The doctor us'd his oily art
Of strong emetic kind,

Th' apothecary play'd his part,
And engineer'd behind.

When physic ceas'd to spend its store,
To bring away the stone,
Dicky, like people given o'er,
Picks up, when let alone.

His eyes dispell'd their sickly dews,

He peck'd behind his wing;

Lucia recovering at the news,
Relapses for the ring.

Meanwhile within her beauteous breast

Two different passions strove;

When av'rice ended the contest,
And triumph'd over love.

Poor little, pretty, fluttering thing,
Thy pains the sex display,
Who, only to repair a ring,

Could take thy life away.

Drive av'rice from your breasts, ye fair,
Monster of foulest mien :
Ye would not let it harbour there,
Could but its form be seen.

It made a virgin put on guile,

Truth's image break her word, A Lucia's face forbear to smile, A Venus kill her bird.

RICHARD SAVAGE was born in Fox-court, Holborn, on the 10th January, 1697-S. His mother was the infamous Countess of Macclesfield, who, according to Dr. Johnson, "having lived for some time upon uneasy terms with her husband, thought a voluntary confession of adultery the most obvious and expeditious mode of obtaining her liberty; and who therefore declared that the father of her unborn child was the Earl Rivers." Her son was thus rendered illegitimate. From the moment of his birth his mother regarded him with unmingled hatred,—and survived to find that her implacable and restless cruelty had procured his death in a jail.

As soon as he was born, he was consigned to the care of a poor woman, with directions that he was never to be acquainted with his parentage. At an early age he was placed at a grammar school at St. Albans; here his genius made its own way, and laid the foundation of his after fame. The secret of his birth was kept from him, until the death of his nurse led to discovery of the circumstances connected with it, and the motives for their concealment. The unnatural mother was then applied to; in vain; "he could neither soften her heart nor open her hand;" and the pressure of want compelled him to resort to his pen for support," he became of necessity an author!" Many are the temptations which strong feelings, high desires, and warm passions leave in the way of youth; but when want is added to them, they become indeed fearful. The struggle is generally an awful one; but it too frequently terminates by leaving him, who might have been eminent for goodness, notorious for vice. There is a pride of soul that conducts to iniquity as well as to integrity. The picture of genius struggling with difficulties is a too familiar one; nights of wretched lodg ing,-days of almost starvation,—and, at the same time, high thoughts of what might be, and low murmurs of what is not! Who will wonder if, when the heart grows sick with disappointment, and vice is more ready than virtue to apply her temporary and delusive remedies, the unhappy struggler against all we shudder to think upon should become the victim where he might have led the triumph! The woes and wants of Savage have been pictured to us: those of too many like him-like him in strong power and wretched destiny-have found no historian, gentle or ungentle, to record their sufferings and their fate. During a considerable portion of his brief career, Savage was "without lodging, and often without meat;" trusting to chance for the one-and for the other, to the poor shelter of some wretched shed; pursuing his studies in the fields or in the streets; picking up scraps of paper, and stepping into shops to borrow pen and ink to pen down the thoughts to which his mind had given birth; receiving assistance now and then from persons whom his talents or troubles brought to him, but seeming as if absolutely doomed to misery by fate; for the chances of prosperity which now and then came to him, passed away, and left him more wretched than before. That he was, however, the master of his own destiny is sufficiently apparent. His reckless extravagance,-his indomitable pride, arising perhaps from a consciousness of his intellectual value,—his dissipated habits, opposed to all regularity, his exceeding irritability,―his uncertain and capricious temper, were his continual banes. "He seldom found a stranger that he did not leave a friend;" but "he had not often a friend long without obliging him to become a stranger." He was arrested in Bristol for a debt of eight pounds, consigned to a jail, and died there on the 1st August, 1743, having owed the few comforts and consolations of his deathbed, and even the decencies of interment, to the benevolence of his jailer.

Dr. Johnson gives us his portrait. "He was of a middle stature, of a thin habit of body, a long visage, coarse features, and melancholy aspect; of a grave and manly deportment, a solemn dignity of mien, but which, upon a nearer acquaintance, softened into an engaging easiness of manners. His walk was slow, and his voice mournful; he was easily excited to smiles, but very seldom provoked to laughter." We have dwelt so much on the personal character of Savage, that we have little space to comment on his poetry: nor is it necessary. Of all his productions-the produce sometimes of matured thought, but more frequently written with the sole view of procuring temporary relief from pressing want-"The Wanderer" and "The Bastard" are the only poems that survive. These possess merit of a very high order. The Wanderer is, like the character of the writer, made up of detached parts, in which what is noble and beautiful is defaced by what is poor and mean.

