely assumes the winning and impressive influence that touches the heart. The great defects of his poetry arise from the redundancy of ornament which he appeared to consider essential in producing a vivid impression upon the mind of his reader. He is rarely content to picture nature in her own plain but most attractive garb; and often fails in his attempts to lead votaries to her shrine by dressing her in tinsel and false jewels, the worthlessness of which is at once perceived. THE gipsy-race my pity rarely move; Yet their strong thirst of liberty I love. For this in Norwood's patrimonial groves The tawny father with his offspring roves; When summer suns lead slow the sultry day, In mossy caves, where welling waters play, Fann'd by each gale that cools the fervid sky, With this in ragged luxury they lie. Oft at the sun the dusky elfins strain The sable eye, then snuggling, sleep again; Oft as the dews of cooler evening fall, For their prophetic mother's mantle call. II Far other cares that wand'ring mother wait, Seest thou afar yon solitary thorn, Whose aged limbs the heath's wild winds have torn? Far other treatment she who breathless lay, Worn with long toil on many a painful road, That toil increas'd by nature's growing load, When evening brought the friendly hour of rest, And all the mother throng'd about her breast, The ruffian officer oppos'd her stay, And, cruel, bore her in her pangs away, So far beyond the town's last limits drove, That to return were hopeless had she strove. Abandon'd there-with famine, pain and cold, And anguish, she expir'd-the rest I've told. "Now let me swear- -for by my soul's last sigh, That thief shall live, that overseer shall die.” Too late!-his life the generous robber paid, Lost by that pity which his steps delay'd! No soul-discerning Mansfield sat to hear, No Hertford bore his prayer to mercy's ear; No liberal justice first assign'd the jail, Or urg'd, as Camplin would have urg'd, his tale. The living object of thy honest rage, Old in parochial crimes, and steel'd with age, The grave churchwarden !—unabash'd he bears Weekly to church his book of wicked prayers; And pours, with all the blasphemy of praise, His creeping soul in Sternhold's creeping lays! ODE TO THE RIVER EDEN. BEAUTIFUL Eden! parent stream, In pensive thought their poet stray'd; Bright through the trembling shade. Yet shall they paint those scenes again, The azure worlds below survey'd : When time tripp'd o'er yon bank of flowers, The poplar tall, that waving near Would whisper to thy murmurs free; Burnish their green locks in the sun; Or at the last lone hour of day, In airy circles run. But, Fancy, can thy mimic power When young Joy wav'd his laughing wing? When first in Eden's rosy vale, My full heart pour'd the lover's tale, O goddess of the crystal bow, That dwell'st the golden meads among; In vain the maids of memory fair And in thy breast this moral find— That life, though stain'd with sorrow's showers, Shall flow serene, while virtue pours Her sunshine on the mind. INSCRIPTION ON A STUDY DOOR. O THOU that shalt presume to tread With folly's lore, thy youth has taught- |