Or, by a correspondence new,

With hammers, and their clatt'ring crew,
Would so bestir her active stumps,
On iron blocks, though arrant lumps,
That in a trice she'd manage matters,
To make 'em all as smooth as platters.
Or slit a bar to rods quite taper,
With as much ease as you'd cut paper.
For, though the lever gave the blow,
Yet it was lifted from below;
And would for ever have lain still,
But for the bustling of the rill;
Who, from her stately pool or ocean,
Put all the wheels and logs in motion;
Things in their nature very quiet,
Though making all this noise and riot.

This stream that could in toil excel,
Began with foolish pride to swell:
Piqu'd at her neighbour's reputation,
And thus express'd her indignation:
"Madam! methinks you're vastly proud,
You wasn't us'd to talk so loud.

Nor cut such capers in your pace,
Marry! what antics, what grimace!
For shame! don't give yourself such airs,
In flaunting down those hideous stairs.
Nor put yourself in such a flutter,
Whate'er you do, you dirty gutter!
I'd have you know, you upstart minx!
Ere you were form'd, with all your sinks,

A lake I was, compar'd with which,
Your stream is but a paltry ditch:
And still, on honest labour bent,
I ne'er a single flash mispent.
And yet no folks of high degree
Would e'er vouchsafe to visit me,
As in their coaches by they rattle,
Forsooth! to hear your idle prattle.
Though half the business of my flooding
Is to provide them cakes and pudding:
Or furnish stuff for many a trinket,

Which, though so fine, you scarce would think it, When Boulton's skill has fix'd their beauty,

To my rough toil first ow'd their duty.

But I'm plain Goody of the mill,

And you are-Madam Cascadille!"

"Dear Coz," replied the beauteous torrent,

"Pray do not discompose your current.
That we all from one fountain flow,
Hath been agreed on long ago.
Varying our talents and our tides,
As chance or education guides.
That I have either note, or name,
I owe to him who gives me fame.
Who teaches all our kind to flow,
Or gaily swift, or gravely slow.
Now in the lake, with glassy face,
Now moving light, with dimpled grace,
Now gleaming from the rocky height,
Now, in rough eddies, foaming white.

VOL. V.

EE

That visit my obscure retreat.
None wonders that a clown can dig,
But 'tis some art to dance a jig.
Your talents are employ'd for use,
Mine to give pleasure, and amuse.
And though, dear Coz, no folks of taste
Their idle hours with you will waste,
Yet many a grist comes to your mill,
Which helps your master's bags to fill.
While I, with all my notes and trilling,
For Damon never got a shilling.
Then, gentle Coz, forbear your clamours,
Enjoy your hoppers, and your hammers:
We gain our ends by diff'rent ways,
And you get bread, and I get-praise.

HENRY BROOK E.
BORN 1706.-DIED 1783.

HENRY BROOKE was born in the county of Cavan, in Ireland, where his father was a clergyman. He studied at Trinity college, Dublin, and was a pupil of Dr. Sheridan; but he was taken from the university, at the age of seventeen, and sent to England, to study the law at the Temple. On his coming to London he brought letters of introduction (pro

bably from Dr. Sheridan) to Pope and Swift, both of whom noticed him as a youth of promising talents. At the end of a few years, he returned to Dublin, and endeavoured to practise as a chamber counsel; -but, without having obtained much business, involved himself in the cares of a family, by marrying a beautiful cousin of his own, who had been consigned to his guardianship. It is related, not much to his credit, that he espoused her in her thirteenth year. The union, however, proved to be as happy as mutual affection could make it. Having paid another visit to London, he renewed his acquaintance with Pope; and, with his encouragement, published his poem, entitled "Universal Beauty." This poem forms a curious, but unacknowledged prototype of Darwin's "Botanic Garden." It has a resemblance to that work, in manner, in scientific spirit, and in volant geographical allusion, too striking to be supposed accidental; although Darwin has gone beyond his original, in prominent and ostentatious imagery.

After publishing his poem he returned to Ireland, and applied to his profession; but his heart was not in it, and he came once more to England, to try his fortune as a man of letters. In that character, he was cordially received by the Prince of Wales and his friends, as an accession to their phalanx; and this patronage was the more flattering to Brooke, as the maintenance of patriotic principles was the declared bond of union at the Prince's court. He had begun to translate the

"Jerusalem" of Tasso, and had proceeded as far as the fourth book; but it is said, that he was invited to quit this task, that he might write a tragedy in the cause of Freedom, which should inspirit the people of England. Glover, it was pretended, was the epic champion of Liberty, who had pointed her spear at Walpole; and Brooke was now to turn the arm of tragedy against him, by describing a tyrannic minister, in his play of "Gustavus Vasa." With regard to Glover, this was certainly untrue. His poetry breathed the spirit of liberty, but he was above the wretched taste of making a venerable antique subject the channel of grotesque allusion to modern parties, or living characters. If Brooke's Trollio was really meant for Walpole, the minister's friends need not have been much alarmed, at the genius of a tragic poet, who could descend to double meanings. They might have felt secure, one would think, that the artifice of poets could not raise any dangerous zeal in Englishmen, against their malt or excise bills, by the most cunning hints about Thermopyla or Dalecarlia. But, as if they had been in collusion with Brooke, to identify Walpole with Trollio, they interdicted the representation of the play. The author, therefore, published it, and got a thousand pounds by the sale.

He lived, for some time, very comfortably on this acquisition, at Twickenham, in the neighbourhood of Pope, till the state of his health obliged him to seek the benefit of his native air; when, to the surprise

1