BENEATH appears a place, all outward bare,
Inward the dreary mansion of despair!
The water of the mountain-road, half stray'd,
Breaks o'er it wild, and falls a brown cascade.
Has nature this rough, naked piece design'd,
To hold inhabitants of mortal kind?
She has. Approach'd, appears a deep descent,
Which opens in a rock a large extent!

And hark!-its hollow entrance reach'd, I hear
A trampling sound of footsteps hastening near!
A death-like chillness thwarts my panting breast:
Soft! the wish'd object stands at length confess'd!

N

Of youth his form !-But why with anguish bent?
Why pin'd with sallow marks of discontent?
Yet patience, labouring to beguile his care,
Seems to raise hope, and smiles away despair.
Compassion, in his eye, surveys my grief,
And in his voice invites me to relief.
Preventive of thy call, behold my haste,
(He says) nor let warm thanks thy spirits waste!
All fear forget-Each portal I possess,
Duty wide-opens to receive distress.
Oblig'd, I follow, by his guidance led;
The vaulted roof re-echoing to our tread!
And now, in squar'd divisions, I survey
Chambers sequester'd from the glare of day;
Yet needful lights are taught to intervene,
Through rifts; each forming a perspective scene.
In front a parlour meets my entering view;
Oppos'd, a room to sweet refection due.
Here my chill'd veins are warm'd by chippy fires,
Through the bor'd rock above, the smoke expires ;
Neat, o'er a homely board, a napkin's spread,
Crown'd with a heapy canister of bread.
A maple cup is next dispatch'd to bring
The comfort of the salutary spring:
Nor mourn we absent blessings of the vine,
Here laughs a frugal bowl of rosy wine;
And savoury cates, upon clear embers cast,
Lie hissing, till snatch'd off; a rich repast!

*

*

*

**

A feeble taper, from yon lonesome room,

Scattering thin rays, just glimmers through the gloom.
There sits the sapient bard in museful mood,

And glows impassion'd for his country's good!
All the bright spirits of the just combin'd,
Inform, refine, and prompt his towering mind!
He takes the gifted quill from hands divine,
Around his temples rays refulgent shine!

Now rapt! now more than man!-I see him climb,
To view this speck of earth from worlds sublime!
I see him now o'er nature's works preside!

How clear the vision! and the scene how wide!
Let some a name by adulation raise,

Or scandal, meaner than a venal praise !

My muse (he cries) a nobler prospect view!
Through fancy's wilds some moral's point pursue!
From dark deception clear drawn truth display,
As from black chaos rose resplendent day!
Awake compassion, and bid terror rise!
Bid humble sorrows strike superior eyes!
So pamper'd power, unconscious of distress,
May see, be mov'd, and, being mov'd, redress.
Ye traitors, tyrants, fear his stinging lay!
Ye powers unlov'd, unpitied in decay!
But know, to you sweet-blossom'd fame he brings,
Ye heroes, patriots, and paternal kings!

O Thou, who form'd, who rais'd the poet's art,
(Voice of thy will!) unerring force impart !
If wailing worth can generous warmth excite!
If verse can gild instruction with delight,
Inspire his honest muse with orient flame,
To rise, to dare, to reach the noblest aim!

But, O my friend! mysterious is our fate! How mean is fortune, though his mind elate! Æneas-like he passes through the crowd. Unsought, unseen, beneath misfortune's cloud; Or seen with slight regard: Unprais'd his name : His after-honour, and our after-shame. The doom'd desert, to avarice stands confess'd; Her eyes averted are, and steel'd her breast. Envy asquint the future wonder eyes: Bold insult, pointing, hoots him as he flies; While coward censure, skill'd in darker ways, Hints sure detraction in dissembled praise! Hunger, thirst, nakedness, their grievous fall! Unjust derision too!-that tongue of gall! Slow comes relief, with no mild charms endued, Usher'd by pride, and by reproach pursued. Forc'd pity meets him with a cold respect, Unkind as scorn, ungenerous as neglect.

Yet, suffering worth! thy fortitude will shine; Thy foes are virtue's, and her friends are thine! Patience is thine, and peace thy days shall crown; Thy treasure prudence, and thy claim renown: Myriads, unborn, shall mourn thy hapless fate, And myriads grow, by thy example, great!