"And we cannot but revere and envy him, when giving us advice: Would'st thou live honor'd? clip Ambition's wing; To Reason's yoke thy furious passions bring: Thrice noble is the man who of himself is king!" The notes to this edition are mostly imitations or various readings, and sufficiently evince the editor's industry, though they contribute little to enlighten the reader. There is also a glossary of the obsolete terms which are not explained in the notes; and, in short, such helps as are sufficient to understand the poet, without any ostentation of learning in the learned editor. XVI.-LANGHORNE'S « DEATH OF ADONIS, FROM THE GREEK OF BION." [From the Critical Review, 1759. "The Death of Adonis; a Pastoral Elegy, from the Greek of Bion. By the Rev. John Langhorne."* 4to.] Of all the different kinds of poetry, elegy has been least cultivated since the revival of letters. We have seen the ancients rivalled, sometimes excelled in the epic, the ode, or the pastoral; but in elegy they still remain without competitors, and the at [The translator of Plutarch, and author of "Letters of Theodosius and Constantia," "Fables of Flora," &c. &c. "He was," says Mr. Campbell, "an elegant scholar and an amiable man. He gave delight to thousands, from the press and the pulpit. Yet, as a prose writer, it is impossible to deny, that his rapidity was the effect of lightness more than vigor; and, as a poet, there is no ascribing to him either fervor or simplicity.”—British Poets, vol. vi. p 365.] tempts of Biderman, Fontaine, Deshouliers, and Hammond, serve only to evince their inferiority. This may seem the more surprising, as there is scarcely a beauty in poetry, that elegy is not capable of admitting; sometimes replete with pathetic simplicity, sometimes even assuming the bold metaphors of resentment, and often borrowing every ornament that art can bestow: in a word, is tender, passionate, or graceful, by turns. Elegy may be distinguished into three different kinds, as either of them happens to prevail. It is Love, and not the poet, who speaks: like a true boy, he is easily enraged, and as easily appeased; now exulting with success, again melting into tears of disappointment; when angry, threatening impossibilities; when appeased, repenting his insolence with the most abject humility. But whatever the pretences of the moderns, or even of the Latins, may be to this beautiful species of poetry, the little poem before us bears away the prize, and is incontestably the finest production of the elegiac Muse, if we except that of Euripides, in his Andromache. We shall not enter into a disquisition with the grammarians, whether it be an elegy or not, as it wants what they term the characteristic difference of this species of poesy; viz. an alternate succession of hexameters and pentameters be it sufficient to observe, that it unites every charm that a beautiful passion can suggest, and though simple, yet is is simplex munditiis. Some modern critics, it is true, have asserted, that plaintive elegy should be entirely unornamented: it might be sufficient to answer, that the practice of the ancients is against them; but nature itself also opposes this doctrine. A despairing lover, it is true, has no occasion to be tricked out like a beau, but yet should be sufficiently beautiful to interest the spectators with favorable sentiments, sufficiently ornamented to seem still desirous of pleasing. Elegy should in some measure resemble the poet's mistress. Purpureo jacuit semisupina toro Tamque fuit neglecta decens. "Stretched on this mountain thy torn lover lies ; In streams of purple, o'er those limbs of snow! There is no species of poetry that has not its particular character; and this diversity, which the ancients have so religiously observed, is founded in nature itself. The more just their imitations are found, the more perfectly are those characters distinguished. Thus the pastoral never quits his pipe, in order to sound the trumpet; nor does elegy venture to strike the lyre. It is indeed passionate, but has nothing terrible; nor is there, in the wildest rage of a lover, aught that can excite a stronger emotion than pity. "But streaming when he saw life's purple tide Stretch'd her fair arms, with trembling voice she cried; Yet stay, lov'd youth! a moment ere we part, O let me kiss thee !-hold thee to my heart! A little moment, dear Adonis! stay! And kiss thy Venus, ere those lips are clay. That last-left pledge shall soothe my tortured breast, When thou art gone." Let it not be thought that emotion alone will suffice for making an elegy, and that love will make a greater poet than study and genius. Passion alone will never produce a finished piece; it may, indeed, furnish the most natural sentiments, if we attend its impulses; but it is art alone that must turn them to use, and join the graces of expression. "Wretch that I am! immortal and divine, In life imprison'd whom the fates confine, He comes! receive him to thine iron arms; Blest queen of death! receive the prince of charms. Far happier then, to whose wide realms repair, Whatever lovely, and whatever fair, The smiles of joy, the golden hours, are fled; As the philosopher asserted, that he learned the truest philosophy in Homer, so he who would write a perfect elegy, should study the performance before us with the closest application. From one example of this kind, he will learn more than from all the precepts critics have delivered on the subject. He will here perceive beauty in distress, borrowing the language of nature and passion, and adapting sentiments to the subject: the thoughts rising, as of their own accord, without being sought after; the verse flowing with various harmony; the whole combined by a concealed connection, yet seemingly without order: in short, our idea increasing. by just degrees, to the end of the piece; like those landscapes that rise upon the eye, till they seem to touch the skies. "Thus Venus griev'd-the Cupids round deplore, But cease in vain to cherish dire despair, The last sad office let thy hand supply, Stretch the stiff limbs, and close the glaring eye." It is not thus that many of our moderns have composed what they call elegies; they seem scarcely to know its real character. If a hero or a poet happens to die with us, the whole board of elegiac poets raise the dismal chorus, adorn his hearse with all the paltry escutcheons of flattery, rise into bombast, paint him as at the head of his thundering legions, or reining Pegasus in his most rapid career; they are sure to strew cypress enough upon the bier, dress up all the muses in mourning, and look themselves every whit as dismal and sorrowful as an undertaker's shop. Neither pomp nor flattery agrees with real affliction it is not thus that Marcellus, even that Marcellus who was adopted by the emperor of the world, is bewailed by Propertius. His beauty, his strength, his milder virtues, seem to have caught the poet's affections, and inspired his affliction. Were a person to die in these days, though he was never at a battle in his life, our elegiac writers would be sure to make one for the occasion. Our lovers too, if they are really in love, seem more solicitous to show their wit than their passion, adapt trifling ornaments to broad sentiments, and somewhat resemble the lawyer, who cared not whether he gained or lost his cause, provided he could make the court admire his eloquence. "Je hais ces vains auteurs, dont la muse forcée, S'érigent pour rimer en amoureux transit."-BOILEAU. With respect to the present translation, from the instances already given, the reader need scarcely be informed, that it is |