Latin, is as much more so in the English, as the theology of the modern writer was superior to that of the ancient. Nobler lines than the following were never composed:

Yet when the sense of sacred presence fires,
And strong devotion to the skies aspires,
Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind,
Obedient passions and a will resign'd;

For love, which scarce collective man can fill,
For patience, sovereign o'er transmuted ill;
For faith, that panting for a happier seat,

Counts death kind nature's signal for retreat.

Both these imitations have an excellence

to an English reader not always found in

compositions of this class-that of being complete in themselves, and not depending for their effect upon allusion to the originals.

The same vigour of thought and style has made Johnson the author of the finest prologue our language can boast, with the exception, perhaps, of Pope's to Cato. It was written on the occasion of opening

the Drury-lane theatre in 1747, and was meant to, usher in that better choice of plays which took place under the management of his friend Garrick. The sketch of the vicissitudes of the English drama is drawn with justness and spirit, and the concluding appeal to the good sense and taste of the audience is truly dignified. Another prologue, to the benefit-play given to Milton's grand-daughter, is likewise much superior to the ordinary strain of these compositions.

The Odes of Johnson have, I think, the same air of study, the same frigid elegance, which he has derided in those of Akenside. The sublimer flights of the lyric muse he has judiciously not attempted, conscious of his want of enthusiasm; his want of gaiety equally unfitted him for her sprightly strains. The pieces denominated from the four seasons of the year have little characteristic painting: he was, indeed, precluded by corporeal defects from any lively perception of the

imagery of rural nature. The translation of Anacreon's "Dove" is, however, very happily executed. Cowley would have done it with scarcely more ease, and with less elegance.

There is one piece, written, too, at an advanced age, which may be produced as an example of perfection in its kind-I allude to the stanzas on the death of Levett. I know not the poem of equal length in which it would be so difficult to change a single line, or even word, for the better. The subject supplied matter neither for sublimity nor pathos: the mature decease of a man in obscure life, and with no other quality than humble utility, was to be recorded; and who but Johnson could have filled such a meagre outline with such admirable finishing? Every line is a trait of character or sentiment. What a picture of life is given in the following stanza!

In misery's darkest caverns known,
His useful care was ever nigh,

Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan,
And lonely want retir'd to die.

I confess, that, much as I admire the flights of a poetical imagination, it is these sober serious strains to which at present I recur with most delight. Your taste may reasonably be different; yet I trust in the solidity of your understanding to lead you to set a just value upon that verse, which, while it gratifies the ear, also touches and meliorates the heart.

Farewell!

LETTER XX.

I AM tempted, my dear Mary, for the subject of a concluding letter, to desert the collection in which we have been so long immersed, and direct your notice to two very modern poets, whose reputation, now sealed by death, justly recommends them to every lover of the Muses: these are BEATTIE and CowPER.

The "Minstrel" of the former, his principal performance, is a fancy-piece, the theme of which is the supposed birth and education of a poet. The name of Minstrel is not very happily applied; since the character described widely differs from that musical songster of a rude age; nor can we find any "Gothic days" which suit the circumstances of the tale. In fact, the author's plan is crude and incongruous; and the chief value of his performance consists